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bending_sickleWritten last-night:
I think I know what would make me crack if I were ever to be captured by enemy troops and tortured. Now, we** all know the five groups*** of torture. However, considering the infamous “Chinese water torture”, there must be another group: rhythm.
My roommate is eating sunflower seeds in the living room. I realize not all of you may have eaten full-shelled sunflower seeds, but I’m sure you can appreciate that the cracking of said seed entails a certain amount of noise. Constant. Fucking. Noise.
It’s making me twitchy.
And it’s really the last thing I need today. Over at the office, my coworker has taken to whistling (badly, and constantly). While it grates on my nerves, the kicker is when he starts talking repetitious nonsense to the dog, Nena, and making kissy smacking sounds.
Almost enough to make a girl take a stand and holler.
I didn’t, so I spent the morning in a really (subdued) irritated bitch mode.
After that I was kinda keen on getting my hair cut, after 6 months. Instead of a nice relaxing beach with palm trees, I envisioned my straightened short little tuffs of hair swinging in the breeze to get through the day.
Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I belive it isn’t customary for one to exit a hair salon and make a beeline to the bathroom, going “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit” as one tries to alter the hairdo in the mirror.
Because good gods, there were curls. There was volume. I don’t need volume, I’ve got hair, and lots of it. The guy**** thought it was fantastic, and really I’m sure it’s not so bad. The haircut is alright (shorter on the back, layered) but I hate the ‘do.
Anyway, the thing is, I didn’t get to de-bitch and instead wandered around Barcelona in a huffy panic, wishing for a tuque, patting at my ginormous hair all the while.
* Slither, Bill Pardy
** Those who watched Angel, Season 1, at least.
*** Hot, cold, sharp, dull, loud.
**** Cute, yes, with geometric bicep tattoos and “reminiscent of bulls” nose piercings. Cute nonetheless.
I think I know what would make me crack if I were ever to be captured by enemy troops and tortured. Now, we** all know the five groups*** of torture. However, considering the infamous “Chinese water torture”, there must be another group: rhythm.
My roommate is eating sunflower seeds in the living room. I realize not all of you may have eaten full-shelled sunflower seeds, but I’m sure you can appreciate that the cracking of said seed entails a certain amount of noise. Constant. Fucking. Noise.
It’s making me twitchy.
And it’s really the last thing I need today. Over at the office, my coworker has taken to whistling (badly, and constantly). While it grates on my nerves, the kicker is when he starts talking repetitious nonsense to the dog, Nena, and making kissy smacking sounds.
Almost enough to make a girl take a stand and holler.
I didn’t, so I spent the morning in a really (subdued) irritated bitch mode.
After that I was kinda keen on getting my hair cut, after 6 months. Instead of a nice relaxing beach with palm trees, I envisioned my straightened short little tuffs of hair swinging in the breeze to get through the day.
Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I belive it isn’t customary for one to exit a hair salon and make a beeline to the bathroom, going “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit” as one tries to alter the hairdo in the mirror.
Because good gods, there were curls. There was volume. I don’t need volume, I’ve got hair, and lots of it. The guy**** thought it was fantastic, and really I’m sure it’s not so bad. The haircut is alright (shorter on the back, layered) but I hate the ‘do.
Anyway, the thing is, I didn’t get to de-bitch and instead wandered around Barcelona in a huffy panic, wishing for a tuque, patting at my ginormous hair all the while.
* Slither, Bill Pardy
** Those who watched Angel, Season 1, at least.
*** Hot, cold, sharp, dull, loud.
**** Cute, yes, with geometric bicep tattoos and “reminiscent of bulls” nose piercings. Cute nonetheless.
