'Lame' is my middle name

I just turned down an invitation to a social gathering because, ahem, "I'm already in my PJs."

Sweet Jesus. I am eighty years old.

Hello.

Maybe I am dead. Because this is the first substantial stretch of time during the five years this blog has existed that there's been nothing going on that I absolutely had to write about, even though there's been plenty going on. It proves, at least for me, that blogging is strongly habitual and that if you truly devote yourself to the laziness within, it can overcome anything.

All kidding aside, I've been a lazy piece of shit since getting back from vacation. I always go through post-vacation depression. Always. I think this particular bout of nonsense has been compounded by the fact that I was mind-numbingly busy from mid-April until just this past weekend. I like being busy but once the work/play obligations clear up, it's like coming down off of a drug. There's withdrawal then recalibration. And in between there is a lot of crap food and a lack of exercising. Cue the self-esteem issues, and we've gotten ourselves into a lovely little circular rut.

I realized today while transferring important dates from my 2007 calendar to my new 2008 calendar (yes, I said new; I suck at life and just now got one AND it cost me $6.50!) that the cats were born on April 20, not April 11 like I thought a month ago. I suppose it doesn't matter anyway, but you'd think I would be able to remember that they were born on 4/20. You'd think...

The morning-after pill

I saw the sun rise this morning and not on purpose. It just kind of happened when I neglected to go to bed last night and instead sat out on my balcony with Sarah and Rebecca, eating brie and blabbing about who knows what, and thinking a little too hard about the stuff I always think too hard about, which means I woke up kind of sad this morning and have spent most of the day lying in bed with the cats. The windows are open and we've all been just lying in the sunlight, smelling the breeze, and listening to soccer practice in the field next door.

Tequila makes me crazier, I think, than I already am. If that's possible. When will they invent a pill that will eradicate the worry and shame you feel the day after you've christened spring with tequila and an apartment full of friends and, at one point, ceremoniously tromped through your living room, asking loudly if anyone's ever, um, lost a tampon? Because I need a whole crate of those pills.

The past few days have been pretty intense. I've barely had time to stop and breathe, but I seem to be happier when I'm busy. Sarah stayed with me for a couple of days and kept me entertained, and Fritz and his Fuckleberry Hound have been in town to visit and we've laughed and laughed at so many inappropriate jokes.

I'm amazed at how many ridiculously funny people I know. Having an apartment full of them makes me get all corny and sentimental. Oh my god, I am such a girl.

It's kind of a bummer that the apartment is empty now, but, well ... shit.

I'm new here ... and by 'here' I mean 'to Earth'

[Scene: Walking through the courtyard into work, passing someone leaving the building.]

Cheery co-worker: Hi, how are you?
Me, smiling: Good, how are you?
Cheery co-worker: Beautiful day!
Me, smiling: You too!

Noooooooooooooo!

I knew it was coming. But, man, I held out an irrational hope that it wouldn't actually happen. And like all irrational hopes, this one was dashed. Dashed!
So, my downstairs neighbors are relocating to another unit in the building because they recently had a baby and it's damned hard to survive with a newborn in a one-bedroom apartment. From what I understand of the parenting world, you need a spare room to occasionally lock yourself inside and scream. Or maybe you lock the baby in there and let it scream. Whatever. Specifics. I don't care for them that much.

Anyhoo, so the neighbors are moving. This is great news for me — not because I don't like them or anything — but because it lets me off the hook for the middle-of-the-night shenanigans that invariably happen in this apartment thanks to my odd work schedule and my cats' insistence upon playing hyper-tag every morning at 3 a.m. So I've been reveling in my ability to walk around without tiptoeing and I've even let my cats wrassle at midnight without spitting profanities at them. It's been great!

Er, was great, until my former neighbor reminded me the other day that their moving also means the cable will be transferred to their new apartment. Which means no cable for me. Perhaps you remember this incident, in which I tried to get cable, but couldn't. The neighbors, a few weeks after I tried in vain to get my own cable, graciously offered to share theirs with me. Which I'm pretty sure is only illegal in communist China, because I TRIED to pay for cable and was told by the cable dudes themselves that it wasn't going to be worth the wait. So for the past two years I've been sharing cable with the neighbors and now they're gone and *poof* so is the cable.

