Christmas (or "I should go to bed instead of drinking wine and blogging)

Now, anyone familiar with the schooligan knows that she isn't all gushy about holidays. In fact, her intimate friends knows that she likes to spend them drunk on bourbon and stuffed full of pie. But for some reason, this year feels different. Like, when a certain adorable villain talks about DECORATING THE VOODOO LOUNGE FOR CHRISTMAS, instead of immediately throttling him while simultaneously chugging a bottle of knob creek, I agree that it would be nice to have a christmassy house. What the hell has gotten into me?

Oh, and for the record, yes, please, get me vibrators for Christmas.

No, seriously. Is this chicken or fish?

In light of the recent break-up of power couple Nick and Jessica, I found myself seriously pondering what the hell I was eating for lunch. We had ordered some sandwiches for a meeting today, and of course, helped ourselves to the tray before we delivered it to the conference room. My sandwich was either tuna salad or chicken salad, BUT I HAVE NO IDEA WHICH. There was so much mayonnaise (BARF) on it, that any fishy-meaty flavor was completely masked.

Holiday Weekend

Although I had FOUR DAYS OFF, it still wasn't quite enough. But what can I say, I am a greedy, slothful bastard.

Pre-Thanksgiving (And FYI, it ENRAGES me when people say "turkey day" because it takes all meaning out of the holiday, which is SECULAR to begin with.) I went to various websites and looked up all this info on calories of Thanksgiving dinner. I found horrifying figures like the average person eats 7500 calories that day, which seems completely ridiculous to me. So, I found a site that tells you the calories of some typical Thanksgiving foods, and even with generous estimates (like I use 1/3 cup of gravy) it said that I would consume about 1200 calories, half of which was pie. That made me feel better about having Thanksgiving dinner TWICE. Once with my family, (where we found out that Grandma's will was already set so we didn't have to pretend to like her squash anymore), and once at G's dad's house.

I definitely had too much bourbon Thursday night and passed out on the living room floor watching Ravenous because not only is Guy Pierce completely yummy, but nothing says gluttony like cannibalism.

Ok, so PT and I got the first season of Desperate Housewives on Netflix, and spent last weekend AND this weekend watching all 22 episodes. I had ordered it "just to see what all the fuss was about" and fully intended to HATE IT. But, I didn't. It is a REALLY GOOD SHOW. It's dark and twisted and smart and funny (and apparently a lot like my boyfriend, now that I think about it) and hopelessly addicting.

After we finished the 6th disc and watched the Season Finale that didn't answer all of our burning questions, we watched all the special features, cast interviews, behind the scenes, etc.
Me: Do you know what we are doing right now?
PT: Uh. Watching the special features?
Me: No. We are desperately licking the floor of the bathroom in hope that we find some more crack.

CAT!

WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH YOUR NEW FOUND LOVE OF WET PAINT?????????????
Enough is enough.
You are going to be BALD by the time I get this kitchen done.

An Open Letter to my Health Care Providers

I have seen a bunch of you over the years for the problem with the humanity destroying robot that lives in my head. Most of you have honestly wanted to help me get better, but few of you have gone so far as to LISTEN TO ME about what is wrong. Yes, I know, I don't have a bunch of letters after my name, but I gotta tell you that I have a MUCH CLEARER picture about what I deal with on a daily basis than you do. No, really, I do. And so do my friends and loved ones. So what is your freaking problem?

Well, yeah, I know it's easier to prescribe me a whole batch of drugs than to try and figure out what is really bothering me. Duh. But, like, that whole drug the robot into submission thing? It only works for a little while, and then we are back to the place where every time I open my mouth, I threaten civilization as we know it.

And for the love of god, when I find something THAT ACTUALLY WORKS BETTER THAN DRUGS(like, oh, I don't know, acupuncture) don't look down your nose at me like I'm some new age hippie freak. You can think what you want about alternative medicine and how the acupuncturists don't give you free pens, and post-its and shit, but for the first time IN YEARS, I feel relaxed and happy and PEOPLE ACTUALLY WANT TO BE AROUND ME. So far, you haven't given me a drug that can come close to that.

Actually, come to think of it, you guys have fucked my life up kind of a lot over the years. You know, with your not listening and BAD COMBINATIONS OF DRUGS. I never ever even thought about carving myself up like a Christmas Goose until you started pumping my body with chemicals. Nor have I ever threatened to throw myself out windows or hurled household objects UNTIL YOU CAME ALONG.

