Reluctant Kitten is in heat, and once again, my apartment is without heat.

Glorious.

Both mewling kitten and frigid air made for v. uncomfortable night’s sleep but surprisingly, woke up with peppy attitude. And amazing hair. While spending some quality time in Miss Goes Down’s shower, became acquainted with delightful new hair products. Have added them to list of current addictions that am suffering from.

Vanilla Diet Coke
Broccoli
Eucalyptus & Spearmint bath salt
Bad Reality Television
Pink (the color, not the trashed out singer)
Matrix Sleek Look Smoothing Hair Products

Have been researching support groups, but curiously, are no Product Whores Anonymous meetings anywhere nearby.

Wax off!

Dear God! Do hope by the time am scheduled to go back, will have forgotten just how much that stings!

But as a near-and-dear gal pal noted, nothing takes your mind off a stressful day like having your hair ripped out by the roots.

Indeed.

Was meant to be a figure skater.

Forget that am too tall, too broad and lacking in grace. Forget that am not athletic and have barely mastered concept of roller-blading let alone leaping into the air from sheets of ice. Was meant to figure skate. Was meant to be well known for it, too.

So well known that would be impossible for someone to steal my identity, take out loans in my name and ultimately decide not to pay them. So well-known that even should this happen, attorneys from all over the country would be rallying to my defense — to inflict scorching punitive damages on the persons and companies responsible for such errors of neglect. And in such case, was meant to take such stresses out on the ice. To hear only the music in my head and the scrape of the ice under the razor sharp blades of pristine white skates.

Was meant to hear my father say, “I’m really sorry kiddo.” Was meant to hear him finish up with, “Why don’t you go put on your skates and twirl around in your building for a while. That always makes you feel better.” Because, of course, being a figure skater, and a very well-known one at that, would have my own building in which to skate. And a closet full of pretty costumes.

Am not sure whether or not was meant to have figure skating partner. Seems more likely that was meant be singles skater, twirling to sad Sarah McLaughlin tune, solo in the spotlight. But that is fine. Was simply meant to be a figure skater. Would be happy figure skater, even without partner. As long as had my building, my costumes and my attorneys.

And my own God damned Social Security Number.

Received notice in the mail yesterday from credit agency attempting to collect on a debt that is 254 days past due. On a credit card in my name. A credit card that have never used, nor even applied for.

Am in possession of ONE credit card, and have been for five years. In five years have had two late payments, each of thirty days. Am neurotic when it comes to paying bills, and each previously mentioned late payment was in less-neurotic college days when things like money and credit were just silly words associated with keeping yours truly in the latest Gap Capris and Steve Madden slides. But 254 days late? Unthinkable.

Tried explaining this to Very Ditzy Collections Agent from certain Polygamy-Prone Western State, who insisted that was my name on delinquent account. All fine and dandy, but is not my card.

VDCA: I have your University of Polygamy-Prone Western State on file.
H: That’s great. But I didn’t GO to that school. That isn’t me.
VDCA: Can I have your social security number again?
H: Sure. It’s…
VDCA: That’s the number on the account.
H: What?! That’s impossible! I never…
VDCA: Oh, looks like there are two social security numbers associated with this account. Have you been using two SSNs??
H: Listen, either that or someone is using mine. Are you picking up on the sarcasm, you dumb hick?
VDCA: I will have to do some more research on this. In the meantime, if you want to make a payment over the phone…
H: I am not going to make a payment on a card that isn’t mine! None of the addresses listed in that file are mine, except the current one. And that is clearly a mistake. I didn’t go to the college from which you have an ID on file. I will not be held responsible for this.

Oh dear Lord. Called financially-experienced UMF for advice on newest crisis only to be told, “My, you’ve had a very interesting year.”

Would not be so upset by this, but am in midst of planning new car acquisition. Am determined to have keys to brand new, shiny piece of driving delight in greedy little hands by birthday celebration. At this rate, will be lucky to right credit woes and obtain new toy by mid forties.

Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck.

***update***
After sending copy of drivers license to creditors, have discovered, is picture of yours truly on file with credit card company. And my signature. Holy shit.

Have been exposed. Beans have been spilled and proverbial cat shaken free from its proverbial bag. Me-ow.

Am not cynical, bitter, life-hating bitch. Shhh, Alex. Just don’t tell anyone else.