This would be a lot more palatable if my remote worked and I could at least use my DVD player. I've got Netflix envelopes stacking up and a ton of movies/TV show DVDs I could watch. But no. My TV is stuck in cable mode. I guess I need to hunt for a universal remote.

In the meantime, this means no more VH1 countdown shows, no more hilarious rape-themed movies on Lifetime, no more over-wrought episodes of CSI, no more Paranormal State, no more 13-hour ANTM marathons that render me unable to move, no more Real World/Road Rules challenges, no more INFOMERCIALS. You may think I'm better off for it, and you may be right, BUT YOU'RE WRONG. Cable makes me what I am. It connects me to the rest of humanity's lazy contingent. It gives me ideas and pisses me off. Cable is life.

Ha! I'm kidding. I know plenty of people who survive and even thrive with no cable. Hell, I've gone through periods without cable. That summer in Birmingham, the first several months I lived here, the first few months I lived on my own in M'boro, many many months during my formative years (although we did have illegal satellite for a time when I was a pre-teen). I can do it. I can do it.

I just don't want to.

More excited than is probably necessary

I just found $4.50 in my pants pocket and acted like I'd won the lottery.

Life inside the music box ain't easy

Photo by IndieRockLance

Regina Spektor is brilliant and funny and she made me cry. But that could have been the wine.

The show was really great. Packed house, despite this being her third attempt to play the Ryman this tour (both previous shows were canceled due to her inner-ear infection). The crowd loved her. She was wearing this ridiculous silver ruffled dress that made me think of a clogger. Everyone but me (but I?) had a camera, including two girls behind me who, for some idiot reason, didn't think to turn the beep-boop-boop-beep sound effects off so that every time they snapped a picture — which was constantly — Kristin and I were ready to start ripping up pews and throwing them. Okay, maybe that was just me. Note to aspiring concert photographers: TURN THE SOUND ON YOUR CAMERAS OFF, JACKASSES.

No matter, it was still fantastic. To think her voice sounds just as amazing in person as it does on her albums kind of blows my mind. I mean, she has a transcendent voice. And I love that she can be silly and unself-conscious about how she sings, throwing in percussive beats and random syllables and heavy breathing and funny pronunciations for effect. (And, during "The Ghost of Corporate Future," during the lyric about never watching the 10 o'clock news, she ad-libbed, "especially Fox," which got a good chuckle from the pinko commies in the crowd.) Pretty mesmerizing.

Even her opening act was awesome. My spies tell me that she and Only Son are a bit of an item, so it was neat to see him come back out and do "Hotel" with her doing the encore. I love me some skinny white boys beat-boxing. His solo act was good, too, though. He riffed on Elvis Priestly and Jimmie Cash, and said he was going to do right by the Ryman's history and play along to his iPod, which he did. Kristin and I agreed that there was something distinctly Flight of the Conchords about that. And we laughed and laughed when he and the iPod talked to each other. Good times.

Bonus friend-spotting action: Jeremy and Krissi and Maddie (whom I'd never met before) came into the Brewery while we were getting dinner, and waved right at me, and I saw them waving, but here's what my brain decided for me: There is a group of slightly silhouetted people waving in this general direction. Based on previous experience, when you have waved back only to realize that the people are, in fact, not waving at you and you have disgusted and amused them by waving back, you moron, I would advise that you play it cool and keep your hands on the table. Which means Jeremy had to walk over and practically knock me in the head with a barstool to get my attention. So they pulled up chairs and we all got to get drinks and dinner together before the show. LIKE WE PLANNED IT. People from the Dirty South stick together.

What a difference a decade and a half can make

I'm at my parents' house. All evening we've been watching old home videos that I coaxed my brother to get out of the safe. So far we've covered 1992 and 1993. I have been rolling in the floor laughing until I couldn't breathe and tears streamed down my face. There is a Fourth of July clip in which all you can see is some fireworks going off in the yard and our stupid fire-eating dog Bo trying his best to knock them over, while all you can hear is everyone in the family taking turns screaming "Bo! BO! BO BO BO BO BO!!!" at the top of their lungs. I lose my shit when my brother, who was five at the time, screams at that dog repeatedly in his little five-year-old way. He was such a ridiculously cute and precocious kid. Funny that when I was eleven, he didn't seem nearly as cute. In fact, I spend much of my time on film screaming at him and acting like a general ass. Especially when we're flying kites and I can't get mine to take off. I sit on the ground and pout, claiming that my kite and only my kite is a dud. Boo frickin' hoo, chump. Jesus!

