Whose fucking idea was it to include both pantyhose AND long fingernails on the list of desirable feminine fashion staples? I put on a new pair of pantyhose in the morning, and 3 hours and one innocent pee-break later they are a mess of synthetic filaments that make me look like I just lost a fork-fight with my pimp. All I wanted to do was pull the damn things up again.

A word about control-top: I love the control-top, and appreciate the faux-confidence their mild corsetry provides. However, there are certain intimate moments when a girl no longer wants her top controlled, but the removal of the seersucker pantyhose is such a humbling and un-sexy moment, akin to slowly rolling the casing off of a sausage. In such situations, one begins to sympathize with Violet Beauregarde in her humiliating transformation from little girl to blubbery blueberry.

Just saying.

I realize I haven't been updating lately. I think my brain’s broken. This morning I spent 20 minutes trying to remember the word "articulate." (Hee.) I've just been so damn tired, and all my thoughts have been stilted non-sequiters and I haven't had the energy or motivation to tie them all together. I've also been feeling so fucking ugly that I have to kick myself in the ass to get out of my apartment and into the company of strangers in the morning. I just don't want to be looked at. If only the paper-bag-o'er-the-head look was en vogue. Maybe I'll start a trend.

Hopefully when I’ve reconstructed my long-term memory, my tenuous grasp on linear time, and some semblance of uncrappy self-image, there will be a Return of the Reverse Weekend Recep. Until then, I’m letting Tech Dwarf use the LuvaCave as a party den, a la Greg Brady-cum-Johnny Bravo, except with a lot more pot and punani. I told him if he broke anything, I’d NARC him out. I didn’t really understand his response, it was sort of a “Dude! Dude! That’s, like, bullshit! Dude! Bullshit! Dudeshit! Bulldude!” But I think I got my point across, and I let him drift out of conciousness over the lulling glurgle of his water bong.

(OH! But WAIT! Wonderful song just came on, which means … Lyrics for Nipple Hair Sweepstakes, round #3: Identify the song, artist, and album, and baddabing, you win. Shoop.

And the lyric is “Skip a life completely, stuff it in a cup. She said money is like us and time: It lies but can’t stand up. Down for you is up.”)

No, but back to business, whatever that is …

I recently had a boisterous ten-minute conversation with my coworkers about I don’t FUCKING know, and I can’t quite figure whether my confusion was caused by my mental numbness, or if the conversation was just inane.

Here's the scene:

I and 3 of my coworkers are having a chat by the fridge. What starts out as a stimulating discourse on the shelf-life of orange juice, somehow morphs into jokes about noble titles, and then, I’m not sure where the transition occurs, but I suddenly hear myself say, “It don’t matter if you’re in the front of the short bus or the back of the short bus, it’s still the short bus.”

End conversation, and CURTAIN.

And with a single mighty swoop, the Caped Crappy-Conversation-Killing Crusader smites yet another disciple of the eeville Doctor Mundane!

“Currrsssessss,” the wicked Doctor hisses, twirling the ends of his moustache and rocking maniacally before swivelling his Ikea chair back to face his computer, cackling as returns his attention to the Data Entry of Doom, plotting his revenge as his spindly fingers tippety-tap over the keyboard.

Soon after that strange interaction, I was leaving a voice-message for some downtown mucky-muck on behalf of my boss. I stated my cause, my name, and the number where I could be reached, as per the directions on his voice-mail, and concluded with the eloquent farewell, “Thank you, sir, and have a good evening. I mean, ‘morning.’ Or … whatever. Hahaha.” Then I hung up the phone, flailed my arms over my head, and said to myself, “I AM SO COOL!”

I think something’s missing. Maybe I need more iron. I have been having some clotting issues.

So, before the show on Sunday, I was putting on my costume in the bathroom. As I was nearing the door, I felt a dampness on the front of my leg, and looked down to find blood seeping through my cursed pantyhose and oozing slowly towards my shoe, from a teeny shaving wound in my shin inflicted five hourse prior. One would think that was plenty of clotting time, but no. Two of the actors in my cast came in to the bathroom to find me, pantyhose rolled down to my ankes, dabbing at the wound with paper towels and trying to will a scab to form.

Last night, I dreamt that I was bleeding profusely from my eyes. The sensation was a lot like crying, but much, much messier and more copiously wet. In the dream, it was regarded as pretty commonplace. I was at a party, I think, when I suddenly felt something pouring from my eyes. My friends, drinks in hand, weren’t particularly alarmed. It was an “Oh, Kelly, your eyes are bleeding again” kind of thing.

Grody.

Hemoglobin, why have you forsaken me?

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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