Oh, my God. It's too hot and I'm ugly and mean people are trying to like totally ruin my entire life! Today, I am sixteen years old in the head, and I just want to slam the door to my room and blast Motley Crue and hide under the duvet and brood. And I am ugly, that is no exaggeration, believe me you. I am desperate for a haircut and in the heat, my makeup is just hovering on my skin in this weird, mottled blob and I'm all sweaty, and I have to wear sandals which show my hideously deformed feet. And mean people are trying to ruin my entire life, and I have a real attitude about it. But I'm too distracted by my bad hair and dry skin to properly incite revolution.
The one good thing about my appearance is that I finally brought myself to buy shorts and wear them in public today. I managed to squeeze my butt into a pair of stretchy denim jeans from Fred Meyer's bargain bin. They go to just above my knees, so I'm not exactly flashing a whole lot of leg, but it's my cardinal rule never to wear anything shorter than one inch above my knee. Not because I subscribe to the tenants of modest dress, or think that you're slutty if you wear anything shorter, (hmph!) but because I am extremely self-conscience about my legs. Mostly the upper, wobbly parts, not the calves. The calves are okay, but even when I was a wee stick of a thing--I mean, a real scary-skinny--I always had these two stubborn pads of fat on my inner thighs that would never go away, no matter what. I was an avid consumer of horrid lady-magazines at an impressionable pre-teen age, and I somehow got it into my head that women should have No Fat Whatsoever in "that area" and if you do, you are a complete failure of a human being and a woman and no one would ever love you or marry you and you would grow old and die alone. So to this day, I have a horror of anyone looking at my thighs. See? I am totally channeling my inner sixteen-year-old. OMG, I'm fat and ugly and everyone is against me!!!! Don't worry. I'll eventually ascend mentally to my real age and start thinking the thoughts of a grown-ass woman. (Hopefully.)
We have about a million fans going in the apartment, as well as the advantage of Mr. Typist's physics-driven, optimal-wind-channel, scientifically-calibrated arrangement of said fans, but it still got damn hot in here, and we decided to go see that Brad Pitt zombie movie just to bask in the air conditioning. It was actually a very entertaining flick at first, but then it got really self-important and serious, and then it just got super-long and a bit ridiculous, until it finally fizzled out with the aid of one of the most jaw-droppingly audacious deus ex machinas I've ever witnessed. But if you want to see it, go see it. It's still pretty fun. I mean, it is a zombie movie.
And the blog has a Whole New Look! I'm still tinkering around with it and obsessing over the title font and color, but let me know what you think. I'm trying to get away from that peachy, ultra-fem vintage look. I think the blonde doll is sort of spooky and fun. Let me know if you like it. I'm continuing to work out the whole "I'm changing the entire intent and purpose of this blog!!!" temper-fitty resolution of last week, but probably nothing much is going to change. It's not like I have anywhere else to go to spout my nonsense.