I can’t write standing up. I’ve been trying for about 20 minutes now and it’s just not happening. I know what you must be thinking:
Ok, well not that. I meant this:
I knew that was in there somewhere!
But despite your cruel thoughts I insist that sitting down is not an option. I am currently at the hotel, where I work front desk part time. While I do enjoy this job, I have to say I have never been winked at so many times in my life. I’m half inclined to ask our manager if there is something going on with the ventilation system, as there seems to be an abhorrent amount of eye twitching going down in this joint.
I’m all like, ““What is this? A casting call for “Tour Ettes on a Budget?”
And he’s all like, “That’s not a movie, yo.”
And I’m all like, “Oh yeah.”
That wasn’t funny.
Anyway. I’ve determined all of these sexually aggressive ocular spasms cannot possibly be related to air flow because that really wouldn’t explain all the times I’ve been asked if I could perform private massage services…
…or if I wanted to see the inside of a king suite
…or if I’d like to try some all-natural cocoa dusted almonds
Word must’ve gotten around that I’m a sucker for chocolate nuts. Just a regular Wednesday.
Back to my point.
I cannot sit down because the computers are way too attached to the desk (like, totes insecure!) plus I have no chair. So yeah. I can’t sit down, so I can’t write. Not really. I mean, I can compose really poorly developed Tourettes jokes and hope you don’t unsubscribe from this blog. But that’s about it.
So in lieu of writing some super kick ass blog entry I know deep down I am capable of despite what I generally publish, I’m just going to tell you about a nightmare I had last night. Because you are reading this and by default you have to pretend to care.
SO the nightmare, or as I like to call it “Le Dream Noir” (that’s not real French), was deeply disturbing and some kind of omen I think. Here’s what went down:
I was sitting in an all-white room on a chair with a mirror in front of me. Pretty normal right? WRONG! I was wearing some sort of non-descript frock and…
The torment could have ended there and it still would have been one of the worst fictional moments of my life. My hair is more important to me than my kidneys, so the thought of having it all choppy and gross like some abused orphan was not cool.
And my chin…
And not a few unsightly hairs, but a full on, Spencer Pratt beard. I kept trying to yank out the beard in tufts of stubble but as soon as I would it would grow back, like Tim Allen in the Santa Clause or any Italian woman.
Soooooo, yeah. That was pretty much it. My hair chopped off and a beard growing on my face. I’ve been trying to look back and figure out what caused these cataclysmic events in my psyche and I can trace it back to one thing. This Facebook conversation with my friend, Jason:
I feel like my subconscious is trying to tell me something along the lines of “chillax you psychopath, beards do not make the man and emasculating men whenever you have the opportunity does not make you any more feminine!!!!!!” Or maybe I just spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about beards and this is what happens. Or maybe I feel hypocritical since, much to my dismay, very few of the men that I date ever have beards. Whatever the reason, I do think this conversation was a direct lead into that nightmare. Mystery solved. Or something.
I’m home now, finishing this blog entry, feeling like a fraud. Just a regular Thursday.
The girl who has a soft spot for the centipede family residing in her bathroom