sandblasting the wall like it’s morning and I’m a rooster

June 7, 2011

happy happy happy happy…

this is the sound of finals hitting the pavement done good and finished.

I have turned into a huge school nerd, and I feel mostly like I have found my true calling. My true calling is to read entirely through my textbooks almost at a go because I have a hard time putting down a book and I prefer the steady linear flow of information to sporadic chapter reading as a learning style any day. My true calling is to write amazing papers and discussions straight through after germinating on their topics and persuasions for days and weeks beforehand. My true calling is to tell myself it’s just a test and I take online school, and speed read through the chapters that are being covered, and then flip to the intended passage to double check the verity of every single question. (methinks that not going to a regular school and being tested hardcore like only once a year has done some strange things to my confidence; I almost always am right about the answer with my first intuition, but I HAVE to double check it because I have this nervous rabbit sort of feeling that they may have changed their minds and what I think I know is terribly wrong).

This weekend Ricky gave me a fluffy lamb pillbox hat on Haight street and I got home and tottered around drunk in heels and my red leather trench coat and adequate mascara for the first time in god what, a year?! and was very gorgeous and very wasted. I have been goaded into having better style again. If someone can buy me a rad fucking hat when I am not there and expect me to have the wardrobe chops to glimmer, then I am compelled to spit polish up my closet. I only have three pairs of heels and one set is red feather malibu house slippers. There is no way I won’t wear those out of the house, but they require just the right companionship and I don’t even currently have it. Le sigh.
However, the damage has apparently been done large scale. Without the persistent, better formed influence of Holly upon my fashion sense the aforementioned has reverted back to its freedom dog days of comfort and function, where she originally found it at the age of nine and resolved to bring it up out of the saltmines for its own good. I spent my entire childhood up until this very necessary introduction of ‘style’ and ‘peer pressure’ bitterly resenting the existence of dresses and scratchy things, most notably cotton stockings PAH, and while a significant factor in my decision to be a nurse is centered in the daily office attire of pajamas and flat shoes, there is a seventeen year brewed drop in my coffee that shudders at the lack of effort and stilettos. Not to mention gorgeous little sweaters.

I am


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