Clueless
I hate your shirt. Your fake, white vintage t-shirt. The giant pink letters are obnoxious. You love it because it’s loud. Attention seeking loud. Loud with huge pink letters screaming “Love never fades”. Shut up. Shut up shirt. Shut the hell up. And you, the person wearing that shirt, have you been in love? Have you ever loved anyone? Go, fall in love. Share yourself with another person. Then fall out and tell me you’re still going to wear that stupid fucking shirt. You have no idea what you’re talking about, what your shirt is talking about. Love fades dumbass. Especially at your age: it fades all the time. And when it does, someone suffers. They physically and emotionally suffer. You’re shirt is a lie. A too tight lie. Your tight lie cost you fifty bucks. Your fifty dollar lie is lying to you. And me. I hate liars. I hate your lying shirt. I hate it.
___________________________________________________________________
Fade Out
Fade in. Look at him. Like. Look into his beautiful green eyes. Like. His mouth fits mine. Perfection. Like. Lust. His body. Like. He makes me laugh until my sides split open. Like. Love. I wear his sweater. He wears my socks. Like. Love. He dances with me. Love. He makes my bed. Love. He sleeps. Comfortably. I think. He loves to cook. His bare chest is my pillow. Think. Lose sleep. Loves me. Think. Lose sleep. Tears. He loves me. Think. Talk. Cry. He loves me. Think. Wonder. Cry. Talk. Cry. He thinks. Question. My love. Think. Effort. Try. Try harder. Not enough. He loves me. Think. I love him. Think. I. Think. I. Love. Him. Question. He thinks. Not. His fault. Not him. Not his fault. Fade out.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
WARNING: Contains personal info rmation some my consider an "over-share". Lighten up and laugh!
Pain is Weakness Leaving the Body
This music is not so soothing. And I am all turned around because they’ve switched the furniture and changed rooms. The dozen smells that fill my nose are so pleasant they’re almost nauseating. “Alana? If you will just follow me.”
I pry myself out of the soft couch that has swallowed half my body and follow a young woman to the back room. She and I are standing in a room with a giant mirror on one side and a corner full of cosmetic things. She points to the disposable underwear on the table.
“Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? Espresso?”
“A glass of water would be awesome”. I say hoping she would return with a stiff drink, just to numb the pain a little.
I take my pants off throw them over a chair catching a glimpse of my ass in the mirror. I make a mental note to run just a little harder next week. I stare at the disposable underwear wondering why other women would even bother putting them on. I wrap myself in a little towel and hop on the paper lined table. The young woman knocks and enters with a small glass of water. I am lying on the bed trying to be causal despite knowing my fate. She starts the small talk while testing the temperature of the wax on her wrist.
“So do you have anything planned for the weekend?”
“No not really, I work all weekend”. I let a deep breath out. I sit up to drink my non-alcoholic beverage. It goes down roughly.
She lifts up the towel exposing me, examines her work canvas and sprinkles on some powder. It feels cool to the touch. She is telling me all about her weekend and I don’t hear a word. She turns to get some red wax on the oversized popsicle stick in her hand. She looks at me and smiles
“Okay, I’m going to get started.”
And I’m going to cry. I forget what it feels like until that first pull; then it all comes back like the memory of a bad dream. She continues to talk about whatever and I hope that those two Advil’s that I took before I got here have started their wonderful work of pain relieving. The young woman doesn’t give me any warning when she rips the hair from my bikini area. I have a urge to scream, but don’t. She presses down on the area to reduce the pain. I wish she would hug me. She continues on blabbing. I nod and acknowledge that I am listening, despite not. She continues to talk and rip, talk and rip. She laughs at her own jokes: ha-ha-ha, rip-rip-rip. She moves into wax the more tender parts of me. Sometimes the wax is thick; therefore very stuck to my skin. When she rips it away, I want to punch her. She rips another portion away. I see white. After each piece, I give myself a little pep talk about being the toughest person in the world. Rrrrip. I am having the hair ripped from my body using hot wax and a wooden stick. Rrrrip. My boyfriend better fucking appreciate this. Rrrrrip. The Advil aren’t working. Rrrrrrrrip.
Finally, she stops long enough for me to open my eyes. My eyes struggle to adjust to the light.
“The worst is over”. She says to comfort me.