But you know what? It's cool. I don't blame you entirely. I could see myself getting seduced by pharmaceutical reps too. I mean, DAMN. FREE PENS??? Hell yeah!

I guess the bottom line here is this: I trusted you guys, you let me down repeatedly and I want to explore some other options. No hard feelings, mmmkay?

The Line Between Villains and Heroes

It isn't always quite so defined as you might think.

In between watching TWO FULL DISCS of Desperate Housewives and eating an illegal amount of Chinese Take-Out, PT and I had something of a breakthrough. I think, for maybe the first time IN OUR ENTIRE RELATIONSHIP, we actually understand each other.

I'd blame the acupuncture, but he hasn't had any.

Sometimes I really hate it when I'm right

And I also hate it when life reminds me that, yes, it IS grossly unfair.

Lsat night, I decided to just get on with the painting. However, after applying a FOURTH coat of horrid red paint to the same tiny area of the kitchen, I realized that not only did I hate the color, but that it was never going to look good and I just couldn't see how I was ever going to finish at the rate I was going and having to apply a billion coats to every area.

So I had a wee cry on the floor outside the bathroom and realized that the Agony and the Ecstasy was SO RIGHT ON. Then I collected myself, put the red death on hold and decided to prime the pantry while trying to decided what the hell I was going to do.

I had gotten the window done in good time when Underfoot decided that she Needed to sit on the windowsil. In wet paint. I screamed and spent the next ten minutes chasing her through the house and begging her to STOP GETTING WHITE KITTY FOOTPRINTS ON EVERYTHING. I Finally cornered the terrified, and painted, cat in the bathroom, shut the door and called for reinforcements.

My sister came up and helped me draw a warm bath for the now black and white painted kitty. In her defense, I must say the Underfoot was an absolute angel about the whole bath thing. No scratching, struggling, biting, and just a few pitiful mews of resignation.



Of course, the paint would NOT COME OUT of her fur, even with expensive Bed Head Shampoo (hey, only the best for my kitty) and lots of scrubbing. I didn's want her to be licking at the dried paint on her paws and get sick. I'm no vet, but am surmising that primer isn't really good for cats. I couldn't wash it out, so I was left with but one option: the clippers.

I have clipped lots of animals, from boyfriends to million dollar show horses, but I was really surprised that once again, she sat quietly in my lap while I shaved paint off her feet. I can't quite decide if she is THE BEST CAT ever, or just never realized that most cats don't put up with this type of shit. At any rate, I was able to CUT most of the paint off, except for a wee bit by her ear, but unless she is even more unbelievable than I thought, I doubt she can lick that.

I am also thinking that my new decorating scheme just might have to include little white cat prints.

I really should be painting

Like, REALLY. My kitchen has not progressed one iota since I started the damn project. I seem to have lost my ambition. Or more likely, the mania wore off. And/or there are just so many more interesting things to do, like instant messaging in poorly translated German, and cleaning the filter on the vacuum cleaner. And definitely going to Elaine's FABULOUS dinner party last night and getting drunk and marvelling at the fact that her boyfriend Frank looks like he just walked in after leaving Pleasantville. No, really, it was awesome, he actually looked like he was in black and white. SO COOL. But Elaine, Elaine, oh lord, she made Martha Stweart look like a hack. DAMN. She wins the title of Domestic Goddess.

And I win the award for "Most waste of bandwidth by someone who needs to get her ass to painting."

**last night I had a beautiful dream that all the bristles fell out of my paintbrush so I didn't have to paint anymore. EVER.

Nein, echte deutsche Leute tragen lederhosen nicht.

The hillarity of cock is just unparallelled. (Breadolellogram of pizza?) Today, we have some visitors from Fisia-Babcock, our german counterpart. I was delegated to "meet and greet" these Überraschend normale deutsche Leute I had to escort the esteemed Herr Doktor Wolfgang Schuttenhelm to the board room. I of course, had decided to wear the most ridiculous outfit ever to work today. Between the pleated schooligan mini skirt and the black motorcycle boots is was all I could do not to bust into a rendition of:

99 Luftballons
Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont
Hielt man fuer UFOs aus dem All
Darum schickte ein General
Eine Fliegerstaffel hinterher
Alarm zu geben, wenn es so war
Dabei war da am Horizont
Nur 99 Luftballons

Instead I had a very awkward elevator ride with Dr. Schuttenhelm where we discussed the weather in both Farentheit AND Celsius! My friend Emily pointed out that I missed a golden opportunity to ask An Authentic German Person what the deal with Lederhosen REALLY was.