Took speedy trip to BigCity to celebrate birthday of eternally young Miss Goes Down and celebrate being silly with galpal, Jane. Had fabulous time as always.
Was v. well behaved, if do say so. Did not drink too much, eat too much (those peanut butter chocolate chip cookies do not count**) or shop too much. Only frivolous purchase was designer-knock-off purse, which also resulted in betrothal of yours truly to street merchant for five dollar discount. Suppose funny Nigerian man with bright white teeth is fine alternative to ending up lonely spinster. Dual citizenship and limitless handbag options? Could really not ask for more. Happily, Betrothal-Discount also applied to friends.

As spent most of the evening on cookie-inspired sugar buzz, did not do much birthday party imbibing on Saturday, but had marvelous time cavorting with BigCity friends. Finally met ever-elusive and quite charming Alex (J who?) and was nearly convinced by enchanting fellow to write a book. Also spent good ten minutes defending choice of ear accessories to someone who thought them to be just-too 80s. Oh, well. Can’t win ‘em all.

** Have decided that personal lust for food could simply be considered cute personality quirk if yours truly were underweight, flimsy speck of a gal. But as is, insatiable appetite for all things sweet and lacking in nutrition, is nothing more than predictable behavior pattern.

A: What shall we do, ladies?
J: I don’t know, but this one is always up for eating.
H: That’s not true! Hrmph. Fine. I am hungry.

Have headache. Must stop pretending to work and seek out Advil. Or chocolate.

and this bitter pill is leaving you
with such an angry mouth
one that’s void of all discretion
such an awful tearing sound

it’s wearing off and leaving you
with such a heavy heart
and head
to match

Indeed. Have worn self out with temporary bout of bitterness (and certainly made friends think that am headed down road to spinsterhood), but am now recovered. Or so am hoping.

Made peace with bathroom scale this morning. Nine pounds to go. Do miss my summer tummy ever-so-much. Where are you, yoga tummy? What’s that? Oh, right. Buried under Ben, Jerry and O-R-E-O. Nabisco. Ding! (Somehow, favorite commercial jingle doesn’t come across quite as peppy in type.)

Am off to BigCity again for weekend of galpal birthday fun. Have packed quite lightly, in uncharacteristic fashion, and am even being gifted with non-bus-or-train transportation. Oh, the joy!

Hair has again reached Little-House-on-the-Prairie lengths and am tempted to stop in and have it whacked before heading to the city. Nothing quite so unsophisticated as too-long locks. But most likely do not have time. Little House in the Big City. Has certain ring to it, no?

Used to have great respect for Karma — suffering from overdeveloped sense of justice and all. But now, as Karma has taken to biting yours truly in the ass on a regular basis, am starting to fall out of love with exotic motivator. In rapid fashion.

Always believed people to be worth all the good that could possibly do for them. All people. The man on the bus this morning. Cranky coworkers at monkey job. J. Well, not anymore.

Fuck you, man on bus. Fuck you, cranky coworkers. Fuck you, J.

Oh, wait. Already did that. Never mind.

Made mistake of inquiring about J today.

Will not do so again.

Ever.

Dear J

You missed a spot.

I was lying in bed last night, staring at the ceiling when I noticed it. Remember the day we painted my room? I was neurotic about that color. But you were right. The green wasn’t too yellow once it dried. But in the very center of the ceiling, there’s a spot where the dingy yellow of some previous occupant’s smoking habit shows through the bright white. I was staring at it last night before I fell asleep and dreamt about you.

We were in Paris. Going to school. And, beyond reason (as is the case with most dreams), we ended up in the same lecture and afterwards, alone in your room. I knew I didn’t want to be there. But you wanted me, and somehow I felt vindicated and justified and appeased all at the same time.

At first, it was perfect delirium, like being drunk on sunshine and kisses. But then, in a familiar tangle of sheets, I realized something. It wasn’t about me and what I was feeling. It wasn’t about me at all. It was about you. Was it always? Probably. So I climbed out of your bed and gathered up my things. Of course you wanted to know why. But I said nothing and left. And then I felt proud and disillusioned and indignant all at once.

So, anyway, you missed a spot on the ceiling. But then again, you missed a lot of things.

And me? I miss how you smell.

H

Took shortcut to work, walking across uptight Ivy League Campus, watching Ivy League Squirrels dodging Ivy League Pedestrians, faces tucked in Ivy League Scarves. Am certain that caught one such Ivy League Squirrel pausing in his Ivy League Acorn hunting to stare at yours truly to say, “You don’t belong.” Indeed. Do not. But am certain to outlive cruelly frigid winter, you mangy little rodent. Let’s just hope you’re so lucky.