You know, I always wondered why boys never liked me in elementary and middle school. Now that I have some distance and perspective, I understand with complete and absolute clarity and don't blame any of my childhood crushes for thinking I had cooties. Oh lord, the high waistlines, the poofy bangs, the headbands, the white Keds, the wedgies, the goofy teeth, the flat butt, the spandex, the sweater vests, the puffy paint and glitter, the drawl, the bark laugh, the stupid jokes. Yikes.

Why my parents weren't constantly smacking me around for being an ass, I'll never know.

Update, 12:46 a.m.



You have not lived until you have seen my mother and me cover "I Saw The Light" -- that wholesome ditty about adultery by Wynonna Judd -- in our matching white T-shirts crowned with hot pink bandannas, bejeweling, and fringe. And matching white Keds.

Have. Not. Lived.

I have a master's

What the sign actually said: "We offer a degree in public administration."

What I read: "We offer a degree in public humiliation."

Adulthood

The worst part about being a grownup has got to be the paperwork. A constant stream of it, coming from store clerks and bank tellers and the mailman, pouring in, day after day, filling every pocket, every purse, every drawer, every shelf — paper everywhere.

And I've even opted in to paperless billing and opted out of credit-card offers and whatnot. Still, the stuff overwhelms me.

I had a frantic ten minutes today when I realized I'd forgotten to pay my student loan yesterday, and ripped around the apartment, looking for the current statement or an old statement — any freaking statement — so I could call and make my payment over the phone. (My particular loan cannot be paid online, which is so stupid I can hardly stand it.) I pilfered through drawer after drawer and stack after stack and couldn't put my hands on a single old statement, even though I know I've saved lots.

(Those of you readying lectures in your head about how I need to have that information organized and/or written down in an easily accessible place can just feel bask in the notion that you are a better adult than I am. I'm not ashamed.)

Finally, after making up roughly seven new curse words and squawking them all, I found a statement from November under the tray on my coffee table. I made the call, paid the bill, and then cut out the account number and taped it to the fridge. Because that's the only fucking way I will not lose it again.

I surveyed the paper carnage left in the wake of my hissy fit, and decided it was time to get rid of some shit. And how cathartic it is to excavate drawers full of old bills and statements and mail not even meant for you, and stand there, ripping each and every piece of piece of paper and tossing it to the ground in a symbolic fuck-you to the clutter of meticulously documented adulthood.

Granted, I probably didn't rip diligently enough to thwart the identity thieves who pilfer through our dumpster every week, but, luckily, I have a very professional shredder on retainer.

I have been living alone for way too long

Actual conversation that just occurred between me and my cats as I arrived home from work:

Cats: Meow!

Me: Oh my god, kitties, it is cold as balls outside! Do you know how cold that is?

Cats: Meow!

Me: Actually, balls aren't cold at all.

Cats: Meow!

Me: It's a figure of speech.

Say hello to my little friend

Ain't it cute? Black with tan interior. Rockin' stereo system. Excellent visibility. Plush interior for an entry-level car. Smooth ride. Shiny as shit. (For now.)

We need to get a room. I'll admit it. Because we're in love. And I can't stop gushing. It's embarrassing.

And let me just tell you how stupid in love I am with this car. Actually, love has nothing to do with it. I'm just stupid. Tonight at about 9, I was headed north on Cooper, toward my apartment, when a big police Suburban flashes his lights at me and pulls me over just past Union and Cooper.

Shit, I'm thinking, I was going the speed limit! WTF!!! My insurance already went up the moment I bought this! Now this?! What did I do?!

Dude asks for my driver's license, and asks me what kind of car I'm driving. I explain, and say, "I just bought it today and I'm still learning how to use it!"

"Obviously," he says, "since you were driving without any lights on."

Oooooh, right. I'm not used to a car that doesn't have daylight running lamps. Thankfully, he let my idiot ass go. And from now on I promise to remember to turn on my headlights.

100 more things

I haven't updated my self-indulgent 100 Things list in a long time. So long that several of those things aren't true anymore.

So, because I'm bored and trying to kill time in ways that don't involve television (but are admittedly just as stupid and pointless), here's a new 100 Things list. I'm not even kidding when I say that I started making this list more than a year ago, forgot about it, added to it, forgot about it, etc., until just now, when I found it and decided to plug in the last few and slap it up.