The apple cart, she was upset

And then she went to acupuncture. Also known as, the miracle cure for my sanity.

Once again, things don't seem as bad as they did last night. And boy, were they bad seeming!

But this morning/afternoon, once again my qi is more aligned (or something) and everything is once again, just a teeny bit brighter than normal.

During the session, I had the strangest sensation: While I was lying on the table, I felt a sort of pulsating energy in my hands that slowly moved up my arms. It was really really neat.

Public Apology

Yes, I realize that I am not the Pope. Or any other head of state. So this probably doesn't hold much water, but on the other hand, at least I am not trying to say sorry for like, slavery or the holocaust, which would be overwhelmingly difficult for me to do and would come out all wrong and everyone would hate me.

No, seriously. I just want to say that I am very sorry for putting a lot of very dear people through some amazing amounts of stress and crap while on my journey through the valley of darkness. Really. I feel horrible every day for being such a total pill to everyone. I know that I have not always been the nicest person to be around, HELL, most of the time I didn't even want to be around me. And I am so sorry you had to see that.

I want you all to know, however, that your kindness and support means the world to me and if it were not for you all (deliberately ignoring contractions), I don't think I would be here typing this.

So, thanks.
Really. Thank you.

I don't know. You decide.

Old kitchen:



Proposed "new" kitchen:


Personally, I am starting to seriously hate red paint.
I also hate the pan of brownies that is taunting me from the pantry.
Must. Not. SUBMIT.

Somehow I got all frumpy

I mean, I thought that pairing the funeral-esque black lace skirt with a Tit-tastic pink sweater and kicky heels would help me retain my youth. But then, I found myself eating Quaker "weight control" oatmeal at my desk and wondering if I should join Curves. No, not really. Except the oatmeal bit. But I just bought it because it was on the banged up discount rack at the Big Lie. I noticed later that it was "weight control" oatmeal. I think it works because it TASTES LIKE ASS, so you instantly lose all desire to eat it. Bleck.

It's too bad because I really like oatmeal. Instant oatmeal, anyway, that I can make at work.

This weekend, PT and I discovered "Desperate Housewives". I had put the first season on my Netflix queue just too see what all the fuss was about. And we stayed up until 2am on Saturday watching it. I sort of hate myself for liking it so much, which is weird, because I am not ashamed of reading all about celebrities even when NOT in the gorcery checkout line. But we got totally hooked. And the best thing about Netflix is that you don't have to wait for the episodes to air, you can binge on 4 of them all at once! Who cares that they are at least a year old?

Oh, and the kitchen is going... very... slowly... I need at LEAST another coat on the tiny corner by the bathroom before it could be considered done. Tell me again what is wrong with an ugly kitchen? Although, I have not freaked out about it or thrown anything, rather, I have calmly ignored the Underfoot hairs that have dried into the baseboard. Go Acupuncture! (And, incidentally, I am not alone.)

If we needed any more proof that acupuncture is da bomb...

"I don't know who you are, but I could just eat you up like this."

How to charm me

"I don't really read the newspaper. I do like Vogue though."

Day 3 of Feeling Like a Normal Person: RambleFest 2005

Am hoping somewhat desperately that this is not just the manic phase before the storm, but am certainly liking the boundless energy. No longer do I have to make choices like, Should I go to Pilates? Or should I paint my kitchen? I CAN DO BOTH! Pilates was sort of awful. I mean good. Good in an awful ab-tearing way. Rarely do I go to class on both Monday and Wednesday, but both times I have sort of regretted it half way through. Usually at the point where I my muscles start audibly screaming at me to STOP IT. But at the same time, I get to feel all healthy and kick ass. And I swear, I walk taller after class. Though it is probably just due to the fact that I have stretched out my spine in a ridiculous manner. Tonight, however, I am taking a break from the gym and focusing solely on painting the kitchen. I got almost everything primed last night between 9 and 11.30, and tonight I will finish that and start on what I hope is not The Biggest Decorating Disaster Since Some AssHat Put Up Fake Wood Panels on the Walls. Look for incriminating photo evidence...