I still want to punch her.
“But I need you to turn over”.
She doesn’t laugh at this statement but I do. I can’t believe I am paying money for this. Women in other cultures would think I’m nuts. Nuts, but tough.
I roll onto my side and do as she says. She starts talking again, this time about how she likes to watch Ultimate Fighting Championships while she waxes my behind.
“I don’t know what it is, but I think they are the most in-shape and well rounded athletes ever.”
I agree with her.
“They are, like, so tough”.
She yanks away another section of hair. I breathe in slowly through my teeth making a low hissing sound. My eyes water. I recall the UFC fights that I’ve seen in the past. Those fighters get so beat up: their eyes swell shut from being hit, they bleed from their skin being split open, bones are broken, ribs are kneed in, and egos are fed. But I cannot think of a single UFC fighter, in any weight category, that would willingly have the hair from their genitals torn from their body using hot wax and NOT cry like a little baby. These Ultimate Fighters would not be so ultimate after a little genital hair pulling. I am lying here, spread apart on this table inviting a stranger to tear the hair away from my lady parts in a violent display of esthetical practice. This makes me tougher than a UFC fighter, hands down.
The young woman pulls her last piece and this time, I don’t even move.
“Okay you’re done. Was that so bad?
“Nope. Piece of cake.”
I pry myself out of the soft couch that has swallowed half my body and follow a young woman to the back room. She and I are standing in a room with a giant mirror on one side and a corner full of cosmetic things. She points to the disposable underwear on the table.
“Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? Espresso?”
“A glass of water would be awesome”. I say hoping she would return with a stiff drink, just to numb the pain a little.
I take my pants off throw them over a chair catching a glimpse of my ass in the mirror. I make a mental note to run just a little harder next week. I stare at the disposable underwear wondering why other women would even bother putting them on. I wrap myself in a little towel and hop on the paper lined table. The young woman knocks and enters with a small glass of water. I am lying on the bed trying to be causal despite knowing my fate. She starts the small talk while testing the temperature of the wax on her wrist.
“So do you have anything planned for the weekend?”
“No not really, I work all weekend”. I let a deep breath out. I sit up to drink my non-alcoholic beverage. It goes down roughly.
She lifts up the towel exposing me, examines her work canvas and sprinkles on some powder. It feels cool to the touch. She is telling me all about her weekend and I don’t hear a word. She turns to get some red wax on the oversized popsicle stick in her hand. She looks at me and smiles
“Okay, I’m going to get started.”
And I’m going to cry. I forget what it feels like until that first pull; then it all comes back like the memory of a bad dream. She continues to talk about whatever and I hope that those two Advil’s that I took before I got here have started their wonderful work of pain relieving. The young woman doesn’t give me any warning when she rips the hair from my bikini area. I have a urge to scream, but don’t. She presses down on the area to reduce the pain. I wish she would hug me. She continues on blabbing. I nod and acknowledge that I am listening, despite not. She continues to talk and rip, talk and rip. She laughs at her own jokes: ha-ha-ha, rip-rip-rip. She moves into wax the more tender parts of me. Sometimes the wax is thick; therefore very stuck to my skin. When she rips it away, I want to punch her. She rips another portion away. I see white. After each piece, I give myself a little pep talk about being the toughest person in the world. Rrrrip. I am having the hair ripped from my body using hot wax and a wooden stick. Rrrrip. My boyfriend better fucking appreciate this. Rrrrrip. The Advil aren’t working. Rrrrrrrrip.
Finally, she stops long enough for me to open my eyes. My eyes struggle to adjust to the light.
“The worst is over”. She says to comfort me.
I still want to punch her.
“But I need you to turn over”.
She doesn’t laugh at this statement but I do. I can’t believe I am paying money for this. Women in other cultures would think I’m nuts. Nuts, but tough.
I roll onto my side and do as she says. She starts talking again, this time about how she likes to watch Ultimate Fighting Championships while she waxes my behind.
“I don’t know what it is, but I think they are the most in-shape and well rounded athletes ever.”
I agree with her.
“They are, like, so tough”.
