saint-louise's Diaryland Diary

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I do know the muffin man. And the scarf fairy. And a sick cult of lassi worshippers.

Huh. In my last entry I used the words ďasshole,Ē ďassface,Ē and ďasswipe.Ē Itís the Holy Trinity of Ass, yíall.

Oh, heyÖyou know what I hate?

Oh. You want me to talk about something new? Okay.

I have a new canker sore in my mouth. And a new crown on my recently-ravaged molar. Whew. That was a thrill ride wasnít it?

Right. So. On to what I hate.

I hate Nazis. In addition to being vastly arrogant, seemingly incapable of coming up with a new, hip way to irrationally hate people, and in possession of ignorance so deep that it disappeared into the Mariana Trench some years ago and hasnít been seen sinceÖthey have also tainted an otherwise perfectly good music genre.

Fuck you very much, dickheads.

In spite of that, and the fact that Iíve been listening to a lot of music that reminds me of my childhood, therefore making me ponder my mortality, my lifeís goals, and the waning elasticity of the skin under my eyes, I had a really decent last weekend.

First, I received some seriously good muffins from Stephen. Blueberry and chocolate. Oooooh. Mmmmm. Gurgle. Snarfsnarfsnarf. Argh. Die.

Killer muffins.

Then, Jenni and Manda came to visit, and Manda (who doesnít like to be called Manda, but I canít help it, Ďcause Iíve known her since she was, like, eight years old, and sheís just Manda, do you hear me DO YOU HEAR ME SHE IS SHEíS MANDA GO TO HELL) had made me a superspiffy scarf. Red and black. My favírite. Iím ever so pleased. It is, I dare say, a sexy scarf.

You canít picture a scarf being sexy, I see. Oh, yeah? WellÖjust picture me wearing it. And nothing else. And Iím about half a foot taller. And my legs are longer. And thinner. And my breasts are really taut and I donít have this zit on my nose and Iíve had my hair cut more recently than four months ago. And Iím Swedish.

Yeah. Thatís right, babyÖ

The scarf is sexy. Just go with me on this one.

Plus, last week I got to have dinner with Jeff, Kelly, and Mandy (different Mandy Ė she doesnít mind being called Mandy, which is good because Jesus knows we donít want to have to witness my outbursts anymore, right?). Iím telling you, nothing says happy times like malai kofta, naan, and making fun of people. It must be the sloughing off of weeks of pent-up contempt because I always leave those dinners feeling top-notch.

Iím also almost done with holiday shopping. This sounds insane, I know. But just tonight I realized that I have the entire month of December to just enjoy the holiday season. Playing in the snow. Sitting around, inside, where itís warm. Driving past malls and stores and laughing hysterically that I donít have to go inside. Iím telling you, Iím so giddy I donít think I should drive or operate heavy machinery.

In other news: my hair is satanic. I am shedding. All over. Constantly. I find veritable tumbleweeds of my own hair intimidating and stealing the lunch money off of tufts of my catís hair.

Itís on my rugs. Itís on my pillow case. Itís all over my clothes and my coat. I find it shining in reddish-black glory as it drifts past my window at work, catching the sunshine. And the funny thing is, it doesnít look like Iím losing any at all.

Iím pretty sure that my hair wants to be poetic, to ensnare the fancy of some romantic young man who will write sonnets to its glory. It wants a better existence for itself. It wants to be sumptuous.

And while itís still residing on my scalp, that just isnít going to happen.

Be free, hair. Godspeed.

9:32 a.m. - 2003-11-20

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