Sadly,Barbara, Main South's favorite crazy person died this week. Some of you may remember her hanging out at Annie's asking for a cigarette, smelling like pee and wearing a Russian Army jacket, one snow boot and a slipper. She's also the one that disrupted my mother's funeral by smoking in church, criticizing the food at the reception (I almost typed "afterparty". Isn't that HORRIBLE?), and then defecating in the street. Still, I must say I am a bit sad. I feel like a part of that neighborhood, that community is dead as well. My brother consoled me by saying, Don't worry, she's probably asking Mom for a cigarette up in heaven.

My brother also tried to jump start my life by telling me that I should go to grad school. Or write a book. I asked him what I should write about and he said, You know, a memoir on being crazy. Those sell REALLY WELL, you know an inspiration to suicidal teenage girls and all that. You would probably end up on OPRAH. Really, I said, how inspirational is the message that you should just go ahead and off yourself because IT AINT GETTING ANY BETTER?? Yes, I am a cynical bitch. Even after the acupuncture.

Finally, today is an especially good day and worth all the pain and suffering of 2 nights of Pilates because my H&M pants that made me look kind of thick and chunky in the leg area NOW REQUIRE A BELT. And I look less like a can of soup.

Ok, the endorphins are back in check. Somewhat.

And I think I can write with more lucidity.
Here goes...

So, I have been thinking a lot about acupuncture (duh), and why it works, how it works, the history of TCM (traditional Chinese Medicine), and how it relates and differs from Western Medicine.

Being raised on "western medicine", of course, I am inclined to disbelieve anything that contradicts this, or can't be logically explained by it. I mean, the idea of sticking needles into various parts of your body to alleviate problems in other parts of your body by redirecting your "life force", sounds a bit weird. But then again, most of Modern Medicine, has been developed in the last 150 years, and eating moldy bread to cure infections seems a bit weird too.

I don't want to get into some kind of acu-rant, here, but all I can say is that my treatment yesterday worked SO MUCH BETTER than any of the drugs or "western" treatments that I have used. Who knows, maybe it's just positive thinking on my part, but that has been MEDICALLY PROVEN to help cure illness, so where is this line that i keep wanting to draw between the two?

I guess that the thing that most appeals to me about acupuncture and some other "alternative medicines" is the fact that they treat the body as a whole. Which, it is, right? Yeah, sure its made up of individual parts and they can get wonky and malfunction and stuff, but the parts work together. That's especially obvious when your anxiety makes your heart race and your stomach feel like expelling some kind of acid spitting demon. So, yeah, I like that this therapy is working on ALL OF ME instead of just my brain chemicals. And it worked a HELL of a lot better than any of the drugs I have been on.

I have been watching a lot of David Lynch movies lately, and have been more willing to suspend my belief of reality in order to get what the hell is going on. Maybe this is part of the trick with acupuncture? Just letting it happen without trying to dwell too much on WHY it's happening, and enjoying the ride.

And for crap's sake, despite what critics want to say about it, it made my fucked up head feel a whole lot better. And that is exactly what I am looking for.

I see my kitchen and I want to paint it black...

In a burst of manic energy this week, I decided that I wanted to "improve" my kitchen. There isn't much I can do about the faux pine panelled walls, but I can, you know, paint the molding (seen above in a dingy PURPLE for Christ's sake) and feel like at least some parts of the Ponderosa kitchen aren't quite as ugly as others.

While I was taping (and forcing the mini schooligan to tape as well) I happened to look behind and under the stove. BIG MISTAKE. Dust bunnies does not begin to describe it. More like dust mastadons. And empty coke bottles, wine corks, and all the missing cat toys since the beginning of time.

In other news, I went to see an acupuncturist today.
HOLY MOTHERFUCKING JESUS ON A MOTORCYCLE.

Let me repeat: Sunshine Motherfucking Rainbows and bluebirds getting me dressed.

Today, after drooling all over the table with needles in me, I felt, for THE FIRST TIME IN WEEKS, relaxed. Calm. Even, dare I say it? HAPPY?!?!

I don't know all that much about Qi, except that mine is apparently majorly fucked up, but SHIT ASS HELL BALLS, did that shit help. Whoa. Like WHOA.

See? I am no longer angst ridden and the Euphoria is preventing me from writing a coherent sentence and/or editing this post before I publish it.

The crippling anxiety and feeling that I am mere seconds away from bursting into tears or exploding into a billion shards of busted Schooligan while the robot goes apocalyptic on everyone IS GONE.

