(no subject)
I've been living my only moments worthy of reflection amid a codeine-induced haze. Diagnosed with whooping cough, I took a stack of prescriptions to the drug store and left with enough medication to last me through two more colds, which is really all I think I have. Bronchitis is a possibility, but a fellow roller girl/immunology student confirmed that, unless I'm kissing babies or, for religious reasons, my parents never vaccinated me, the whooping cough diagnosis is likely total bullshit.
When not chugging down enough cough syrup to ensure that I sleep for a century, I've been busy, ensuring that my recovery period takes as long as possible.
On Friday, I overfed the cats, gathered up an army of clothing and left the house at 7 a.m. knowing that I wouldn't return again until after 2 a.m. the next morning. My plan was thwarted when word of the pseudo-whooping cough spread at work and I was asked to leave. I obliged gladly and launched the highly unsuccessful Operation Mullet Be Gone, paid the rent I'd completely forgotten was due, ate French Onion soup and then prettied up in anticipation of the Art Walk and fist fight I had planned for the evening.
I wore shoes completely unfit for anything with the word Walk in it, but realized fairly early on, the outfit I'd prepared for an all-girl bar fight was a novelty among the art aficionado set. One woman talked to me at length about my fishnets and another asked if I would pose for her art class (I was so flattered that I blurted out "Yes," before asking if I'd have to bare any skin, something I would be completely uncomfortable with. Luckily it was my outfit, not me she was interested in. "You must remember exactly what you're wearing right now," she said.)
At one point I ducked out of the galleries and onto the street in search of some cash. As I looked for the ATM, a passerby accused me, by name, of pretending I didn't know him. I turned around to find an ex-coworker of mine standing there, and I explained I'd wished I'd never known him. Cocksucker. Our argument and the very sight of him pissed me off enough to get me geared up for my next fight, which would take place after reuniting with the roller girls, drinking a considerable amount, indulging in war paint and heading to the bar.
Our beta fight went well enough and we have others planned in preparation for this weekend's fund raising activities:
Denverites, be there or be relegated to that special circle of hell reserved for those who fail to support their local roller girls.
When not chugging down enough cough syrup to ensure that I sleep for a century, I've been busy, ensuring that my recovery period takes as long as possible.
On Friday, I overfed the cats, gathered up an army of clothing and left the house at 7 a.m. knowing that I wouldn't return again until after 2 a.m. the next morning. My plan was thwarted when word of the pseudo-whooping cough spread at work and I was asked to leave. I obliged gladly and launched the highly unsuccessful Operation Mullet Be Gone, paid the rent I'd completely forgotten was due, ate French Onion soup and then prettied up in anticipation of the Art Walk and fist fight I had planned for the evening.
I wore shoes completely unfit for anything with the word Walk in it, but realized fairly early on, the outfit I'd prepared for an all-girl bar fight was a novelty among the art aficionado set. One woman talked to me at length about my fishnets and another asked if I would pose for her art class (I was so flattered that I blurted out "Yes," before asking if I'd have to bare any skin, something I would be completely uncomfortable with. Luckily it was my outfit, not me she was interested in. "You must remember exactly what you're wearing right now," she said.)
At one point I ducked out of the galleries and onto the street in search of some cash. As I looked for the ATM, a passerby accused me, by name, of pretending I didn't know him. I turned around to find an ex-coworker of mine standing there, and I explained I'd wished I'd never known him. Cocksucker. Our argument and the very sight of him pissed me off enough to get me geared up for my next fight, which would take place after reuniting with the roller girls, drinking a considerable amount, indulging in war paint and heading to the bar.
Our beta fight went well enough and we have others planned in preparation for this weekend's fund raising activities:
Denverites, be there or be relegated to that special circle of hell reserved for those who fail to support their local roller girls.