rollergirl she's taking chances/just love to see her take them on
I had to say that the first twenty-four hours after I snapped out of it were definitely the worst. I spent most of the day in bed by myself, looking up at my roof, wishing it was actually dropped fiberboard with cracks to count, like every hospital I'd ever been in. It would have made the thinking easier.
It could be worse, I guessed. Worse than glomming onto anyone in sight like a goddamn limpet and saying oh my god once every thirty seconds, definitely. Even if I had gotten snot all over Brad's precious Iron Maiden shirt and made vegan cookies and called Nate a sweetie and fainted on Vala Mal Doran. I could have been some kind of homicidal maniac. Or House, I could have been House. Would have been great to see him like that, though, from what Cameron said.
I realized, of course, that the reason it was embarrassing was because it was all of the things I wasn't. And after I figured that out, things seemed a little better. Because I wasn't that kind of girl, who walked through life oblivious to everyone else, gushing and bawling. I had a little more backbone. And I was willing to prove it.
That didn't mean I didn't avoid everyone, but it did mean I changed my plans a little, sign my name up for something, consider bidding on the local singles, completely dismiss the idea of working at the goddamn strip club (because that made my feminist sensibilities get in a Dworkin vs. Kipnis dogfight until I didn't know what the hell I thought).
Even so, I was a little nervous as I went to return The Things They Carried to the bookshelf, get some coffee and settle in for a long evening at the textbooks on tropical infection. There were some things I still had to think about. But not yet.
Remy was easier to write at the moment; Doctor tomorrow or Saturday. New threads through Sunday. Subject line is Dire Straits.
It could be worse, I guessed. Worse than glomming onto anyone in sight like a goddamn limpet and saying oh my god once every thirty seconds, definitely. Even if I had gotten snot all over Brad's precious Iron Maiden shirt and made vegan cookies and called Nate a sweetie and fainted on Vala Mal Doran. I could have been some kind of homicidal maniac. Or House, I could have been House. Would have been great to see him like that, though, from what Cameron said.
I realized, of course, that the reason it was embarrassing was because it was all of the things I wasn't. And after I figured that out, things seemed a little better. Because I wasn't that kind of girl, who walked through life oblivious to everyone else, gushing and bawling. I had a little more backbone. And I was willing to prove it.
That didn't mean I didn't avoid everyone, but it did mean I changed my plans a little, sign my name up for something, consider bidding on the local singles, completely dismiss the idea of working at the goddamn strip club (because that made my feminist sensibilities get in a Dworkin vs. Kipnis dogfight until I didn't know what the hell I thought).
Even so, I was a little nervous as I went to return The Things They Carried to the bookshelf, get some coffee and settle in for a long evening at the textbooks on tropical infection. There were some things I still had to think about. But not yet.
Remy was easier to write at the moment; Doctor tomorrow or Saturday. New threads through Sunday. Subject line is Dire Straits.