Friday, May 23, 2008
Felicity glam shot
Oddly enough, I actually have something resembling self confidence these days because I had a revelation on the way to Ingles the other night. Like Paul on the road to Damascus, or, actually, not like that at all except for the being on the road part, only mine was Haywood Road, which is to say, the road to the supermarket, I-26 and beyond which is just not as romantic, I saw this totally beautiful woman with a small child on the sidewalk. As usual, the blackened, wizened cinder that passes for my heart was filled with envy. Then I thought, Felicity, shut up, ten years ago you were her. And you thought you were fat and old and horrific and meanwhile, your ten years older self was looking at you with just as much envy as your ten years younger self was looking at your ten years even younger self (Wait. Does that make anything resembling sense? I thought not. Perhaps a diagram is in order. Feel free to make one.) so, like, lighten up and think about how great you'll think you look now when you're ten years older. So, therefore, cogito ergo sum, I now feel better about my fading looks. Besides, for the first time in my whole life, I have sort of color coordinated jewelry and I'm old enough to wear giant rings. Therefore I am a glamour queen. Anyway, now that everyone is hopelessly confused, let's change the subject!
Be still, my heart: I might have my computer back this weekend. It's not forever fucked up as I thought yesterday - no, the problem is that I am an idiot. I was plugging the monitor into the wrong port. Yes. Yes, I was. I will go ritually sacrifice myself now, okay, I understand that it's the only way. I forgot that we had another video card in there & it's a different port. I know, that's no excuse. Well. Yesterday and the day before were almost unbelievably hectic what with furnace guys and work events and possible visits by landlords. Actually, my landlord is really very nice, but I always forget that since I'm used to sleazy horror zombie greedpig monster landlords of doom and thus I panic and freak out and spend 12 hours cleaning my house before a threatened visit. So my house is totally immaculate now. You can't come over. Nobody can ever come over again and in fact I'm kind of thinking about moving to the roof myself in order to keep it this clean. It's too bad I can't dress young M and the dogs in ghostly white radiation suits as soon as they walk in the door to maintain this kind of hygiene but, alas, I know from bitter past experience that my house will be its usual comfy hodgepodge disaster area in no time at all.
There is no other news. Thank the gods.