I tried to write something witty about the gay hanky code.
I tried to write something articulate about my take on strength and weakness.
I also tried to avoid licking the Dorito residue off of my fingers.
I've failed on all counts.
I just want to get naked, crawl into bed and eat a snow cone.
Posted by Taylor on August 03, 2005 @ 3:00 pmwhy I'd called my school advisor thirty-three minutes before my scheduled phone-in appointment I said, "I'm so sorry! I've been very busy at work and lost track of time - er, you know? In the opposite direction?"
She said, "Mhm. Right."
So, I might not be the most neatly folded scarf in the display, but I do have a bright and shiny new schedule for the fall semester. I'm only in class three days a week (Monday, Tuesday, and Friday) for a total of twelve and a half hours (my Art History Through the Fifteenth Century class, while I'm sure no less spontaneous-eyeball-removal inducing, is online and, thus, does not require me to be not naked).
This may or may not be the best time to discuss the fact that I'm most certainly going to be 43 by the time I get my BFA.
Okay, I'm over it.
an even slightly productive weekend. I have less than two weeks in front of me in which I have to find the time/energy to pack up my life once again and move, once again, to the west coast. In light of this, I forced myself up into the attic on Friday. I'm not sure that "attic" is the proper word to use, though, because, judging from how hot it was up there, it must actually be an open portal to Hades.
Some people look hot when they're soaked in sweat. I just look bedraggled.
Despite wanting to die a thousand times over, I settled myself down and started cutting open the boxes that contained all of my kitchen stuff. From this experience I ascertained two things: 1) I have too much kitchen crap and, 2) I know how to pack about as well as I know how to, say, pilot a jet plane or, I don't know, pleasure a woman.
I think one of the Great Unanswered Questions is "How many pairs of kitchen shears is too many?" I did the math. I played out all possible scenarios. I've come to a conclusion. Four pairs. Four pairs of kitchen shears is one pair too many. Rubber spatulas, though? You can never have too many rubber spatulas.
Now, my inability to pack was clearly evidenced by the innumerable broken glasses, plates, bowls and mugs I found. Much unlike learning to fly a jet plane or navigate a vagina, I feel like packing is a skill with which I'd really like to become a little more comfortable.
Then again, perhaps the broken glasses, plates, bowls and mugs are really just physical representations of the state of my heart when I was packing them all up.
J: I have a flashing vacancy sign on my head.
Me: I can't cast any stones. I'm pretty bad too, as you know.
J: I have a fried egg for a brain. Yours is still in its shell.
Me: My shell is definitely cracked. Just wait 13 years when I'm your age. I'm going to be wearing a bike helmet and drooling. I hope you still love me with my bike hetlmet.
J: Are you going to tape cut-out pictures of Kelly Clarkson all over it?
Me: I don't know yet.
because I now have to post a correction to one of yesterday's stories (for the record, I believe that the newspaper I work for should have a Corrections sections. It should really have an entire section in which we would be able to print all of the corrections and retractions from the previous day's issue. Oh, and when you paid to have that obituary of your poor dead Aunt Eloise put in the paper and we printed an ad for Zu Zu's Bead Shop instead? Yeah, we'll fix that in there too).
I received an irate phone call from Connie last night. She was calling to inform me that the scene at the swing set did not go down when I was a senior and she was a junior. Apparently, this took place when I was a sophomore and she was a freshman. She feared that people might think her to be "the ass hole of the world" if they were lead to believe it had taken place her junior year.
So she was two years younger. Big whoop!
I then received a text message from her that read, in its entirety, "k have crabs."
Now, I could only assume that she had meant to send "I have crabs", which, for the record, she doesn't (at least I don't think she does), but it's a long-running joke of ours. Then I couldn't help but laugh out loud because it said "k have crabs" which could be read as "Okay, have crabs" which is just downright hilarious! Like I need her permission to get crabs or something! I'll get crabs whenever I damn well please, thank you very much!
I had a very good night last night. Can I just say that and then no more?
but it's oppressively hot in my office today. It's the hottest day of the year (currently 95 degrees - feels like 100+) and our air conditioner is broken. It was working fine yesterday. Go figure.
I did get a banana popsicle, though. I love banana popsicles. It's too bad I got halfway through and realized it wasn't banana, but really pineapple. I do not love pineapple popsicles. I'm very allergic to pineapple. I'm actually also very allergic to bananas. I might be more allergic to bananas than I am pineapple. I'm not allergic to banana popsicles, though. I am, however, allergic to pineapple popsicles. My throat is itchy and, if I'm at all lucky, closing up as we speak.
I just know that there's an SAT question somewhere in that last paragraph.
Okay, so I don't really care about the lack of air conditioning or the banana/pineapple popsicle or even my imminent death. What I really care about is that today is my Coming out Anniversary. Five years ago today I told my then and now best friend Connie that I do not like vaginas. She was (and still is) about as supportive as any one person could ever be. I truly believe that it's because of her that I am who I am today. I love her and cherish our relationship more than she'll ever know. Also, she's hot.
And now that I've said all of those nice things about her, I'm practically forced to share a related story that consistently mortifies Connie to this day.
I was a senior in high school. Connie was one year behind me. We were at a local hangout one night and had decided to make the short walk up the road to a nearby school's playground, just as we'd done many times before. We liked to swing on the swings. We'd been swinging and talking for a little while when, suddenly, Connie stopped. I slowed myself to a halt and we sat there on those swings on that warm summer night. She turned to me and said, "Have you ever just wanted to kiss a friend?"
I said, "Nope!"