theology&geometry

A:

[Project 365]

So, as I have done five hundred thousandy billion times before, I went into the salon today thinking I might do something drastic (which I’ve been contemplating for months), and I emerged with a three-inch trim and long layers. HEAVE YOUR SIGHS OF DISAPPOINTMENT IF YOU MUST. But I like it and it weighs about fifty pounds less than it did this morning.

[Project 365]

Last night I cleaned out my fridge and today I finally threw away the remains of my 2007 birthday cake. There are no typos in that sentence, I assure you. I am just a disgusting, filthy human being who lives more or less like a 22-year-old bachelor (but who places “banging chicks” waaaay further down on the ol’ priority list). Actually, I made a conscious decision to keep the cake in, oh, say June, when I realized that it wasn’t decomposing at all, much like those French fries in the bonus features of the Supersize Me DVD. My laziness and curiosity rose up and joined together and hissed at me, SHOVE THAT SHIT TO THE BACK AND JUST LET IT SIT AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS! And, never one to ignore strange voices in my head, I did just that. And when my 2008 birthday came and went last month, as I was shoveling a piece of 2008 cake into my mouth, I realized that I was going to have to let go of 2007. And its cake.

[Project 365]

Edit: I can’t believe I forgot to link to Cake Wrecks when I posted this. My brain is broken.

3-something p.m.: I notice that the analog clock on the wall near the design desk is way behind (or ahead, I guess). It reads 9-something.

5 p.m.: The clock begins making a pained humming noise, as if its insides are revving up out of madness. I give the clock a mean sideways glance and say, “That is gonna have to stop or I am going to find somewhere else to work.” I continue giving the clock my very special go-to-hell look, and my boss, sitting nearby, tells me to “cuss it out.”

5:02: The clock hands begin moving, spinning slowly, ticking off the minutes as though we’re in a time-lapse movie. My boss insists that the clock will right itself and stop spinning once it reaches the correct time.

5:07: The clock passes 5:07 and I realize that this idiot thing might actually think we care whether or not it thinks it’s a.m. or p.m. and keep going until the next 5:07. HI, CLOCK? WE KNOW IT’S NOT A.M. BECAUSE WE ARE TROLLS WHO WORK AT NIGHT, GAH.

5:09: I am glaring at the stupid thing now, certain that this pass past 5:09 will be its last. It trucks on past the big 2 and I mutter many curse words. Okay, more like yell.

5:45: The clocks have been spinning now, clicking their hands noisily in a full circle again and again, since 5 o’clock. I go to the restroom to pee and see a giant wet spot on the carpet in front of the door, directly beneath a sprinker. I move on, relieve myself, contemplating how subtly weird things can be. I return to my desk to see that the clock has still not stopped spinning. I am forced to believe that this is some kind of heavy-handed commentary by the universe about how I am wasting my life.

6:07: The clock stops moving. It reads 6:02, but I’ll fucking take it.

8:59: The clock gets hung and begins making that familiar humming noise.

9: The hands begin making their way around the face. Clickclickclickclickclick. My left eye begins twitching. Hardcore.

9:05: Clock reads 10 ’til 2.

9:05:25: Clock reads 2:10

9:10: Co-worker offers me Lexapro so I’ll stop freaking out about the clock. I inform him that it’s unnecessary; I’m more than happy to self-medicate at home.

10:11: Clock stops at 6:01. My eye twitches unhappily.

Me on the computer, laughing at this (HT: Knots).

Jack, looking up at me intently.

Me, grabbing Jack and giving him a bear hug and lots of cat smooches: “Kitty, I am going to clean the shit out of your litter box!”

Jack, irritated, stares into space as I smother him with affection.

Me, babytalking:”Yes I am! Yes I am!”

Pause.

“YES WE CAN.”

Do you ever wonder if your cats are reincarnated versions of your dead relatives?

Lately I’ve been having some pretty epic conversations with my friend T-bagz (I hesitate to use his real name because he is scared of the internet) via someecards.com, because, damn, that place has a card for every flatulent sentiment in existence.

