doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city.
Not a day goes by where I don't mutter "man, I really need to get my life together" mid-conversation with someone. I don't even feel like it's that out of control; I mean, it's like "my room is a mess and I have homework up the wazoo and I drink too much...man, I really need to get my life together." Drama-rama. Still, though, I'm feeling super scattered about everything. I don't even have the energy to fix my phone. Plus I'm totally getting a B- in Copyediting and I don't even CARE, which isn't like me.
I need someone to cart my ass to Home Depot so I can buy an air conditioner. Even doing simple things like standing and waiting for the train make me want to keel over in this wretched heat. I took a pair of shitty courderoy pants and *snip snip* they became "capri" (read: "short-pants") and they will be worn every goddamn day. HATE SUMMER. I actually wish I was back in Syracuse, where I have a pool and don't have to see fit, beautiful city-dwellers all the time to remind me how of icky I look (for which I have only myself to blame, as I am currently and single-handedly taking the phrase "dirtbag" to dizzying heights of exploration. We're talking long, greasy hair, stubble which is much more than a five o'clock shadow yet less than a full beard(and is on my neck as well), Old Navy flip-flops, baggy-ass short pants and ill-fitting thrift store t shirts of the "unhip" variety. All of this beautifully frames my first-ever beer belly (as before I just had minimal and admittedly unproblematic pudginess, which now threatens to balloon into "second-semester freshman frat boy" territory, minus the (popped) collared shirt from Ralph Lauren.))
Long story short, I'm hot, cranky, and procrastinating from studying for my looming "arts and tables" exam this evening. Godspeed, harlots.
I need someone to cart my ass to Home Depot so I can buy an air conditioner. Even doing simple things like standing and waiting for the train make me want to keel over in this wretched heat. I took a pair of shitty courderoy pants and *snip snip* they became "capri" (read: "short-pants") and they will be worn every goddamn day. HATE SUMMER. I actually wish I was back in Syracuse, where I have a pool and don't have to see fit, beautiful city-dwellers all the time to remind me how of icky I look (for which I have only myself to blame, as I am currently and single-handedly taking the phrase "dirtbag" to dizzying heights of exploration. We're talking long, greasy hair, stubble which is much more than a five o'clock shadow yet less than a full beard(and is on my neck as well), Old Navy flip-flops, baggy-ass short pants and ill-fitting thrift store t shirts of the "unhip" variety. All of this beautifully frames my first-ever beer belly (as before I just had minimal and admittedly unproblematic pudginess, which now threatens to balloon into "second-semester freshman frat boy" territory, minus the (popped) collared shirt from Ralph Lauren.))
Long story short, I'm hot, cranky, and procrastinating from studying for my looming "arts and tables" exam this evening. Godspeed, harlots.