My mom bought me a fabulously fluffy, obnoxiously hot pink, angora sweater from a thrift store over the weekend. I wore it today and have pink fuzz all over my whole world. It's flaws revealed, the offending thing will be disposed of shortly. I do love how garishly awesome it is though.
I don't like working until seven every night. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
Tights are not pants. Do not wear them as such. Please and thank you.
I can drink a dozen cups of black tea, and it never comes close to the warm buzzy fuzzy awakening of that first cup of coffee in the morning.
My work shirt is "unisex," which actually means that it's a men's shirt that they also order in small sizes. It makes me look like an ungainly bubble.
I haven't had a hair cut since my failed attempt to restore my head to its natural color. My bangs are hovering around the tip of my nose these days. Should I keep 'em or grow 'em out?
I haven't dyed my hair since then either, and, curiously, I don't have any roots. There's a sort of a gradual fade, but that's only if you're me, and spending arguably too much time staring at your head in the bathroom mirror when you really ought to be cooking dinner or folding the laundry. I think my hair has taken on some chameleon aspects. Okay. Should I stay red or return to something other?
For the first time in years, I actually have a void in my shoe wardrobe that legitimately needs to be filled. I've spent 10 years buying shoes that I don't need, purely for the love of the things. Now that I need something, can I find it? I assure you, the answer is no.
In regards to child support, I'm still owed for half of way-back-in-September, along with December, along with January. My finances are stretched pale and thin, and I'm suffering from increasing anxiety.