1. I wear the same Doc Martens I've worn since 8th grade. Which, if I'm doing the math right (which I'm probably not; see No. 90), means they have cost me less than 2 cents a day.
2. When I type, my pinky fingers stick out to the side.
3. One time at band camp, a fellow trombonist and I did a rain dance and it actually ended up raining.
4. Yeah, I played trombone in band. Shut up.
5. It gives me a little thrill when I notice "open" signs left on in businesses that are, in fact, closed.
6. When I had braces, I color coordinated the bands to correspond with seasons and holidays (red and green for xmas, orange and black for halloween, red, white and blue for July 4, etc.).
7. The first concert I ever saw (not counting ones involuntarily witnessed at the Mid-South rodeo) was Weezer at 328 in Nashville.
8. My entire family insisted on driving my then-boyfriend and me up to the event and making the weekend of it.
9. I guess I can understand; I was only 14.
10. I went to the high school prom three times -- twice with the same guy.
11. The worst prom I went to happened to be my own.
12. I wore fake nails to the first two proms.
13. I spent many hours during high school working in my parents' video store.
14. I pretty much ran that place.
15. I have an irrational fear of dropping my keys down the elevator shaft at work.
16. I tend to have lascivious dreams when I nap.
17. I was once interviewed for a San Francisco Examiner story about people who hate Star Wars.
18. I worry about the day that my nephews will stop thinking I am fun to hang out with.
19. I also worry about their awkward teenage years, which are just beginning, because I know how much those years can SUCK and give you neurotic tendencies.
20. My wine habit stays manageable only because I refuse to buy bottles that cost more than $15 unless it's a special occasion.
21. Sometimes I pick up things off the floor with my feet.
22. I figure by the time I die I will have spent roughly 33 percent of my life rummaging through my purse.
23. Memphis has finally started to feel like home, although I still can't shake the wanderlust lurking in me.
24. All my life, people have wanted to call me "Leslie."
25. I don't like spicy food.
26. Or most seafood.
27. Despite my self-deprecating protests to the contrary, I am actually pretty good with kids.
28. That doesn't mean I feel qualified to have any of my own.
29. I don't balance my checkbook. Ever.
30. It boggles my mind that anyone reads the crap on this blog.
31. I talk to my cats in complete sentences.
32. And lots of curse words.
33. I dread the day Felix gets sick.
34. I miss Gonzo.
35. My nails look nice when they are painted.
36. I absolutely hate hanging up clothes.
37. It is physically, emotionally, and psychologically impossible for me to de-clutter my life.
38. I think I'd like the gym better if there weren't mirrors everyfreakingwhere.
39. The car is pretty much the only place I sing at the top of my lungs.
40. I have an unfortunately nasally, monotone voice.
41. And sometimes I bark when I laugh.
42. I have not yet explained my complicated lack of religious beliefs to my parents.
43. That would probably introduce a whole new era of weirdness into my family relations that I'd rather avoid, because I get along with the family for the most part.
44. It makes me uncomfortable when people witness to me.
45. I often wonder how I went from being The Quiet One to being The Obnoxious Profane One in so many different settings.
46. I wish I could dance, or that I had any desire to do so.
47. One of my pet peeves is when people don't use "myriad" correctly.
48. I have never fainted.
49. I like to eat ice cream and cereal out of cups.
50. My brother is such a stud it kind of makes me jealous that he is able to attract all these cute young ladies, while I have absolutely no game and couldn't attract a cluster of flies even if I had a rotting piece of meat strapped to my chest.
51. I worry about the day I will have to take care of my parents.
52. There is no way I can return all the favors they've done for me over my lifetime.
53. Every day I fret over my Next Move.
54. The one thing keeping me from going back to school is going deeper into debt.
55. I am straight, but I'd go gay for Regina Spektor, Jessica Alba, and Laura Prepon.
56. I used to think I was not a beach person, but spending a week in Honolulu convinced me that I could absolutely work at it.
57. Part of my super secret five-year plan is to ease my way into a job that includes mostly daytime hours.
58. I downloaded my first ringtone in September.
59. I did not see what all the fuss was about.
60. I have lens lust and no money with which to feed it.
61. My biggest weakness in the world is wine and cheese.
63. One of these days I hope to host legendary wine and cheese parties. Because I'm a friggin' dork.
64. I love my Mac, but I am not in love with it.
65. I prefer my milk to be skim and my bread to be wheat.
66. One of my favorite smells is a wine glass after it's been emptied.
67. I look and feel better with a tan.
68. I sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I decided to move back to Saltillo or Savannah.
69. It would probably not be so bad, considering how cheap things are there and how easy it would be to rely on family.
70. My bones pop constantly. All of them. And many of them (wrists, jaw, neck, fingers, etc.) will pop on cue.
71. Others may suffer, but I like having coffee breath.
72. I want my parents to pay attention to their health and weight.
73. I still think they're both beautiful.
74. Quite foolishly, I feel like moving into a house would solve half my problems.
75. My sister helped me cheat in a church Easter egg hunt one year. She was old enough to hide and I was young enough to hunt, and she steered me in the right direction and I won lots of chocolate.
76. I can't remember if that was the same year she put a real egg in my grandmother's tailpipe or what.
77. That egg stunk for weeks.
78. I secretly hope that Tamara and I share a few strands of DNA.
79. That would explain a LOT.
80. I have no plans to attend any class reunions.
81. But what I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall to just watch.
82. And probably get really bored.
83. It took me 26 years but I finally understand that some pants just work better with a belt.
84. Seeing Amber twice a year is not enough.
85. I miss Tolstoy Tuesdays and think maybe we should pick them back up now and again.
86. I haven't written a poem in forever.
87. My first boyfriend wrote this in my yearbook the year he graduated and — two months after writing this — dumped my freshman ass in the aisle of a grocery store while he was working there: "Keep your head on your shoulders and your feet on the ground and you'll go places, kid."
88. I'm not sure any future kiss-off will ever top that.
89. I have lots of dreams, and I try to document them as often as possible.
90. Me and math, we don't get along.
91. I still think I'd like to be a teacher.
92. I really do like helping people learn things, and that moment when someone figures out something on his/her own is a cool feeling.
93. I eavesdrop on neighbors whenever I have the chance.
94. I cannot exercise without my iPod.
95. I love making mixed CDs for people.
96. There's not a day that passes that I don't wish I was a musician of some sort.
97. I'm okay with being a word person, though.
98. I tend to crop mugshots a little too tight.
99. I always turn down the stereo when approaching an intersection.
100. I squeeze from the middle of the toothpaste tube.

