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living in cloud cuckoo land

September 26, 2013

Previously in my post pubescent life, I had thought that it was a great tragedy, a cruel misfortune delivered me by a hard and uncaring world, that nobody made cute little bras in my size.

Now that the world has apparently caught up to its failings, I have discovered how good I really had it back in my sad old no option but ugly old lady bra life: there are cute little bras in my size and they are FIFTY DOLLARS EACH.

The world is a vampire.

I am

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after the lighter day

September 16, 2013

Consequences: or Why Discovering Ironing Will Catch Up With You

So the ironing thing. It was really great, you know? It was this amazing discovery for me; it was like surprising one’s own potential around some corner and stuffing it into a bag and taking it home. It made me feel proud and ladylike.

The problem with ironing though, and you probably in your endless internet wisdom knew that there would be a problem of some sort although I certainly did not imagine it, is that once you start ironing you can’t sop ironing. Even if you are late, which you usually are, you cannot just throw things on fast and slapshod like a cartoon character and hop merrily out the door. Now all of a sudden every wrinkle in every garment shows up like rivers on a roadmap and you have to gnash your teeth, fling off all your clothes again, and iron those rivers out. Because not only can you now see the rivers, for like the first time ever, the human brain is an amazing thing, but now you cannot pretend that the universe just made your clothing look like that and it’s too damn bad there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

Le sigh.

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a candidate for a soulmate

September 13, 2013

Yesterday I ironed a skirt. It has never occurred to me to iron anything since the long ago time in my young life when I had to look nice for Jesus on Sunday, and ye gods. Apparently this is one of the things that keeps me from looking like other normal nice looking people. Along with brushing one’s hair, and to that purpose I have recently procured my first hairbrush in oh, ten or so years. Now that my hairs are so very long and lustrous, apparently not bleaching and ManicPanicking the shit out of them every two weeks without end amen lends itself to an incredible silky mane whose individual members are round and sleek instead of oblong and full of holes, I figured that I needed a brush. I figured this because I was developing a habit of running my fingers through my hair all the time, kind of like…kind of like a brush, and one day it hit me, oh. What I need is a dinglehopper. So I got one.

But anyhow, the ironing. It sure does make things pretty. After seeing the results of my first labor, a skirt that I had thrown perfectly clean into the laundry again so as to get the wrinkles out of it and then let sit in the dryer for two days so it was all wrinkled again, I went and got a bunch more skirts and I ironed the shit out of them. I ironed this one skirt that I have had for probably seven years, that had never before in its existence been ironed as far as I know of, and hot goodness. That thing doesn’t even look like itself.

Now I am sitting up like a meerkat, looking around for all the other ways that people use to make themselves look nice and polished, because these first two have been such a riotous success. I personally noticed not much difference in my hair when I started washing it regularly and brushing it ever, but the quantity of compliments I have had on it since then alerts me to the fact that other people sure do.

I am considering buying hairspay. Not that I have even the foggiest what I plan to do with it.

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strong enough to die

September 12, 2013

A real person never belongs on a pedestal. A real person is always still an animal, however many steps removed from the undulating baselines of all that is primal. There can be no gold standard.

And this is a thing I’ve been thinking lately, slowly, holding it in my mind without looking or touching.

I don’t think that any human truly wants to be the gold standard. The gold standard is its own peak perfection of health and beauty, ambition fulfilled, success achieved, all strands in the instrument finely tuned to their quivering, sweetest, truest note; but I don’t think we animals are wired to find glee in this impossible impeccable song.

What is glee?

Glee is peeing on a fire hydrant; glee is blobbing your adopted brother when he least expects it; glee is eating a moon pie for dinner; glee is tagging a bathroom wall; glee is dancing on top of your desk when no one else is in the office; glee is naughty.

What is naughty?

Naughty is knowing what the gold standard is, and declaring one’s independence from it.

I am

dark and my pots are cold

September 9, 2013

Last year at almost exactly this time I had a conversation with my grandmother, which spawned a list of grievances that I have been growing to bemoan the deaths of my favorite fictional characters over my entire existence. I posted this conversation, and the list of grievances, on this blog last year at almost exactly this time; therefore I am posting my most recent conversation with my grandmother here now.

Grandma: So have you been watching Downton Abbey?

Me: I am not caught up, but I finished season two. There’s a season three, right?

Grandma: Yes. Such a sad season. It’s too bad Matthew dies.

Me: …………………….

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no damn good

September 9, 2013

Someone may have hit the photo booth a little hard. It may have been me.

Happymatic Photobooth

 

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Happymatic Photobooth

 

I am

August

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