She yanks away another section of hair. I breathe in slowly through my teeth making a low hissing sound. My eyes water. I recall the UFC fights that I’ve seen in the past. Those fighters get so beat up: their eyes swell shut from being hit, they bleed from their skin being split open, bones are broken, ribs are kneed in, and egos are fed. But I cannot think of a single UFC fighter, in any weight category, that would willingly have the hair from their genitals torn from their body using hot wax and NOT cry like a little baby. These Ultimate Fighters would not be so ultimate after a little genital hair pulling. I am lying here, spread apart on this table inviting a stranger to tear the hair away from my lady parts in a violent display of esthetical practice. This makes me tougher than a UFC fighter, hands down.
The young woman pulls her last piece and this time, I don’t even move.
“Okay you’re done. Was that so bad?
“Nope. Piece of cake.”
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Running Your Mouth“I have to tell you something and you’re not going to like it” she says to me.
Thirty minutes prior, I was chatting with a co-worker about how she had seen had seen me running along the sidewalk that afternoon. “Really moving” were the words she used to describe my pace when she saw me. Two hours before that I was purchasing a forty dollar running hat designed for frosty outdoor running and one month ago, I started running every morning. I am getting more and more serious about it the further I run. I eat healthier, I drink more water, I can fit into clothes that I have been unable to bring myself to even look at before I started. I am not “obviously” in shape: I am not lean, I do not have a six pack, and I do not buy one hundred and thirty dollar pieces of running attire. But I do look strong, I do have large, muscular thighs and I can run five kilometres without breaking stride.
“I have to tell you something and you’re not going to like it” she says to me.
I can feel a difference in my body when I don’t run. My muscles are going through withdrawal and running is my fix. I am addicted. I don’t see distances in kilometres anymore, I measure distances in length of songs: I clock my run according to the songs on my Ipod. I could do eight hours of homework or work a double shift at work but I don’t feel as productive as I do when I know that I have run.
Thirty minutes prior, I was chatting with a co-worker about how she had seen had seen me running along the sidewalk that afternoon. “Really moving” were the words she used to describe my pace when she saw me. Two hours before that I was purchasing a forty dollar running hat designed for frosty outdoor running and one month ago, I started running every morning. I am getting more and more serious about it the further I run. I eat healthier, I drink more water, I can fit into clothes that I have been unable to bring myself to even look at before I started. I am not “obviously” in shape: I am not lean, I do not have a six pack, and I do not buy one hundred and thirty dollar pieces of running attire. But I do look strong, I do have large, muscular thighs and I can run five kilometres without breaking stride.
“I have to tell you something and you’re not going to like it” she says to me.
I can feel a difference in my body when I don’t run. My muscles are going through withdrawal and running is my fix. I am addicted. I don’t see distances in kilometres anymore, I measure distances in length of songs: I clock my run according to the songs on my Ipod. I could do eight hours of homework or work a double shift at work but I don’t feel as productive as I do when I know that I have run.
I finish my shift at the restaurant I work at and head to the change room. I did not have a good night: needy people and not enough tipping have put me in a less than thrilled mood. I am happy the change room is empty. I take my work pants off and fold them into my locker. The door squeaks and a co-worker walks in. I am still pant-less. She asks me how my night went. I just groan and mumble something about cheap people and karma; these are the only words we usually exchange, usually.
“I have to tell you something and you’re not going to like it” she says to me.
I turn to her, pant-less, and give a half smile. Then don’t tell me I think.
“Alright” I say hesitatingly.
“But you’re really not going to like it” she reiterates.
I get it. I’m not going to like it. But she says she has to tell me, so tell me. I wouldn’t want her losing any more precious sleep over this.
“It looks like you put on a little weight”.
I stare at her worn face, browned with cigarette smoke and sun damage. The silence is deafening. But she continues.
“And usually, if I am told that, I stay away from food”.
I have no pants on. This woman has impeccable timing. And still, she continues.
“And usually, you look really skinny. So I thought I would tell you.”
My ass is hanging out for the world to see and she chooses this moment to tell me that I have become the resident hippo. She could have waited until I was in a snowsuit or was wearing a garbage bag. I have never been skinny. Never. I don’t know what to say. I am stunned. I shift my stare between her and the dripping tap in this horrible yellow change room. My mind scans through all the kilometres I have covered. I think of all the mornings that I left my warm bed to run. I think of my skinny jeans. I think about how great I felt until this moment.