Post-party fog has been lifting ever-so-slowly, and am having flashbacks of v. humorous Saturday evening. (Bathroom mirror still bears evidence of guests armed with toothpaste and messages of phallic nature – feel quite reluctant to clean it off.) As was stepping on scale this morning, had sudden memory of climbing on same scale with Cute Fireman, watching red number flicker, hoping that Fireman either did not know his own weight, or if did, was too drunk to do necessary math. God damn ten pounds. Also remember something about edible body oil, and conducting taste test of said oil in kitchen with guests. Oh dear God, am frightfully silly when drunk.

Have also been told that was cloistered in bedroom with Cute Fireman for significant amount of time. Am fairly certain nothing adventurous happened, but fact that can’t remember closing door leads self to question usually-reliable memory. Suppose could do worse than being sequestered in ultra-tipsy state with Cute Fireman. Cute is good. Think was Tom Robbins who wrote, Lucifer was the cutest angel in heaven. If Mr. Robbins is indeed correct, well, then, devil me, baby.

Ended up hosting last minute get-together on Saturday night, so spent several hours of weekend engaged in pre-party cleaning. Have sore legs, back, arms and bleach burnt hands, but by God, threw one clean party. Eat off those floors, kids. No. For real. Just bleached them today.

Un-Party was attended by handful of regulars as well as not-so-regularly-attending Cute Fireman. Played happy hostess, tottering around, tipsy on cheap wine, keeping partygoers’ hands filled with Cider Jack, Jose Cuervo and Captain Morgan. Tipsy turned to blissfully drunk and let Cute Fireman steal a kiss.

CF: You’re cute. (kiss)
H: Thank you!
CF: That’s it?
H: (laughing) Yep.
CF: I take it back. Very cute.

After three am exodus, only CF and brother remained. A few hours later, as sun was coming up, tucked them into beds in separate rooms.

CF: Hey… could we get a lullaby?
H: You want me to sing to you??
Brother: Yes, please.

Had not been asked by drunken party guests to sing in v. long time and was not even aware that CF knew of this habit. But was happy to oblige. Sat between rooms and did as requested. Was not altogether shocked when at end of song, both were fast asleep. Damn. Am one good lullaby-er.

E: Uh oh.
H: What?
E: You sang to them? Don’t you know that you are a siren and your song makes men want to marry you?
H: Ha!

B: How did it go?
H: Good. The fireman stayed over.
B: How was he?
H: Well-behaved. I didn’t sleep with him, silly.
B: You managed to find another guy that doesn’t like sex. Weird.
H: It must be me. I turn men celibate.
B: Get thee to a nunnery…
H: Ha! Brilliant!

Dear J,

I went to see him last night. He’s even better in person. Looks like Lenny Kravitz in Converse sneakers. Sounds the way warm honey tastes. Remember the first time I heard him? You made me listen to that CD in your car on the way to… well, now even I forget where. It made me miss you. It made me miss driving around, singing along to Dashboard Confessional, you taking the harmonies. Anyway, he played at the rock club where I first heard you play. And I saw your friend, D. She was playing, too. It made me want to call you to say, “Guess who I just ran into?” And that made me miss you a little bit, too.
I’ll admit, it’s been easier than I thought it would be — to disconnect myself from you. But not last night. Last night it was lonely, sitting next to two girls who shared stories and inside jokes composed of nothing more than, “like that one time in Memphis…” We had those sorts of stories too, you and I; sentences we never even bothered to complete, jokes that meant nothing to anyone but us. I miss that. I’m sure I’ll find that again with someone else; I always do. But until then, I’ll miss that.

I miss you. But stay away.

Love,

H

Had horrifying dream last night that stood in front of the mirror, took scissors in hand and chopped long, straight hair into Katherine Zeta (a la Chicago) bob.
Snip!
Oh dear God!
Now, did not think it becoming on the nearly-always-lovely Ms. Jones and certainly did not become yours truly. Stared at self in mirror wondering just why exactly suddenly had too-short bangs. Bewilderment became panic as began franticly running fingers through short strands telling self over and over that was “just hair” and would grow back. In what, five years?
But most chilling fear of all was that J would see what this impulsive, scissor happy girl had done. Idea that J does not like short hair made Dreaming Self frantic. But Awake Self stood in front of real mirror minutes later, pulling unaltered middle-of-the-back long hair into ponytail thinking, “J does not care about your hair, silly girl. And you do not care what he thinks of it, either.”
Indeed.
Reluctant Kitten has lost most of her reluctance (due undoubtedly to marvelous kitten-mothering skills) and thus has taken to following v. closely at all times. Leaning over sink wrestling with too-goopy mascara and felt tugging at scalp. Looked down to find kitten sitting in sink amusing herself by batting at curtain of hair.

