Nap
February 23, 2002 @ 11:15 a.m.
I wrote this last night, but I'm gonna share it with you because I think it's just so gol-darn witty:
I am too cute.
I just woke up from a nap and I look adorable.
I love the way the ends of my hair somehow always ends up crimping 80's style. My hair still is calm, but it causes a rather endearing frizz.
I love how pouty my lips look, even with a little patch of skin missing from the bottom one. Somehow imperfection on me looks okay.
I love how my purple eyeshadow and blackish mascara stayed put. It's so a soap opera look.
I love how blue-grey innocence seems to radiate out of my eyes as I blink away sleep. I have pretty eyes when they're made up like they are. I'd even say they were luminous if that wasn't such a horrible cliche.
I love the fact I'm wearing no bra and should be. I love that I'm wearing purple pajama pants and a black T-shirt.
I truly am too cute.
I am, however, a bit angst-ridden. Bebelua, do you even know how much angst it causes me to think that you nearly left?
Such power should not be wielded over me.
Even now, looking back over those days when I would look at my buddy list and bite my lip anxiously at your absence, I grow fragile. You should just not be able to do something like that to someone.
I've grown rather fond of my Diaryland cohorts. Bebelua, M, Kelly, my three girls whom I love a little more every new entry, every new quirk I learn about. And Dan, oh-so-sweet Dan. He's too wonderful.
Ya'll are just so sweet to me.
And it just makes me ache, because spring break will be here so soon, meaning rare updates. After that, only a few months before summer.
I dread summer. A habitual thorn in my side.
I just realized I can smell weed.
Hmm.
*sniff sniff*
My shirt smells like photo developer, other icky photography chemicals. Dektol and T-Max and fixer. It's not that.
I should know what weed smells like; there was enough at the concert. Hot 107.9 wasn't kidding when they said they "blaze joints." Whew.
*tangenting*
Time to bust out the candles.
Mmm, better. Cinnamon. And matches, but that'll fade.
I am completely hooked on "Blurry" by Puddle of Mudd. The more I listen to good music, the more I wonder what the hell I was listening to before.
I really wish I was a musician. I'm the type that can hear music in her head but can't express it. What's that called?
I can hear you giggling. It's not called insane, thank you. I believe the proper term is "suppressed musician."
As a poet only, I am limited by words. All writers are limited by words, because there's a limited number of images that you can produce. With music, it is completely different. Music is the ideal, because it is imageless. Instead of images, music produces feeling, unadulterated feeling.
Basically what it is is that poetry is music's ugly sister.
Just tossin' it out there, people. Doesn't mean that I'm right.
Can I be giddy while being alone? Cause if so, I am. If not, then just call me a little quirky.
I'm so much more fun that way.
<< | >>
- - March 22, 2010
always the same - July 01, 2008
b-a-n-a-n-a-s! - December 25, 2006
elementary again - October 29, 2006
I don't like you, but I love you - October 03, 2006