art, hormones, apprentice, obliviousness
Tomorrow my father has this art show thing where one of his paintings is being shown, and I know he's going to want to go (not so much because of his work being shown, but more because of the free wine and cheese afterward -- he's all about the free stuff), and he'll need someone to go with him (to drive him home post-wine-and-cheese), and since my brother has to go back to school tomorrow and my mother needs to help him do that, I can feel the tug of familial obligation already. The art show thing is a forty-five minute drive away, minimum, and I know it's going to be exceedingly boring (and I loathe being bored, and bore easily, a fatal combination, especially when art is involved because art, like music, is one of those things I enjoy for the most part on the most basic, shallow level of "oh, so pretty/fun/cool" -- not too much deep thought or contemplation). Basically, I just don't want to go. But will have to, I fear. Because The Guilt will get me if I don't.
Can you tell I'm PMSing? Because I am. I keep having aggravation flare ups. I wish I had an indicator on my forehead so that people would know when I was in Irrational Irritation mode and know to keep their distance. Instead, I have to rely on my own iffy interpretation of my own mental state, and announce, "I am suddenly in a bad mood!" whenever I feel an aggravation flare up to warn those around me.
How can I have nothing to say? I had stuff to say just a little while ago, but it is all gone now. I find myself staring into space wanting to talk about The Apprentice (which is tremendous fun, imho). I could go on at length but will instead summarize it in two points:
(1) I totally thought Carolyn was, like, 50, and not 35, her actual age. This is further proof that I completely lack any ability to read things like this -- I can never guess people's age, height, weight, or the size of any inanimate object. Also, distance; ask me to walk ten feet, and unless I spend the time putting my own feet toe to toe, I'll probably just wander until you give me a weird look that says I've gone way too far.
(2) Kwame and Troy are so adorable together it hurts, to the point that when one of them gets eliminated, there simply must be a montage. Can't you see it? Spotting each other working out, making fun of Omorossa over the phone, scampering through the streets of New York to complete a mission. Aw. They are so cute.
And that's all I've got.
Can you tell I'm PMSing? Because I am. I keep having aggravation flare ups. I wish I had an indicator on my forehead so that people would know when I was in Irrational Irritation mode and know to keep their distance. Instead, I have to rely on my own iffy interpretation of my own mental state, and announce, "I am suddenly in a bad mood!" whenever I feel an aggravation flare up to warn those around me.
How can I have nothing to say? I had stuff to say just a little while ago, but it is all gone now. I find myself staring into space wanting to talk about The Apprentice (which is tremendous fun, imho). I could go on at length but will instead summarize it in two points:
(1) I totally thought Carolyn was, like, 50, and not 35, her actual age. This is further proof that I completely lack any ability to read things like this -- I can never guess people's age, height, weight, or the size of any inanimate object. Also, distance; ask me to walk ten feet, and unless I spend the time putting my own feet toe to toe, I'll probably just wander until you give me a weird look that says I've gone way too far.
(2) Kwame and Troy are so adorable together it hurts, to the point that when one of them gets eliminated, there simply must be a montage. Can't you see it? Spotting each other working out, making fun of Omorossa over the phone, scampering through the streets of New York to complete a mission. Aw. They are so cute.
And that's all I've got.