“Oh really? Is that so? Well I have some things to tell you and you’re not going to like them. Nobody likes you here. You’re incompetent and your half of a high school education shows all the time. You work here because you have to, you throw all your tips towards your addiction to alcohol, cigarettes and ONLY God know what else. Your breath always smells like you brushed your teeth with dog shit and your teeth look like you’ve gnawed on a piece of ash fault. You have a hunch. You drive a 1992 Areostar van with a breathalyser device in it and your face looks like mashed potatoes have come to life. I have actually lost five pounds you inconsiderate bitch. I have my whole life ahead of me. I win” is what I would have liked to say if my voice box and quick wit had not been disabled due to shock. Instead, I just stared.
“So, have a good weekend. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
I mumble and shuffle out of the way and she bounces past. I am alone, without a word to say, without my dignity, without my pants. I mechanically put on the rest of my clothes that feel unusually tight around my body. I leave the change room and head into the restaurant. I pass a few bubbly, skinny co-workers on my way out. It just aggravates me even more. I pass all the buns, butter and deep fried goodness that I have not eaten in over a month. No one knows this, obviously. I say my 'goodbyes' and plug my headphones into my ears for my five kilometre run home.
“I have to tell you something and you’re not going to like it” she says to me.
I turn to her, pant-less, and give a half smile. Then don’t tell me I think.
“Alright” I say hesitatingly.
“But you’re really not going to like it” she reiterates.
I get it. I’m not going to like it. But she says she has to tell me, so tell me. I wouldn’t want her losing any more precious sleep over this.
“It looks like you put on a little weight”.
I stare at her worn face, browned with cigarette smoke and sun damage. The silence is deafening. But she continues.
“And usually, if I am told that, I stay away from food”.
I have no pants on. This woman has impeccable timing. And still, she continues.
“And usually, you look really skinny. So I thought I would tell you.”
My ass is hanging out for the world to see and she chooses this moment to tell me that I have become the resident hippo. She could have waited until I was in a snowsuit or was wearing a garbage bag. I have never been skinny. Never. I don’t know what to say. I am stunned. I shift my stare between her and the dripping tap in this horrible yellow change room. My mind scans through all the kilometres I have covered. I think of all the mornings that I left my warm bed to run. I think of my skinny jeans. I think about how great I felt until this moment.
“Oh really? Is that so? Well I have some things to tell you and you’re not going to like them. Nobody likes you here. You’re incompetent and your half of a high school education shows all the time. You work here because you have to, you throw all your tips towards your addiction to alcohol, cigarettes and ONLY God know what else. Your breath always smells like you brushed your teeth with dog shit and your teeth look like you’ve gnawed on a piece of ash fault. You have a hunch. You drive a 1992 Areostar van with a breathalyser device in it and your face looks like mashed potatoes have come to life. I have actually lost five pounds you inconsiderate bitch. I have my whole life ahead of me. I win” is what I would have liked to say if my voice box and quick wit had not been disabled due to shock. Instead, I just stared.
“So, have a good weekend. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
I mumble and shuffle out of the way and she bounces past. I am alone, without a word to say, without my dignity, without my pants. I mechanically put on the rest of my clothes that feel unusually tight around my body. I leave the change room and head into the restaurant. I pass a few bubbly, skinny co-workers on my way out. It just aggravates me even more. I pass all the buns, butter and deep fried goodness that I have not eaten in over a month. No one knows this, obviously. I say my 'goodbyes' and plug my headphones into my ears for my five kilometre run home.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Private Caller
It made me nervous when the words “private caller” show up across my call display screen. I pay good money to see who is calling me and I hate it when this happens. I clear my throat.
“Hello?”
“Who is this?”
It is woman’s voice on the other end and the question caught me off guard.
“Who is this? Who are you looking talk to?” I ask in my best ‘trying hard not to be rude voice’ despite being instantaneously defensive.
“I want to talk to Alana, I want to know why her number is on a piece of paper in my boyfriends wallet?”
Oh, this is going to be good. But this girl seems to be holding back a massive bitch sesh so I pried a little more.
“I’m Alana. Who is your boyfriend? What’s his name?”
Maybe I had given him my number, but I never do that so maybe I knew him from work or it was the group-project number exchange process that happens in a class.
“His name is Josh. Why would he have your number?
He voice is sharp getting pushy. My brow furrows and press the phone harder to my ear.