Off

Here I sit, trying to plug in my last two photos for Project 365, when I realize I'm a day off. I'm ending up with 364. Is this right? Then this project is horribly misnamed.

So off I go through the archives to see where I screwed up.

Ack!

Two weeks 'til Christmas, I've not yet started my shopping, I'm broke, etc.

Commence freakout now.

Just a girl

Every Saturday the paper runs an agate listing of all the marriage licenses obtained from the county that week. In today's paper (on B2, specifically), you'll be able to see that four 14-year-old girls are being married off to lads of ages varying from 19 to 25.

While I won't begrudge anyone her right to young love, I will just offer this (extraneous and unnecessary) proof that 14-year-olds aren't of sound mind to make such monumental life decisions:

When I was 14, I would sob and scream and throw an inconsolable fit when I had a bad hair day.

Well, that was pointless

I just drove 20 minutes in a hooptie with two mewling cats to the vet for booster shots, only to be informed when I got there that all the doctors had just left for their two-hour lunch breaks, and could I come back at 2?

Um, no.

Look, Universe, I know I'm not in charge, but that is some stupid shit. Make those doctors stagger their breaks, wouldja?

My car is now officially a hooptie

Actually, it only meets three of the criteria for hooptie-dom set forth by this reputable source. (Must open door at drive-thru because window won't roll down, blinkers won't work, and tape deck eats all tapes, for those of you keeping score at home.)

But tonight my car threw me for a loop. I was leaving work and noted how chilly and damp outside it was, and how the last time my window ever rolled down it was cold and snowing. So, just for fun, I pushed the "down" button. And sure enough, the window — which handn't budged in probably a year — began going down. And then I heard a crunch and a screech and all kinds of bad sounds as the window began rolling off the track and setting itself awkwardly and askew in the door.

I freaked out, of course, thinking the window was either going to fall out onto the street or shatter into a million pieces and send glass searing through my eyeballs and neck artery. Neither of those tings happened. I managed to keep it upright enough to not fall out as I made the drive to Phil's, where he helped me get it back on track and taped up so the cold and rain couldn't get in the crack.