H: I can see you’re glad I didn’t cut it. Now, scoot.
RK: …
H: Get out of the sink, silly. Unless you want to get ready for work. You could go, you know. You’ll work, and I’ll stay here and sleep in the sunny spot all day. What do you think?
RK: …
Concerned Roommate: Who are you talking to?
H: RK. We’re having a chat. I’m trying to talk her into going to work for me.
CR: Ah. What does she think of that?
H: She doesn’t seem too thrilled.
CR: Oh? Why not?
H: Well, you know her. She doesn’t really say much. She’s more of a listener. Maybe it was the thought of wearing uncomfortable shoes. Or maybe she’s just scared to ride the bus by herself. Who knows.
CR: Two words. Kitty pumps.
H: (in fit of giggles) How about it RK?
RK: …
H: Guess not.

Crawled out of bed and decided that black Holly Golightly dress had been hanging quietly in closet just way too long. Pulled out said dress, knock-em dead knee high boots and Jackie-O sunglasses (forget the fact that is currently pouring-down rain). Glazed lips with raspberry pink stain and headed out the door exactly one hour late for work.
Heard blue-jumpsuit-clad city workers mumbling and saw leering as approached, but was not until had passed by that heard ridiculously loud wolf call. In fine sassy fashion, right hand shot out of pocket and greeted fine city workers with beautifully manicured middle finger. Did not look back. Men in blue were silent for few seconds, but knew they’d seen friendly overture when heard laughter and more wolf calls. Glad to amuse, fellas.

Is simply going to be that sort of day.

Congratulations.
You’ve been very quiet lately. Congratulations for what?
You’ve made it a week. One full week and not a single sob-fest, tantrum or bout of excessive dismantling of last Wednesday’s fiasco with J.
One week? Tell me it’s been six.
I think one is pretty impressive. You haven’t even emailed him. Or even started to. You haven’t even indulged in scrolling to his name in your cell phone.
It’s all about denying my nature. How v. Puritan of me.
Sing with me, now. I know your friends are. Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty….
That’s enough, smart ass.
You missed me.
I’d like to miss you again.
Ah, you don’t mean it.
It should take you exactly four seconds to cross from here to that door. I’ll give you two.
You do Hepburn proud.
Indeed.

Went to see award-nominated film last night with gal pal, and ended evening in Ivy League bookstore so she could purchase book of same name. Had forgotten just how much love that possess for books. Am that girl walking down aisles, fondling spines of new paperbacks, lusty look in her eye. Am that girl who makes bibliophile sound dirty.
Kept grabbing galpal to say, “Have you read this one?”

S: How do you have time to read so much? You must have read a third of these books!
H: Used to work at a bookstore in college. I had a book-a-day habit.
S: You’re kidding!
H: Nope. They let us take them home from the store, so I never had to pay for them. Too bad the Gap doesn’t have the same policy. (sigh) I love books.
S: You should work in publishing. That’s all you’d have to say at your interview. I’d hire you.
H: Do you pay well?

Being the magical day that it is (for no other reason than have decided it to be so), will be starting the Summer-Means-Swimwear, Perk-up-that-Ass plan. Have let self go just enough that will be something of a challenge. And now that have plenty of time on J-less hands, might do v. well to challenge self. Am telling self that will be easy. All that is required is a bit of discipline and… well, saying good-bye to some old friends.

Dear Ben and Jerry,

It’s been real. Thanks for the good times. See ya in about, what… six months?