“I don’t know really. I don’t know a Josh.” I want to hang up.
“He works at the car dealership downtown”
She was getting desperate and I was feeling creative.
“Like I said, I don’t know a Josh.” I'm shurgging even though this girl can't see me.
I spoke very slowly and with a condescending tone. Does this girl think I gave my number to her boyfriend at a bar? She must already think that we’re sleeping together and have more than once. She has probably cried about it already as she felt the world around her fall to pieces when she found my name and number on a piece of paper in his wallet. She may have had a internal battle of trust verses instinct that eventually made her call these adulterous didgits.
“Okay well, I found your number in his wallet, and something like this happened before and I just want to know why it’s here.” Her voice started to lose its potency and it was quickly shifting to choked up with side of tears.
Then it dawned on me. I was looking for a sub-let for my apartment. I had given my number to a friend to pass it on to someone that may have been interested. What a disaster this has turned into. But this girl had guts. I don’t think I would have called to confront the mistress over the phone. I answered quickly.
“Ohhhhhh! I am looking for someone to sub-let my apartment and one of my friends gave it to one of her friends because, I guess, he is looking for a place for the summer?”
I hoped that I didn’t foil his master ‘break-up’ plan where my apartment was his way out of a relationship with this girl.
“Oh. Okay you swear that that’s the reason?”
Gutsy but dumb. My god, I gave her too much credit. I’m sure I could have sexed this guy two ways from Sunday and only had to “pinky swear” to her that nothing had happened and she would have gone on her marry way.
“Um, yeah. I swear.”
I wasn’t having fun anymore; this conversation lost its lustre. Her sigh of relief was piercing.
“Wow. Okay. Sorry about this. It’s just I was worried that he was doing something very similar to the last time I found a girls number in his wallet. I was really worried.”
Okay, that sealed it for me. She is an idiot. For a split second I think of telling her to leave this chump because he is a lying son-of-a-bitch. I want to scream at her through the phone ONCE A CHEATER ALWAYS A CHEATER and that she should never have taken him back after the first place. And the next time she finds a number in his wallet won’t be because of a legit reason, it will be because he is cheating on her...again. I get the impression she was going to discuss this interaction with him later that day. I would then become another excuse for him to use the next time he leaves to sex up someone else. I can see the conversation unfold:
“Oh honey, don’t worry! That’s the number of a perspective sub-let. You worry too much.”
He is going to play her for the fool over and over. And she is too weak to let him go. But I was about to let her go.
“Okay, well, innocent mix up. Good luck with everything.” And I hang up. These kinds of girls really really grind my gears. More than not being able to tell when they're calling.
It made me nervous when the words “private caller” show up across my call display screen. I pay good money to see who is calling me and I hate it when this happens. I clear my throat.
“Hello?”
“Who is this?”
It is woman’s voice on the other end and the question caught me off guard.
“Who is this? Who are you looking talk to?” I ask in my best ‘trying hard not to be rude voice’ despite being instantaneously defensive.
“I want to talk to Alana, I want to know why her number is on a piece of paper in my boyfriends wallet?”
Oh, this is going to be good. But this girl seems to be holding back a massive bitch sesh so I pried a little more.
“I’m Alana. Who is your boyfriend? What’s his name?”
Maybe I had given him my number, but I never do that so maybe I knew him from work or it was the group-project number exchange process that happens in a class.
“His name is Josh. Why would he have your number?
He voice is sharp getting pushy. My brow furrows and press the phone harder to my ear.
“I don’t know really. I don’t know a Josh.” I want to hang up.
“He works at the car dealership downtown”
She was getting desperate and I was feeling creative.
“Like I said, I don’t know a Josh.” I'm shurgging even though this girl can't see me.
I spoke very slowly and with a condescending tone. Does this girl think I gave my number to her boyfriend at a bar? She must already think that we’re sleeping together and have more than once. She has probably cried about it already as she felt the world around her fall to pieces when she found my name and number on a piece of paper in his wallet. She may have had a internal battle of trust verses instinct that eventually made her call these adulterous didgits.
“Okay well, I found your number in his wallet, and something like this happened before and I just want to know why it’s here.” Her voice started to lose its potency and it was quickly shifting to choked up with side of tears.
