we don't talk about this much. because it's kind of awkward and there are boys here.
but seriously. hormones. ouch.
there are these mornings. not too often, but still, mornings. where my eyes have barely begun to think about opening before my brain has lept into a giant heap of neurotic dung.
it goes like this:
[oline, lying in bed, eyes closed, furrowed brow]: i will never kick this diet coke habit and my grocery bill will always exceed $125 a month so i will never be able to live on my income or pay off my student loans and will instead creep further into a hole of university of chicago debt in $73 increments and the crofts'll move to maine and oil will rise to $800 a barrel and then airfares will go up and then i'll never make it to north carolina ever again and i'll be stuck here the same as always, alone and going nowhere, pining away, trapped in borderline abusive administrative positions that sap my will to live and do not pay accordingly and i'll never be able to read all the books i want even if i live to be 112 because if i do live to be 112 my eyesight will probably fail around 71 and if i'm lucky i'll be subjected to 41 years of books on tape (dear, god! not books on tape!) but i'll probably be deaf long before then so i'll just have 40 years of sitting around twiddling my thumbs and laughing at quotes my friends- who'll all be dead by then- uttered 50 years before and the vieve will die of some highly preventable disease at an impossibly early age because i never take her to the vet like a good catmother would and i'll spend the whole rest of my life- all 100+ years of it- thinking "dear god, why didn't i just take her to the vet?!?!" (though frankpank says you don't have to and i trust frankpank) and my parents will die, having never read jackiebook, and i'll wind up all alone- with no friends or family and a boyfriend whom i can't get to because the bush family sucks- living in a hovel with 4 million rolls of toilet paper and a taxidermied vieve because i'm an evil bitch who never wanted any brothers or sisters because i liked being the only one.
skirts, eyeliner, sexy lingerie, and multiple orgasms do not make up for these mornings.
oreos and tabloids, however, almost do.