All the love in my heart,

H

Haven’t seen G in probably three years. Haven’t even emailed said ex-oh-so-important-male-figure-in-young-life for at least a year. And yet, when checked message on home phone, was jaw-dropped shocked to hear G’s voice hoping he’d gotten the right number.
Did not give G home phone number. Did not give anyone (aside from the UMF) home phone number, as do not believe in landlines for sheer inconvenience of them.
Strange. V. strange indeed. Thus, out of the woodwork crawls G.
Am hoping is not calling to announce marriage or any other sort of joyous occasion. The one who does the moving on to bigger and better things should be the one with the joyous news. NOT the one who stays put to live in same city as parents for the rest of v. boring life. There are rules about such things!
On another note, have been asked on v. first Post-J-Fiasco date. C was kind enough to make it seem low-pressure – drinks, bite to eat, etc. But, well, am afraid may be a v. sincere fellow and party-flirting on the part of yours truly may have come off as genuine interest. Not that am not interested. Simply had not crossed my mind. May be worth a shot. Will see.

Missing-in-Action Galpal cancelled BigCity trip plans Friday afternoon, leaving yours truly in quite the lurch. Ended up on five-hour bus ride sitting next to College Boy Who Sighs at Least Provocation whose breath smelled as though had not only eaten something quite foul, but had been separated from his toothbrush for ages. Would have felt sorry for Sighing Boy, but well, stench was simply too overwhelming.
Needless to say, was ever-so-grateful to escape bus and into warm welcoming of v. kind and accommodating hostess. Had such a nice time doing girly manicure things, ordering bad-for-figure foods and primping for night out on the town.
Joined even-more-super-adorable-in-real-life Bob, Doug and friend (Jeff, is it?) for what turned out to be evening of Mexican food, margaritas, and yours truly obnoxiously crooning to super sad latin ballads, wishing had not worn impossible-to-retain-proper-blood-flow knee high boots. A fine time, indeed.
Highlight of weekend away, though, was earning the Most Low Maintenance Houseguest award from Miss Goes Down. Am truly honored. Am expecting trophy to arrive any day.

Blue Fish.

Funny thing is, really am not. Blue, that is. Thought would be inconsolable for several weeks, weeping and wailing and gnashing teeth in classic biblical mourning style. However, aside from horribly difficult exchange with J on Wednesday, and few, sparse pangs of regret, worry, and what-ifs since, have felt remarkably balanced.

Now, if only, complexion would follow suit.

Am certain that melancholy will catch up eventually. But for now, am taking current mood as sign to get up, get out and get proverbial groove on. Perhaps even test-drive a new bicycle or two.

Now accepting applications

Have been spontaneously gifted by fate!

Missing-in-Action galpal surfaced with offers of transportation to and from BigCity for weekend of fun, sitting-around-pining alternative. Weee!

Have already made joy-inspiring plans with Miss Goes Down and Feisty Feminine Bob for evening of drinking, dancing and flirting with wild abandon. Shall do said shameless flirting with any and every attractive man within flirting radius.

Will put stiletto heeled, knee-high boots on feet, look-at-me-glow bronzer on cleavage and divine smelling scents on all strategic body parts. But will not shave my legs. Why? Because do not have to. Indeed, do not. Will say it again: Weee!

Am uncontrollably giddy to see my Gal, Miss Goes Down, for weekend of pj’s and pints (ice cream, of course).

Cloud, meet your silver lining.

H: (blah blah blah) I don’t think we should see each other anymore (blah)
J: (blah blah) I don’t want to lose you (blah)
H: You know how I feel. You also have to realize how hard it is to watch things change. I can’t do it.
J: Lets give this some time before we make any final decisions, okay?

Did not reply.

First of all… We??? Do not remember putting out ballots for democratic vote. Is not a decision to be made by anyone other than yours truly at this point.

Secondly, more time??? Time for what, dear J? Time for things to maybe not work out with New Girl in which case you will have inordinate amount of free time on your hands once again? Or, perhaps, time so that will have change of mind and suddenly be able to handle non-relationship again?

Incidentally, met New Girl at the same time J did. In the hot tub where sat explaining the complexity of the non-relationship. On Valentine’s Weekend Ski trip. Trip that yours truly paid for because of under-funded J and roommate squabble. Ah, sweet, glorious irony.

Am not sure whether to attribute horrible puffy feeling surrounding eyes to wine/Tylenol Pm hangover, or yesterday’s intermittent crying spells. Have told self that am done crying, but then again, horrible images of J with New Girl seem to counteract any sort of resolve on my part. Bother.

H: I know as much as you think you mean that (that no one can replace what I mean to you), it’s just not true. As much as we mean to each other and as good as it all is, it’s not permanent.
J: Gee, thanks.
H: What do you mean?
J: It’s disturbing to think that you hold our friendship in such delicate regard.
H: I can’t even explain what I’m thinking, so we might as well drop this for now.
J: Hey, you okay?
H: Not really.
J:…….

