There's a drunk girl somewhere outside of my window, rolling around in the warm air squealing about how she is sleeping on the grass. Sarah told her she could sleep there, apparently. Some soft-voiced boy is trying to change her mind. I hope his intentions are good.
The things we do to ourselves in the name of fun, in the name of being young, even in the name of temporary amnesia. You'll never catch me rolling around on a lawn at 11:20 pm on a Sunday night. At least wait until the bars close. Have some dignity, woman!
My new haircut makes me feel a little bit like a French prostitute. In a good way.
I spent this weekend sleeping and floating somewhere far away from any thoughts of my life. A weekend well wasted.
As if a haircut could change me. Could somehow exteriorize the massive leaps that I don't seem to have the guts to take. This is what happens: I reach some point of near-desperation in my life for whatever reason, and I do something drastic to change my appearance. Like my appearance was the root of the problem. And that changing my look would fix it all. It would make me a new person.
Women can relate to this. I have permed my hair in such circumstances, chopped it, grown it out long, then bleached that long hair, chopped short bangs in, chopped it off again, dyed it back to dark brown and chopped it yet again. And it never really made a difference - except for when I bleached it after a bad breakup. People treated me very differently... blonde me was quite a different gal. I'm glad she's gone.
So here I am again. New haircut. Same worries. I'll never learn.
I'm already looking forward to coffee in the morning.
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