I’ve spent nearly all of the day doing the pattern-making, cutting and pressing part of a set of complicated appliqués. The pressing part is fun because it looks so close to finished when I put it all together, even though there’s still a lot to do. It’s tempting to keep going with four out of twelve pressed, but I’m going to take the fact that the sound on Netflix has stopped working as a sign that it’s time to stop.
Thus ends another forty-eight hours to myself, and again tomorrow I will sit in my little grey-walled box and listen—whether I like it or not—to Diana Moon Glampers describe to me what she’s wearing, how it all matches, where it hangs in her closet and the thought process behind every teensy color-coordinated piece of plastic she’s adorned herself with (and I am supposed to believe, as she does, that these thought processes are all her own and not semi-subconsciously absorbed from a T.J. Maxx ad).
I guess it’s a positive sign that I have enough energy to be annoyed with her again—I honestly can’t tell if she spouts more of this kind of crap when she’s feeling a certain way, or if she’s been doing it all along and I’ve just been too screwed up for the past nine months for this nattering to bother me. Or maybe teaching me how to do things has taken up more of her energy and now that I don’t have to ask her a question every forty seconds, her thoughts are clear enough again to think about who should and should not be wearing crop tops when the weather gets warmer. Passing competency, it seems, does have its drawbacks.
Closing note: each appliqué has 58 small pieces, 29 of which are tiny little dots. Each piece will be satin-stitched down. This means satin-stitching 696 little fabric pieces, and 348 tiny little dots. And this time-consuming, tedious, no doubt madness-inducing work is what I will dream about this week while I am drafting motions, summonses, citations, and the occasional benign cover letter.
Tonight after class I tried to interact with people and was reminded of how awkward I feel even when I’m potentially not doing anything objectionable at all. Sometimes when I talk to people or try to join a conversation I feel like I’m a stranger inviting myself to a party and am breaking some sacred social construct. Like, I think I would actually feel more comfortable if we did things like formally invite people into conversations, so that I’d know whether or not I’m welcome. Like, someone would say something like “What-ho, good Miss, these fine persons and myself are discoursing on pictorial adventure stories. Would you care to enter our parlay?” And then I could say “Oh, jolly good, do you speak of those printed on pulped wood sheets, or of the flicker-light-and-shadow-theatrics? I’m more well-versed in the latter. Have you seen the comical short in which a small-legged beast dives ineptly into a lake? Here, let me show you on my small flicker device. Jolly funny!” And then at some point we’d go all informal and start calling each other “thou.”
Right now I’m feeling like everything I said was stupid or boorish or self-centered in some way.
Maybe it’s time for bed.
Is 5’4” really that short? What about 5’5” and 5’6”? 5’3” seems short, but 5’4” doesn’t. I have no concept of what it’s like to be 5’4”, and I don’t think I know anyone who is 5’4”. ….Maybe I’ll wander into retail tomorrow and ask if anyone is 5’4”. I think my mum is 5’5” or 5’6”, and she’s pretty…
I don’t think it’s short, but I’m 5’0”. I’ve gotten used to the fact that I will almost never be taller than another adult. At 30, I also have yet to grasp that “taller than me” no longer means “older and wiser.” Case in point: I have a date with a very tall person who I thought was at least my age but I now suspect is a whopping eight years younger than me. This rencontre has not yet been set in stone, but I think I’ll let it happen because at the very least it’s bound to be hilariously uncomfortable and will give us both a story to tell to people neither one of us will ever meet.
Nah, man. You gotta look back ‘cause sometimes you’ve got to remember whether you took a left or a right in order to orient yourself properly. I mean, it’s not safe to move forward without keeping your eyes on the road, but you’re gonna have to pull over sometime to take a break, rest, refuel, plan the next leg of your road trip. And when you do stop for the night, you’re going to want to be able to look back on where you’ve been and what you’ve seen and who you met (and passed or invited along for the ride) and why you left wherever you were. Y’know? ‘Cause if you don’t look back? You’re gonna forget why there’s a place and time to look back on, points in your life that you’ve moved on from (whether by choice or unfortunate circumstance, controlled or uncontrolled). And if you don’t look back, you’re gonna forget that pothole you hit last time you drove through this town, and instead of calmly steering around it, you’re gonna end up either swerving frantically to miss it or completely fucking your alignment when you hit it at full speed.