I don't know if this will last. I don't know if this is the missing piece of the puzzle. I don't even know why it works. All I know is that I never knew true gratitude until I was given this day free from the black clouds and saw the sun again for the first time in what feels like forever.

What people are saying about The Schooligan

"'She's the one who has all these deep rooted S&M fantasies that she'll never act on.', I didn't want to say, Uh uh, she's been there done that."
"It's more like, she may or may not have been there and done that, but she'll let you think she has and never say one way or the other."

Can't get enough...

Cypress Hill. (The BAND, not the stuff they rap about)

Ativan-I am a walking bundle of nerves. I'm not even convinced that this shit works, but I am willing to try anything that allegedly helps.

Lemony Snicket. I am halfway through book 12, The Penultimate Peril and it's just awesome.

Of my black velvet jacket. It's this year's black turtleneck sweater.

Retro recipes. Am going to make tuna noodle casserole this week.

Del McCoury. And reducing myself to tears by putting '52 Vincent Black Lightening and Let an Old Racehorse Run on INFINITE REPEAT.

The Following Post May Shock You

Usually I am pretty half-assed about making changes to my diet. I mean, I don't want to die wishing that I had eaten more Snickers Bars. But lately, with my moods COMPLETELY OUT OF CONTROL, I have been trying all kinds of crazy things out of sheer desperation. One of these is trying to cut down on sugar. Not so easy when M&Ms are LITERALLY only 6 inches from me for 9-10 hours EVERY DAY. And then Halloween? Please.

And yet... I seem to have done it. I think I maxxed out on the M&Ms a couple of weeks ago, so no desire there. And G doesn't really eat sweets, so we don't have them around the house, and I have just gotten out of the habit of buying them.

So, I have not been eating candy. Like, AT ALL.
I have a half opened bag of swedish fish in my glove box for like a week and a half that has gone completely UNTOUCHED. I have not had a SINGLE PIECE of Halloween Candy, not even when I went to Wal-Greens yesterday and it was all 80% off.

If I didn't know better, I would say that there is something seriously wrong with the Schooligan.

Working for Cock has some serious consequences

Some obvious, and some not so obvious.

(Sidenote: I can't stop wearing this blue beaded bracelet that I got for like 2 bucks this summer. It sort of makes me look like Madonna during the Material Girl Phase, which is infinitely less annoying than this Kabbalah Phase.)

Last night I met Sands, Forrest, Mike "I didn't really rob those banks" Hansen, and Boulder for some climbing at Metro Rock. As I was working a sick V0 boulder problem (V0, is like, remedial bouldering. I still suck, but I am getting better. I am pretty sure I am gonna break into V1 really soon), I felt a snappy pain appear in my left forearm. MAN DID IT HURT. Yow! And then my fingers went numb. I took a break, rubbed it, stretched and tried to keep bouldering. Except I couldn't seem to hold on to anything, which makes things like climbing exceedingly difficult. I half expected to see my tendon pop and snap up my arm like a window shade.

I took a break to rub my arm, and Sands said, Too much blogging. You probably have repetitive stress issues. I replied, Yeah, from the near constant Corporate Circle Jerk at the Cock.

Let an Old Race Horse Run

I have been listening to a lot of Del McCoury on Internet Archive which is this really cool collection of music and media that you can have FOR FREE. It's pretty neat, except it sometimes leads me to do things like listen to Jim Jones give his final sermon to the People's Church right before they passed out the Kool Aid, and then try and go to sleep.

But Del, who I saw play with Bela Fleck some months ago, just makes me, in that typical olde tymey bluegrassy way, feel both elated and sad at the same time. I can't listen to Let an Old Race Horse Run, or '52 Vincent Black Lightening without feeling a sqeezing in my chest that, for once, has nothing to do with anxiety.

Alternative Medicine

I have been on an ALL STEAM AHEAD effort to take better care of myself/fix whatever is wrong with me. Ok, so I broke up with my therapist, but she wasn't helping me. But I am thinking that there are OTHER things out there that CAN help me. So, I found a medical doctor to give me a once over. It's sort of difficult to find a doctor, I had to call all these insurance approved Doctor Referral People and they would give me a bunch of names, and basically I pick one at random and try to get an appointment. For whatever reason Dr. Tatiana something or other appealed to me. So I have an appointment with her in like, 2 weeks. It would be kind of cool to find something that is physically wrong with me that we can, like, cure.