Wandered home from work sometime around three yesterday with ultra-depressing music on headphones and made bee-line for hot bath. (Fortunately, boss is out until Wednesday, so actually had free time to go into Don’t-Speak-to-Me mode. Is not often that am allowed the necessary time it takes to have a complete breakdown.)
While fingers started to resemble dried fruit, soaked in v. hot water, waiting to hear the voice. The one that, usually accompanied by strange sense of calm, ultimately comes to say, “It’s gonna be okay, Kiddo.” Heard no such voice and finally got tired of waiting. Fuck you, Inner Goddess. Took a Xanax and crawled under the covers.
Fourteen hours later, crawled back out and started all over again. Am still waiting. Have heard from neither J nor Inner Goddess in over twenty-four hours.
J is in training and IG? Missing in action.

Hello?
(silence)
Listen, you can come pester me now. I’m asking you to.
(silence)
You can tell me you were right! I’ll believe you! You can tell me I’m a fucking idiot! You can tell me anything! Just tell me… something.
(silence)
Please?

No, no, no!

See, this was not how it was supposed to work. Clearly, did not get applications reviewed in time (having been impaired by current illness), but the plan was for J to be replaced before he did the replacing!
By means of J-Intuition knew that he had a date on Saturday night, and even with whom he was going. So when he fessed up via email, was not shocked. Not in the least. Stung within inch of life by some horrid torture device? Sure. But not shocked.
Told J that was unhappy with idea of being replaced.

J: H, no one on the face of the earth could replace what you mean to me.
H: If only that were true.

Feel as though am watching pageant winner being fitted with sparkly tiara, while yours truly fidgets with stiff, glitter-encrusted sash bearing horrible words, First Runner Up hearing cheeseball announcer handing out slimy condolences, “If for any reason tonight’s winner should be unable to fulfill her duties…” Perhaps if fidget enough, will not have to hear crowned winner pledging to do her best, etc.
Am used-up, empty, First Runner Up. Winner of lifetime supply of nothing special.
Oh, and this sash.

Am absolutely certain did not purchase one-ply bathroom tissue on purpose. Could not, especially if had any inkling of perpetual runny nose that am suffering from at the moment. Am not looking forward to going to place of employment on Monday morning with nose resembling that of most famous reindeer of all, not to mention not cherishing feeling as though have just vigorously rubbed most tender parts of face across street pavement. Two-ply or nothing, God damn it.
Tonight’s party was uneventful. Spent most of evening getting trashed on strawberry margaritas and angering Passive Agressive Girl by flirting with object of her affection. Yes, am evil. But was fair in the end as yours truly left with galpal and Passive Agressive Girl took flirting boy up to her bed.
Have decided must become involved in stable relationship, if for no other reason than steady source of sex. Current supply is simply not adequate; something of a sex shortage. Think that have stumbled upon situation in which supply and demand theory proves to be bunch of nonsense.
Nonsense indeed.

Am not certain whether have the old addage correct. Starve a cold, feed a fever? Or feed a fever, starve a cold? Either way, one thing am sure of, steady intake of orange juice and Hershey bars is nowhere near close to curing this gal’s current cold crisis.
Am miserable.
Fortunately, have been able to see through misery to bright spot in afternoon. Have shaved my legs so as not to freak out kindly massage giver, and taken double dose of Dayquil so as not to appear complete mucousy mess.
Am quite the vision today, must say. Just lovely. If am lucky, will, while attending party this evening (to which do not plan on wearing neither make up nor uncomoftable/attractive clothing), meet new, gorgeous possible J-replacement. And upon meeting said fellow, frighten poor thing with new grunge-inspired look, or if the Gods are really kind, ooze some form of mucous on him.
Am giddy with anticipation.
No, really.

Dear Natalie Portman,

H

Need quite desperately to do laundry again. Damn vicious cycle. Perhaps will resort to nudity and render the entire process unnecessary. Or perhaps not. Don’t really have the figure for prancing about in the buff, nor have any interesting tattoos to take focus away from less-than-perfect body parts. Besides, would have to shave my legs just way too often. Guess will be doing laundry this weekend.
Will also be getting full body massage. J, noting crazy stress that have been under, suggested that yours truly clear her calendar for Saturday afternoon. Said time is now booked for this fish to get a massage, courtesy of J. Good boy. V. good boy.