Really, there should be no reason for me to struggle today with my word count. We had a little dose of things happening. I forgot that I had a hair appointment (which, I think it is fair to say is not always blogworthy if we are to start judging things that way) but I happened to scan through my broken-out, classified and therefore invisible emails and wondered if that phone call I got from that number that looked quasi-familiar might mean I had something going. Apparently, I did. Tonight. 6pm. And we ended up talking about feline penile barbs. And I remark upon that, because the frightening state of my roots (which I decided to be thrifty and not have touched up even though she offered me some sort of under the table help with them when I mentioned it was an issue of time and money so I assume they must be tremendously horrific) and the topic of conversation, swiftly pivoted from date talk to men in cow suits to the mistreatment of livestock to Heifer International and then, somewhere the fascination of cats in heat and then, logically, feline penile splines, all of which lead me to think that I am not presenting the best version of myself.
Not that I don’t find all of that fascinating. I do. I really am interested. I just felt that moment, of, oh, okay, she doesn’t want to talk about guys, men, love…let’s go somewhere else with it. I’m really glad that my hairdresser can do that. We’ve finally gotten to that point where it feels like she remembers me for something, even if it is the fact that I own and like cats. Conversation can flow around that. Much better than going to new person after new person and each time having the new client questions: are you married, do you have kids, are you the same wretched woman who dumps her endless shit on me or who will leave herself open to absorb my endless shit? And now, it’s sort of pleasant?
So I booked an appointment in two weeks to get my roots handled. This would be right before I may or may not go to Las Vegas. If I can find something dirt cheap, I might. I just want to be a person who prioritizes travel. I know that about myself when I know little else. I just don’t…it’s fine. It’s just fine.
There’s hardly any time to talk about sleepover memories now as I had planned when I opened up this page. We haven’t talked at all about the Democratic Debate and how I was pleased that we have Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton out there, talking with consequence about their plans, sometimes exuberantly and without regard to the time limitations that they were expected to honor, but without trying to verbally tear one another limb from limb. Obviously, there’s time left in this whole giant campaign for my allegiance to gel, but here’s to intelligent debates.