WAIT WAIT WAIT!
If you read my last post already, I am so so sorry. That was ridic, but I refuse to take it down because I need to see how fucking self-involved I can be sometimes.
Here's what I was trrying to say, but failing miserably:
In my head, I'm a fairy tale girl. I'm a mythpunk (an awesome phrase, possibly coined by Cat Valente, that I have adopted), Cayce Pollard adoring, so dreamy I may as well be made of filmy curtains, Reader. I have daydreams of laying about in windowseats, reading "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and listening to Correatown while drinking tea, or whiskey, and watching the way the sun slants just so outside the glass.
In reality, I am a post-punk, nearing middle-aged, Cayce Pollard adoring, angry woman with fairy tale dreams and lots of fist shaking. I don't even have a windowseat, though I do love Midsummer. And Correatown. And tea.
But I forget that, as a Gestalt theorist, I believe much of the crap we put ourselves through stems from blaming ourselves for who we aren't, rather than accepting ourselves for who we are.
The truth is, I'm both those girls. Women. Whatever. And the post-punk fist shaker can be pretty fucking awesome sometimes. It's when I forget this and think one is someone I'm not but want to be while the other is someone I'm not sure I like sometimes but am stuck with, that I start yearning. Yes, I yearn and it isn't pretty.
Anyway. Forgive the randomness and whinging. I was just too busy looking for the lace to appreciate the duck tape.