This comes less exactly a week after I realized my passenger-side door no longer locks.

I am reluctantly placing myself in the market for a new car. Starting ... now.

Thinking

It's finally jacket weather. I don't know how long it will last, but I'm doing my best to savor every second of it before the requisite late-October-backlash, during which them temps will creep back up into the 90s. Or at least the high 80s, with plenty of humidity.

I'm drinking Woodchuck Draft Cider (Granny Smith). I'm trying to work my way up to beer, which I have always really hated. I'm not sure why I'm drinking this puckery cider, except that beer's cheaper than wine and I figure if there's ever a time to try new things, it's now.

The weather's changing; can't I change right along with it?

I'm into chicken salad now. And I like hummus. And last week I had two cups of coffee.

Does this mean I'm finally entering adulthood? Oh for Christ's sake, I hope not.

When the weather cools down I tend to overthink things.

Like the new Radiohead album. I've been trying to describe it to people. I can't come up with anything helpful, other than, get it, it's good. I've got it and the new Tegan and Sara on a loop. It is the height of narcissism and serendipity when music happens along at a time that makes sense in your life. The words, the sounds, all of it. Better than I could have planned, this time around.

I'm just now settling back into my old routine, despite the luggage and clothing and sand strewn on my bedroom floor. I need to do laundry. I went to the grocery last night. The routines, they keep me grounded. But they also bore me to death.

I just scratched a travel itch and now I've got another. I'll write about that in a bit.

I didn't have any grand revelations on my vacation, but I did realize (further) that I have a lot of work to do on myself. My self-doubt can be fucking toxic. My sense of self-worth seems to shift depending on who I'm around. Too often I assign myself the role of weakest link. I am ultimately confused about my life and the direction I'd like to take it in.

And I'm perpetually wondering what the frick is up with my romantic life and what kind of ceremonial dance I need to do to figure out what I want and how to get it.

Another year is about to slide off the calendar. The question I can't keep from surfacing in my head is, Did I waste it?

F——king up

Some days ... I swear.

I know that being human is an ongoing experiment in imperfection. I get that. I don't expect to be perfect. In any way. Never have been, never will be. But I go through these periods where I am just a total fuckup at nearly everything I do, and I have no idea why it happens.

Now, before you try to console me and tell me that I'm just having a bad day/week/month/year/whatever, and that everyone goes through this and shit happens and all that, know this: I have always been somewhat of a fuckup.

It's true. I always let little things slip through, or I ignore things or get distracted and don't notice when things have gone to shit. I'm not as meticulous about things as I'd have the world believe. I am often oblivious. I fudge details. I am not the sort of anal-retentive taskmaster I like to pretend to be. In fact, I'm pretty laid back about most everything.

And sometimes that results in me getting shit wrong at work. And it drives me up a fucking wall that I let that happen. Because it shouldn't. Thousands of eyes are watching.

People (myself included) read newspapers and get fucking giddy when they notice things that are wrong. It's probably because newspapers purport to be publications of prestige and record; we are the final word, the bit that, were we in a movie, would be spinning toward the camera in a dramatic attempt to have meaning and finality. So when I fuck up a news page, I am essentially pissing on posterity. That's not an easy burden to carry.

I don't know where my fuckups come from. I sometimes wonder if it's a problem that stems from some sort of undiagnosed ADD. Can I blame the internet, or those several years that I spent juggling three jobs and full-time classwork, where I was never really focused on anything? Or is it just me and my personality?

Just now, when writing this, I had to leave and take a breather on the balcony. I'm not sure I can do anything in one sitting anymore. I've got a dozen windows open at all times: A dozen eyes peeking into other realities, each one vying for my full attention.

And for what? I have no idea.

I am terrified of being the weakest link, of being looked at as the one who can't be counted on to get shit done. I have always prided myself on being the type you could go to if you needed to make things happen. But I'm not sure that's me anymore. The older I get, the more wiry grey sprigs crop up on my scalp, and the flakier I am.

I want to fix it. Now.

[I got really excited when I stumbled upon Fuckup.co.uk, a compendium of fuckups, but what a letdown to find that there's only one confession on the entire site. There's a gap in the market; someone needs to make that shit happen.]