hiding inside the icebox
Recovering from being comatose and on my back for the past 36 hours---inconveniently placed over a concert night, but not so inconveniently placed that it prevents me from fleeing the country (the mantra of 6days6days has burned itself into my brain).
In a fit of pique I had my hair chopped off and now I look like something that fell out of the sixties and cannot find its way home. Lots of headbands and cardigans and mousse and volume. The only thing that this will improve about me is my baking skills. That or render me utterly un-domestic.
I read Bob Dylan's Chronicles and gave up on reading Pynchon in delirium, especially since I apparently had lots of conversations with people that did not actually happen, mostly about crushed ice and diluted apple juice. I also had dreams that included baseball bats that I am very glad did not actually happen (or at least hopefully did not because then I would be dead and this is a rather bland afterlife).
In two weeks I will be prancing around Trafalger Square and making obscure references to folk songs.
In a fit of pique I had my hair chopped off and now I look like something that fell out of the sixties and cannot find its way home. Lots of headbands and cardigans and mousse and volume. The only thing that this will improve about me is my baking skills. That or render me utterly un-domestic.
I read Bob Dylan's Chronicles and gave up on reading Pynchon in delirium, especially since I apparently had lots of conversations with people that did not actually happen, mostly about crushed ice and diluted apple juice. I also had dreams that included baseball bats that I am very glad did not actually happen (or at least hopefully did not because then I would be dead and this is a rather bland afterlife).
In two weeks I will be prancing around Trafalger Square and making obscure references to folk songs.