Don’t dwell, don’t stew, but don’t forget that the “back” you’re not heading towards is also where all of your lessons were at least started if not learned. And right now is going to eventually be “back”, and this very moment, you reading a stranger’s ramble on the internet, could be one of those lessons.
Meighan, I love it when you smack simplistic inspirational quotes into absolutely sensical reality.
(Source: thedailypozitive, via therealmeighan)
Getting my revenge on whoever decided to make pancakes at 2:00 a.m. last night when I woke up starving. I wanted to follow my nose and demand for said cruel and genius individual to feed me. Especially since it seemed like too much work to make them myself at 2:00 a.m.
Revenge in the sense that I smelled pancakes and was ravenous and wanted them but couldn’t have them, and now I’m making them and so the scent is wafting down to wherever it wafted up or over from, and now the 2:00 a.m. Pancake Sniper (presumably having been drunk at 2:00 a.m.) is waking up hung-over, with a terrible craving for pancakes and discovering that all their pancake-making tools are still dirty from their wee-hours craving.
Except we live right next to Ann Sather, so it’s not really revenge. It’s more like a win for everyone, including Ann Sather.
Adult gummy vitamins: they may all taste like the special white shark gummies from the shark gummy snacks, but they are also helping maintain my bone density!
I saw one of those little memes on Facebook the other day—it was a photo of the Chicago skyline, and the text read: “CHICAGO: COME FOR THE FOOD, STAY BECAUSE YOU GOT MURDERED.”
I was so shocked that I couldn’t laugh. I mean, I suppressed some laughter, but it was the nervous, uncomfortable kind—not even the kind you get when you’re watching “Family Guy” and the jokes are walking that razor’s edge.
Emotions are really weird things. When you’re learning about happy faces and sad faces in Small Child School, it’s a pretty straightforward thing. Happy=smile. Funny=laugh. Cry=sad. So it’s pretty confusing when your friend knocks on your door one morning and tells you the old lady down the street died, and your first impulse is to laugh, but it’s not because you’re happy or because someone made a joke, and you’re supposed to cry and this is definitely the wrong response. It doesn’t occur to you until maybe 23 years later that you started to laugh because you were scared. It will take three separate heartbreaks for you to realize that you cry more when you’re angry than when you’re sad, and at this point, looking back over all the times you’ve cried angry tears without being able to realize it will be staggering.
I was going to say that I’ve added one more thing to my very short list of things I can’t laugh at, but I guess given the above, this isn’t quite true. I don’t find them funny. I found this supremely unfunny, when a year ago I probably would have. I have even made jokes in my head that were so bleak and cruel that someone else would probably hate me if I told them. But this one just kind of dropped me. I guess it’s too true and scary to be funny.
While I recognize that if the CO levels in my apartment were dangerous, my magical beeping box would be doing its thing and I also would not have the capacity to decide to finish reading “Geek Love” instead of going immediately to sleep (although it’s all I’ve been thinking about all day long), I’m still jumpy, so I’m going to read “Geek Love” until I can’t stay awake anymore.
Katherine Dunn makes David Mitchell look like Nicholas Sparks. She makes Audrey Niffenegger look like Emily Giffin.
Fun note: those battery backup features on CO detectors aren’t just in case the power goes out. They’re also for when it goes off at 4:30 a.m. and you went to bed at midnight, and the first thing you do is unplug it to make the noise stop. It is so that you don’t say to yourself, “Well, I can’t smell anything, everything seems fine, I’ll just go back to sleep.” It’s so that it keeps beeping even after you’ve unplugged it. It’s so that after you’ve unplugged it and pushed the button to silence it, it will keep going off every few minutes until Wilford Brimley and the Firemen come to your aid.
All I can think about is bed.