I also set up an appointment with an acupuncturist for next week. Now, this I am really excited about. I have heard so many wonderful things about acupuncture and how it can help on so many levels. Plus, I kind of like needles... but that is neither here nor there. The woman I am seeing sounds lovely and understanding and totally got me when I said that I was losing faith in "western medicine". So, here's to getting needled! It certainly can't make me feel any WORSE. You know, worse than feeling like I am mere seconds away from a panic of acid spitting proportions...

I also bought myself a cashmere sweater. It was on clearance and quite a bargain. I feel like I deserve cashmere for all the shit I put up with from the Robot. It's just too bad the Robot doesn't have a Visa Card. Anyway, the sweater came with a little ring attached to it. You know, cause your cashmere should be so fine that it can slip through your wedding ring. The ring is totally cool because Lord knows I am never going to get married and be able to slip my cashmere sweater through my ring. It's like One Girl Who is the cashmere for the single girl! Or Cashmere for the old maid who is going to die alone and have her face eaten off by her cats. Cashmere for all the social outcasts who can't snag a man and a preacher!

Rather Rude Awakening

You ever have one of those wake up calls, where you realize that something you had firmly believed to be true IS COMPLETELY WRONG and the evidence is staring you right in the face?

This morning, as I was getting dressed and attempting to redeem myself from yesterday's wardrobe based on Edward Gorey's The Blue Aspic, I happened to see the tag on my brassiere and saw that it read 34A! ALL ALONG I HAD THOUGHT I WAS A 34B!!!! This is especially depressing in light of my recent weight gain. I mean, if i have to be fat, can I at least have SOME OF IT in my boobs?

It happens to everyone.

Being Punished for Worshiping Satan's Birthday?

I thought I was doing so well today. Had a lovely Halloween Taco Dinner with PT, (Oh, and next time I think it is a good idea to eat FIVE TACOS, please just punch me in the stomach immediately, so I am reminded what I will feel like later?), drank some wine, watched some old episodes of Buffy and let the candles in our Jack O Lanterns burn out. I went to bed at somewhat of a decent hour and woke up ON TIME to meet Boulder for breakfast. (Ok, sorta. Sort of on time. Well, just like 10 mins late, but he STOOD ME UP LAST WEEK, so was completely justified.) I wore my new black velevet jacket over a red silk top and plain A-Line black skirt. I looked very nearly put together.

B. and I had a nice breakfast and as I got up to leave with enough time to get to work ON TIME for once, I knocked an entire glass of milk onto myself. It completely soaked the front of my shirt and my entire lap. I looked like some sort of excessive lactator. Annie and Megan tried to mop me up but the damage was done: Unless I wanted to spend the rest of the day smelling like sour milk, I had to go home and change. FAST.

I raced home, clattered up the stairs and ripped off my milk stained (and dry clean only. CRAP.) clothes and searched for something else to wear. Luckily my jacket was spared, so I threw on a sleeveless red top and kept the jacket. Unfortunately, the only skirt I could find that was remotely clean, unwrinkled, and non-milk covered was a black satin and tule number that I had bought when I really was a size 4 at H&M. Many many tacos later and this particular skirt still "sort of" fits. And by sort of, I mean that it doesn't hang exactly right and emphasizes my GIGANTIC ASS. It is also shorter than I remember, but of course, I am sure it has something to do with me wearing it around my WAIST in an effort to cover up the lower belly pudge that has been following me around lately. End result is that I look like a reject from the Gotham City Ballet. Add the velvet jacket and I look like someone who suddenly had to go to the Opera and quickly stole an outfit from Miss Emily Grierson.

Sigh.

I didn't wash my hair today. Or yesterday. So, in a desperate attempt to look less disheveled, I put it back into a ponytail. Of course, it is growing out all funy so I was forced to pin back some of the layers that were too short to pull back, but that would have driven me to the edge of sanity by falling in my face all day. So, I have that stupid Rockabilly hair.
Now, before my hoards of Rockabilly readers start sending me hate mail, let me just say, I LOVE ROCKABILLY. I love your tattoos, and your cute outfits and makeup. And shoes! I love your shoes. I love your boys in rolled up jeans. I love how sometimes you are really just "goth kids who watched too many Elvis movies." I even love PBR when I only have $2 and desperately want a beer! But your hair just makes me look even more ridiculous than usual. Especially when I had to dig myself out of a cemetary before I went to work today.