Plenty of booze and nothing good on the interwebs makes for a talkative Iphy, it seems. Maybe I can make up for my massive poetic disappearance with two posts in one night. It totally works like that, right?
Roses was saying she's doing this whole journaling thing...Jebus, I hate the term "journaling". As Calvin put it, verbing weirds words. Anyhoot, Roses was saying she's on this whole kick where she writes a minimum of three pages every day in the interests of stimulating her creativity, or some such hippie nonsense. I don't know if I need my creativity stimulated, but according to the therapist, writing might serve to calm me down and prevent that vein in my forehead from getting any bigger due to rage and / or suppressed emotions.
Eh. Mostly I like a challenge. Three pages or a brief ramble in this ol' word-receptacle shouldn't pose that much of problem, right?
Pssht. Of course it will. I couldn't stick to a plan if I was lint and said plan was a dark-colored sweater.
Here are some things that are rattling about in my brain-pan.
1. Getting older. It's freaking me out. Wrinkles and veins and maybe grey hairs (but maybe they're just really light blonde? Or growing out of moles on my scalp? There's only been, like, two of the damn things...). The thing that bothers me most about my physically appealing qualities diminishing due to age is that it makes me realize exactly how much of my self-worth is based is being "appealing" in the first place. I never thought I was one of those girls who skated by on being pretty, but now that the pretty is apparently starting to fade, I've no idea whether or not that's the case. There was a whole thing on "Glee" about this recently. When the fuck did ageing become a topic for an after-school special? I don't know what to think about it all, but I know I'm morbidly terrified of being one of those women of a certain age who pack their sagging asses into skinny jeans, attempt to fill in their wrinkles with foundation, and desperately try to prove to the world in general that they're still sexually attractive, and therefore relevant. A sad old slapper, with nothing going for her. Jesus fucking lizard, if this is how I am when I'm in my late twenties, imagine how I'm going to be when I'm forty-five. Botox ahoy!
2. Possibly not maintaining my 4.0. Yes, I am a gigantic nerd. Thus far it's been all A's, all the time, but I think I might have got a B in that Abnormal Psych class, and it's pissing me off. I want to get a scholarship to the University of Where I Live, and having a perfect GPA will definitely help with that. I also want to prove to myself (and to the world in general) that I'm not as dumb as I look. Sure, having a perfect GPA from a city college ain't nothing to brag about (I believe the appropriate comparison is a midget winning a height contest), but it wouldn't hurt, right? Plus I work with poor little underprivileged children and I'm a poor little kind-of-underprivileged-but-definitely-foreign immigrant. Scholarship-giving assholes eat that shit up, from what I understand.
3. Boys. Myep. Despite the fact that I am a withered old crone, I will still refer to my paramours as boys, not men. It is bothering me in the dark recesses of my mind that the gentlemen callers who like me tend to be the kind I am generally unimpressed by, and I am yet to find any who are really worth the effort, ie. ones that I think are all that and a bag of chips and totally worth pulling out all the stops for. Since I'm basically a gigantic whore, no one can accuse me of being too picky, but really, this shit is getting ridiculous. Right now I'm doing a lot of texting with a guy named Guitardbot. Clearly, this is not his name or he would have cut his parents up and stuffed the pieces in the freezer as soon as he was old enough to feel shame and doubt, but this is what I shall refer to him as for the purposes of this epistle. Guitardbot gives good text. He is funny and flirtatious without being creepy, curious about my life without being disturbingly obsessive, confident without being a gigantic jackass, and fully prepared to laugh at most of my jokes without being afraid to point out the painfully unfunny ones. If I hadn't been raised as a staunch agnostic, I would light a candle to Saint Bridget Jones, patron saint of single women, to guarantee he is as awesome in person as he is in forty words or less.
Ugh. Pathetic much? Life will go on, whether or not Guitardbot is rad or loaded with suck-ness. Life will go on, whether or not I pair up and breed, or whether I'm a spinster for the rest of my life and my arms keep me warm on cold and lonely nights, to paraphrase Kimya Dawson. It's not like it matters. It'd just be cool to meet someone who was...well, cool.
4. My shoulder. I'm seeing a new physical therapist. Previously on "The B.S.A.S.O.Q.D", I messed up my shoulder around this time last year spotting too many hefty children and doing too much silks. It's gotten better and worse in the time in between then and now, but not better enough for me to be able to ignore it any longer. I'm doing lots of PT stuff that is very, very funny to look at, but appears to be helping somewhat. I need to keep it up and get this shit fixed. Constant pain is a total downer, yo.
5. Cher mamรกn. She's coming to visit. The day after tomorrow. Fuck it in a bucket with Mrs Luckett. (Mrs Luckett was my form teacher in years 8 to 10. She was a very nice lady and I hope I'm just like her when I'm in my 60's and working in a high school library somewhere.) What the hell am I going to do with my mother for three whole weeks when I have school and teaching and training and studying and gigs and so on? Can I just give her one of those Life Alert thingies and send her on her merry way to explore the White City? Am I meant to constantly supervise her every move? Am I REALLY not going to get laid for the next month? Because that's going to be an issue, for reals.
Ugh. I need to go to bed. I have to help finish up with moving at work tomorrow, and then set about creating a laugh-a-minute activity plan for the mater, as well as hiding all the sex toys, drug paraphernalia, and general accoutrements of my debaucherous lifestyle. I'm a fuck-up, and I know she knows I'm a fuck-up, but for the next two weeks we're all going to play a super fun happy game of Let's Pretend Iphigenia Is A Wonderful Daughter Who Spends Her Time Scrap-booking And Cross-stitching Pictures of Kittens. FML.
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