(I'm definitely workin' a Paris Hilton wonky eye in that first picture. Attractive!)
I went running yesterday, which kicked my sedentary ass. Then I came inside and executed this teenage dye job. Just looking in the mirror makes me crave candy. I want to lick my own skull!
I had the weirdest dreams last night. I was hanging out with my two (deceased) grandmothers. We were having a frank discussion about masturbation. I can assure you that this would never have happened on the physical plane. Finally, one of them told me that she had discovered a newfangled exercise device that enabled her to have multiple orgasms in the lotus position. O-kay.
I've been writing a lot again, now that my laptop has returned to the realm of the living. I was in sleep-mode for a while there. Honestly, I wasn't doing anything. That familiar, uneasy feeling of stagnation inspired me to finally write an essay about the nervous breakdown I had when I was 19. I spent most of last week working on it, grooming it, playing picky-picky with adverbs. Yes, it's self-indulgent and rambling, but if I became selfless and coherent, would you still love me?
(Don't answer that.)
House of Carters is still amazing. Did anyone see it last night? The dad was such a Crown Royal lush. He looked like a partially mummified version of Aaron. I felt sorry for the stepmother, but then, I always do. Leslie needs a Cymbalta prescription, like, yesterday. I've never seen anyone cry so much. I think Angel is the most mysterious Carter. And that's all the thought I can possibly give to that show today, lest I inspire pity.