Then it dawned on me. I was looking for a sub-let for my apartment. I had given my number to a friend to pass it on to someone that may have been interested. What a disaster this has turned into. But this girl had guts. I don’t think I would have called to confront the mistress over the phone. I answered quickly.
“Ohhhhhh! I am looking for someone to sub-let my apartment and one of my friends gave it to one of her friends because, I guess, he is looking for a place for the summer?”
I hoped that I didn’t foil his master ‘break-up’ plan where my apartment was his way out of a relationship with this girl.
“Oh. Okay you swear that that’s the reason?”
Gutsy but dumb. My god, I gave her too much credit. I’m sure I could have sexed this guy two ways from Sunday and only had to “pinky swear” to her that nothing had happened and she would have gone on her marry way.
“Um, yeah. I swear.”
I wasn’t having fun anymore; this conversation lost its lustre. Her sigh of relief was piercing.
“Wow. Okay. Sorry about this. It’s just I was worried that he was doing something very similar to the last time I found a girls number in his wallet. I was really worried.”
Okay, that sealed it for me. She is an idiot. For a split second I think of telling her to leave this chump because he is a lying son-of-a-bitch. I want to scream at her through the phone ONCE A CHEATER ALWAYS A CHEATER and that she should never have taken him back after the first place. And the next time she finds a number in his wallet won’t be because of a legit reason, it will be because he is cheating on her...again. I get the impression she was going to discuss this interaction with him later that day. I would then become another excuse for him to use the next time he leaves to sex up someone else. I can see the conversation unfold:
“Oh honey, don’t worry! That’s the number of a perspective sub-let. You worry too much.”
He is going to play her for the fool over and over. And she is too weak to let him go. But I was about to let her go.
“Okay, well, innocent mix up. Good luck with everything.” And I hang up. These kinds of girls really really grind my gears. More than not being able to tell when they're calling.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
And It Starts...
I don’t know anyone in my early morning class. Not a soul. This is also the first time I haven’t known anyone since my first day of my first year. And even that time I knew someone from my residence floor. I have my headphones in. I have my music on. I have my coffee. I have some serious time to kill. I went to class early and I shouldn’t have, nor ever will again. Now, I am the friendless, eager-beaver waiting outside the locked door of her 8:30 am class. No one is around to see this sad, state of affairs that I am in. And if there were, I probably wouldn’t know them. Down the hallway I can hear voices, two young women that I am yet to see. I hear them interrupt each other and talk over each other as they get closer. Then one girl pipes up:
“So I think that all the people in my other class are waaaaaay older, like, older-older, like 25 older”
I was 25. I was older. But what constitutes older-older? Does this “term” apply to me to? I didn’t know what to think. I heard the words, they struck a chord with me, and the only thing that I did was smirk. A gigantic smirk-smile spread wide across my face; a smirk that blended shock and slight annoyance through clenched teeth. I am that older student that this young girl was talking about. I don’t think 25 years of age is old let alone old-old, and being old-old sounds OLD. I stood there smiling as these young fillies’s rounded the corner. They stopped when they saw me standing there. They gave me weird look and then started giggling to each other. I didn’t get it. Was my 25 year-oldness showing? I then realized that I was still smiling, at them, in a room that moments ago had no one in it. Now, not only was I, friendless, early and part of the “old” category of students, I was the weird girl who smiles in empty rooms. Awesome.
“So I think that all the people in my other class are waaaaaay older, like, older-older, like 25 older”
I was 25. I was older. But what constitutes older-older? Does this “term” apply to me to? I didn’t know what to think. I heard the words, they struck a chord with me, and the only thing that I did was smirk. A gigantic smirk-smile spread wide across my face; a smirk that blended shock and slight annoyance through clenched teeth. I am that older student that this young girl was talking about. I don’t think 25 years of age is old let alone old-old, and being old-old sounds OLD. I stood there smiling as these young fillies’s rounded the corner. They stopped when they saw me standing there. They gave me weird look and then started giggling to each other. I didn’t get it. Was my 25 year-oldness showing? I then realized that I was still smiling, at them, in a room that moments ago had no one in it. Now, not only was I, friendless, early and part of the “old” category of students, I was the weird girl who smiles in empty rooms. Awesome.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Just checking
This is trial post, like the mic check at a concert. Check, check one, check, check....
More later
More later
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