Blank. Expressionless. Not dead, but a little dead inside. And life goes on: the streets remain in their bustle and form. University students bike on by. The BA/bart can be heard rolling from a distance.
Upsetting isn't exactly the right word to frame the last couple of days that I haven't been posting. Introspective? Introverted? Idiosyncratic? Another word that starts with an "i"? It was just two days ago that I chopped 14-16 inches off my lion's mane in a fit of anger and passion and being in desperate need of a haircut, a change of context. It didn't really work out. I think I look like a boy, and unfortunately, people on Facebook (though I know they're joking) don't take me seriously enough to get the drift that I really hate this haircut. Edgy my butt (but we all know Miley Cyrus has the edgy-ist butt of them all, seeming as how she doesn't actually have one). Seething and loathing don't even begin to spark the amount of spurn-y maliciousness in the black hole that is my heart. But yeah. I could go on for hours mathematically explaining how this haircut or the bangs don't frame my face right or they chop my forehead off and shorten my face and broaden my cheeks and make me look horizontally chub-tastic but, sigh. SIGH. LE SIGH.
|Chop chop chop. How do I even begin explaining everything that's wrong with this photo? Answer: I don't but probably will, somehow.|
None of my smiles have been natural-looking as of late. Nor do they feel natural. It's been bothering me, yeah, but it's really not so much about the haircut as it is with just about everything. Blah. I feel blah, and I just want to wrap myself in ugly, loose-fitting T-shirts and yoga pants and pullover hoodies WHEN IT IS LIKE 90 DEGREES HERE IN HOUSTON I AM GOING TO DIE OF DEHYDRATION.
Asides from alluding to a situation faced by a bunch of bloggers (I am specifically referring to Hyperbole and a Half's Adventures in Depression) and normal people (not saying bloggers aren't normal people, but we can be extraordinary yeah), I am suffering the unkindness of being a woman. Periods. Bloating. Crying. Cramps. Wanting chocolate but eating it makes me break out in oily T-zone zits. But I'm not merely PMS-ing, which unfortunately, a whole lot of ignorant, insensitive, uneducated men/women/children/people would jump to the conclusion of. Insert generic statement about how women shouldn't be barred from political offices because of stupid red-neck Congressmen blaming women for biological occurrences and deeming them inferior. Someone restore my faith in humanity, because this Georgian congressmen sure as hell isn't.
Seriously though if ripping out my uterus was a viable option at the age of 20 I'd do it without blinking - even under anesthesia I wouldn't blink just "yup get it over with bye bye uterus". I just want to keel over and lay on my side for a good 6 months. Or be a bear. Hibernate during the winter and roam free the wilderness and maul people who stand in my way and live in that one Yellowstone bear refuge-sanctuary and be cared for for FOREVER.
Yes. Be the bear.
I need cuddles. But we've all established that no one loves me, I think.
in need of xoxo
P.S. I've been spending a lot of time mulling over how to answer the last "get to know the girl" question which deals with what lesson in my lifetime would I pass on to a generation... And I'm trying to answer it with a lot of grit and enough grains of salt where I could figuratively (and possibly literally???) start up the modern version of the lucrative salt trade of Africa back in the 1200s-1400s. I'm also trying to dedicate it to a fellow blogger who suffers from the same emotional issues I contend with, so trying to wrap it up into a neatly-tied package is difficult as it is. It carries a lot of ballast, which is probably why my metaphorical hot air balloon's hanging pretty close to the ground. Neither soaring nor grounded. Just sorta... floating aimlessly.