Straight No Chaser

Hot Mess

dedicated to carmen, who called my ends a "hot mess in desperate need of a trim." that was embarrassing, having to choose between being well-groomed, and being on time for my shakespeare midterm. i still need to call her back, and get an appointment to get my ends trimmed. if i were braver, i'd just do them myself. the only time i ever cut my hair myself, it was in curls, and you can never accurately gauge the length of curled hair, and i cut off a huge hunk right in the back, and i think my mom spanked me. hardly traumatic, but i stay away from clippers, now.

dammit, treesje wants help with her and sean's anniversary collage. i already gave her the construction paper and the rubber cement and about nine million ideas. now she wants me to sit behind her and baby-sit, so she doesn't "make a mistake," but really so she can turn around every five seconds and make a smug remark about how magical their two-year-old relationship is. i should charge her a consulting fee, so that i don't resent her for the whole ordeal, because otherwise i'll turn into a bitch and start making suggestions as to how she could really capture the nature of their relationship. a broken diaphragm, to represent all the unsafe sex. a blindfold, to represent how freely he still cheats on her. handcuffs, to represent their remarkable codependency. but, that's not what she wants to hear. that looks good there, lift up that corner is what she wants to hear. excellent uses of color and symmetry.

need to quit biting my tongue before it falls off.

started to clean my room today, stopped when i realized most of the mess is papers. trash i can deal with; papers are impossible. it's too much effort to read every one, to determine their importance. i would rather just tip the entire room down thirty degrees on one side and watch all my crap slide into a sewer somewhere. no guesswork, or actual work, required.

furthermore: does she really not understand that i don't want to talk about marcus right now? she being treesje, who is messaging me frantically, because nothing gives her more obvious joy than to get me all upset and snippy over things for which she has no equivalent (because if she could, then i could presumably turn the tables on her, if i were that kind of person). convenient. friends like her are absolute poison. and yeah, that was a metaphor, and i meant it.

one-thirty! how'd that happen! and i had goals for this day, too. by midnight, i was going to have the bookshelf and the desk cleared off, ordered tickets to two gentleman of verona (blech), made headway on that stupid creative writing short story, helped miya edit the paper she's taking to court and wiggled a bobby pin around in my cd-rom drive until it decided to read discs again. i got halfway done with the first of three shelves, didn't order the tickets, wrote (then promptly deleted) four sentences of story, ignored miya and wasted eighteen dollars on pizza. and spent entirely too much time thinking about marcus's penis. i am a hot mess.

he apologized, eventually, for the basket thing. that was nice.