July 1, 2009

This won't be a good post, but at least I'm writing.

I took great care getting dressed this morning because I'm going in to get my lip pierced later today and I didn't want to seem like a complete blue collar scrub - as if the piercer would look at me, see the machine lube and grime under my nails and packed into the lines of my hands, and think: this lady cannot sustain or maintain such a trendy face hole.
Yeah. I'm in my arrogant, ignorant twenties. I'm allowed to be so shallow and insecure.

What else?

My latest addiction involves eating generic fruity pebbles while watching episodes of "The L Word" on my computer. I read Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov when I wait for them to load.
Buying the fruity pebbles is no tiny feat. Yesterday at Walmart, as I hefted the econo-size two pound bag and a handle of skim milk onto the conveyor belt checkout, the kid behind the counter raised his eyebrows at me. He wasn't initiating conversation, but I took it as an invitation and said breathlessly, "I couldn't help myself." And then I did that annoying thing that I sometimes do when I'm trying to be cute or endearing. I cocked my head to the side and half-smiled. As if I was about to burst out laughing and could barely contain myself.
He said, "Yeah. I eat those by the bowl full."
And I wondered if there was another way to eat cereal. I appreciated his effort to contribute to my floundering conversation. So much that I spared him the story of how I'd just spent twenty minutes in front of the face wash shelf, trying to remember which brand I usually buy, and on the verge of tears. It's been one of those weeks. Oh, and I didn't get any face wash.