In Which I Guess I'm Doing This

This is the day your life will surely change.

I grew the balls I needed to say what I’m thinking. However, I still need to pick the heck out of my nose. Can’t do that in public, even I think that’s rude.

Tonight is name that tune. Seriously I’m so excited because it’s the one thing I can honestly and effortlessly excel at. My obsession has taken itself to another level though: I practice. I scan the radio and I practice, practice, practice. My classic rock (my worst genre) is improving. I need to brush up on my Weird Al as well. I wish I had taken school as seriously as I currently take music trivia at the bar. I will always take drinking and popular culture more seriously. It’s what I do.

My car needs coolant. I’m trying to hold out because I’m poorish, but I don’t know if I can. It was a pretty sketch drive to work this morning. The temp light nearly came on. It nearly dinged at me. I need gas and the gas by school is expensive. The station I like is all kinds of tardy to the Gas Under Four Dollars Party (the gas is too damn high?)

I can't get this pressure point outta my head. I pitched the proposal, laden with all kinds of hints. Now how do I pitch pink sapphires?

In Which I Acquire Things to Put on My Resume

I have skills. I have hair anxiety. I have obsessions.

Bitches be jocking my style. I should be flattered, but instead I'm just annoyed. I'm not sure what my fixation with standing out is, but I own it. Thses 5" platform heels are proof. These flower barrettes are proof. This iTunes library is proof. So is the fact that I can't seem to drive a car that doesn't have a tape deck. Maybe I should give away my cache of flowers (even though it would break my heart to do so, because its pretty much my signature) and move on to the next thing (even though I have no idea wtf it would be...bracelets, or fishnets perhaps?). Its like the Spice Girls: Sporty (Mel C) can't suddenly start rocking animal prints (a la Scary/Mel B), or dresses no longer than a bandana (basically any other spice who is not Sporty, but Posh/Victoria in particular). Its...wrong somehow. Ugh, maybe I'll just ride it out and hope my friend gets bored with it.

I helped write/edit a grant. We got the money. You better believe I am taking full credit for this...on my resume. I didn't write the whole thing, but I edited the whole thing, rewrote entire portions, and did extra research. Dammit, that's counting for something. I write letters that everyone seems to adore, even though I'm not exactly sure why. I just follow templates and use simple, direct language. However, this is not a skill everyone seems to possess. Go figure.

I still need to work on writing samples.

My hair is becoming a source of insecurity and anxiety for me. It's a weird length, a weird color, and we won't even start on texture issues (oh, look! I'm a real black girl after all!). I want to grow it out, because I'm prettier with long hair, but I feel more fierce with short hair. This midlength business is ridiculous. And not to mention that all my friends have fabulous hair/haircuts, just adds to the anxiety. Maybe I will go ahead and cut it, and then dye it for my birthday. There. Happy comprimise. And so begins the cut fretting. I think I'll cut the top down, leave the back as it is, and cut the sides. Hawk-licious. June. June June June. It'll be on. Yes. I feel better. And It'll be fierce as an all over blonde. Now I just need to find a place that can cut me the way I concieve. My regular hairdresser isn't going to cut it, I think. (no pun or disrespect intended)

See the cat? See the cradle?

Now, who's hungry?