Well, almost. Here are a few that would be useful but that I’ve not found on the site, so feel free to click and download and send to your pals if the occasion arises.

Hurry up before I get sued.

(^^that one’s for Dave)

I saw the sun rise this morning and not on purpose. It just kind of happened when I neglected to go to bed last night and instead sat out on my balcony with Sarah and Rebecca, eating brie and blabbing about who knows what, and thinking a little too hard about the stuff I always think too hard about, which means I woke up kind of sad this morning and have spent most of the day lying in bed with the cats. The windows are open and we’ve all been just lying in the sunlight, smelling the breeze, and listening to soccer practice in the field next door.

Tequila makes me crazier, I think, than I already am. If that’s possible. When will they invent a pill that will eradicate the worry and shame you feel the day after you’ve christened spring with tequila and an apartment full of friends and, at one point, ceremoniously tromped through your living room, asking loudly if anyone’s ever, um, lost a tampon? Because I need a whole crate of those pills.

The past few days have been pretty intense. I’ve barely had time to stop and breathe, but I seem to be happier when I’m busy. Sarah stayed with me for a couple of days and kept me entertained, and Fritz and his Fuckleberry Hound have been in town to visit and we’ve laughed and laughed at so many inappropriate jokes.

I’m amazed at how many ridiculously funny people I know. Having an apartment full of them makes me get all corny and sentimental. Oh my god, I am such a girl.

It’s kind of a bummer that the apartment is empty now, but, well … shit.

My nerves are all jangly. To calm them, I’ve mixed myself some ungodly combination of rum and Sobe LifeWater that looks like urine and tastes slightly less repulsive than urine. The nastiness of the drink is taking my mind of my nervousness, which I just wrote as “nervisness,” if that tells you anything about my state of mind right now.

I’m worried about tomorrow’s zombie walk turnout. Last year was so unbelievably huge that, as I told a friend the other day, I’m afraid we’ll experience a sophomore slump this year. It’s hard to gauge the turnout on these things; last year I thought maybe 30 people would show up and it ended up being more like 300. This year I’m anticipating a couple hundred and that makes me worry that it will be more like 30.

The potentially rainy weather makes me worry even more. People who would come out for this are pretty hardcore and probably wouldn’t mind a little rain, but I figure substantial rain and anything remotely stormy will keep people — especially families — away. Which sucks. I love me some zombie families. Not to mention the tourist turnout on Beale and the foot-traffic turnout for the art trolley tour will be lighter if it rains.

Oh well, it should be a fun time regardless. Or as Courtney likes to say*, irregardless. The Creeping Cruds are going to play at E&H afterward, and I’m looking forward to seeing them. I can’t wait to see what kind of pictures I can snag of the whole thing. (Another reason I’m hoping the rain holds off: I don’t want to eff up my camera.)

Plus Fritz and his Fuckleberry Hound are coming to town to visit. And Sarah might come into town, too!

So cross your severed appendages for us, please. Actually, you can do one better and come downtown to be part of the madness at 6:30 p.m.

* Hahahahaha! You’ll have to wait until Saturday to punch me for that.

I’ve been eyeing my bathroom soap for weeks now, wondering why the hell the manufacturers opted to prominently include the soap’s PH balance on the bottle. Almost like it might sway some frantic soap-buyer to pick Select Brand over some other generic crap — let’s see, they both come in cucumber melon, but Select Brand’s soap has a PH balance of 5.5!!!.

I kept trying to come up with more useful things the bottle designers could have put in that little oval. Maybe that neat Jesus optical illusion …

… or even the time-dependent Schroedinger equation for one spatial dimension …

… but then I actually started reading about soap and I realized that liquid soap generally has a lower and more skin-friendly PH than bar soap, so bragging about a PH balance of 5.5 is actually kinda legit, even if casual soap-buyers are oblivious, and all my snark melted away into a sticky pool of new knowledge.

Fucking internet.