My bra and underwear match and I've worn pink two days in a row now, which is to say, "what the fuck has come over me?".
Then I did a bit of an existential review, inventorying my actions over the past week, and realized that every time I think I've got my figurative "shit together," I do something completely in-character and irrational (what up, Wikipedia philosophy briefs!), confirming the sad and repeatedly amusing nature of my actions. Below, a few examples (most of them being superficial and vain because they seem to be the easiest to recall, offhand):
Because Dead or Alive, SKIN IS SKIN:
In an effort to cultivate a habit of moisturizing my haggard cuticles, which if not overgrown are over-chewed, I started carrying around calendula-vaseline-ointmenty-stuff. It's Romanian, five-fingered from the nigh medicine cabinet of drugs/creams/etc. at my dad's place, ergo, I don't know what it is exactly.
Right, so I've been applying the stuff religiously (this not being an exaggeration, as it feels both sanctimonious and somewhat of a chore). The condition of my cuticles improved, and they're so damn greasy I can't even be bothered gnawing on them. Win-win. Bring on the lose:
UNFORTUNATELY, things turned predictably for the worse when I noticed a fine crack seeping into my lovely brown leather, vintage Calvin Klein loafers. -- Brief preface: I bought these at Philistine some time ago, enduring the toe-squeezing pain that amounted to blisters and ingrown toenails, until those rigid 8's finally succumbed to my 8.5-sized feet, a labour of vanity, frugality, and stubbornness. I have since worn the leather-soled lovelies in all weather, including rain. Hence the cracks. --
SO DO I NOT APPLY THE DAMN VASELINE CONCOCTION TO MY SHOES? Leather is just dried out skin, right? Logically, it follows that I could revive the shoes, which were in a condition comparable to my hands, through an even application. The outcome? Darkened shoes that look like they've been used to sop up bacon grease, or worse, sent for a quick dip in a deep-fryer basket. As usual, this is why we can't have nice things.
In Which I Decide Butchery is an Art, and I am an Artisan:
After wavering over the merits of asymmetry and the rushing-to-work convenience of the side-braid, I had a disconcerting moment of glancing down at my split ends the other day, which more or less resembled some sort of spindly forest of hairs jutting off in all directions. Not a forest where they plant all the trees in rows and you can see tall pines for miles. No, this was a fucking jungle, resting on my bosom, and I was having none of it.
After being in cahoots with my hairdresser and a PhotoBooth modelling session posted for public appeal on The Facebook, I booked an appointment later that day and embraced my return to BANGS, GLORIOUS BANGS. Zoe Deschannel, Taylor Swift, Every Hipster Girl in Toronto, I REPENT. How do you mitigate the humidity? Los Angeles is a bubble of good hair days, isn't it? In LA, you take car service, so you don't have to squash your bangs under a bicycle helmet. It doesn't rain there, so the wispy locks never do that charming trick of curling up at the edges.
Furthermore, these people clearly do not have jobs preventing them from, on a whim, waltzing into their salon for maintenance and trims. (Note: this is at odds with the fact that I had my hair chopped on my lunch break, which APPEARS similar, but is NOT. I STAYED AN EXTRA HALF HOUR TO COMPENSATE FOR THE BLOW JOB). So when they decide their bangs are too long, after spending what, to them is an insignificant amount of money but to me constitutes a decision between a week's worth of tinned chick pea and rice lunches vs. bountiful vegan salads from Fresh, they donot take measures into their own hands, slashing snippets of hair over the bathroom sink, desperately seeking symmetry (a state made more unattainable by a congenital birth defect of a cowlick). They simplyreturn to the salon and ask for it to be fixed.
People, I am not these people. And there is not enough hair product in the world to fix it.
Everything else that I did, in a brief non-exhaustive run-off of erratic behaviour:
- rinsed slime off of week-old tofu, proclaiming it fit for consumption;
- replaced dinner with beer not once, buttwicethis week (peace-out, Ghettoathlon season!);
- my homework, an hour before it was due for submission at my creative writing course. I previously stated, in a grandiose fashion, that I would not be fit for graduate studies until I figured out a way to eliminate procrastination from my diet. It would appear that I will never be going to grad school, at this rate;
- dropped a dime to mimic the tinkle of a token when the subway booth attendant was presumably taking a dump at 7am
- made a big show of making it look like I was NOT SHOPLIFTING (everything short of turning my pockets out), as I walked out of Shopper's Drug Mart, only having entered to deal with the fact that my blush was looking a bit faded
