my glamorous existence, part 1

I lead a glamorous life. Let's take a look.

I sit on a pink window seat at 10:38pm and meditate to Native American flute music. I cry. I cry because it sounds so pure and I feel so impure, full of selfish desires, motivations, and actions. Then I blow my nose and it bleeds. Stuff that toilet paper up my nose. Okay. Good. Pretty. Mascara streaks down my face and bloody toilet paper jammed up my nostril. Yes.

Then I sit on the couch wrapped up in my puffy J. Lo-ish (J. Lo? is she still relevant? should I have used another, more current celeb?) coat. I read Alex Caldiero and look at my nails. My heart sinks when I remember how nice and long my nails were getting until I bit them all off earlier today out of anxiety. Now they snag and tear. I put down the book. I pick up the remote control.

I watch a rerun of The Hills and Fashion Police. I sit (well, half sit, half lie) there wearing my incredibly nerdy glasses (and not cool nerdy, just true blue geeked out), getting more and more brain dead by the minute, the second. But I don't give a shit. It's mind numbing, yes, and that's exactly what I wanted. My eye twitches. I'm probably tired. I start nervously chewing on my finger and then stop. Gross. That's not fashionable. I am such a fashion disaster right now. Sirens, police, arrest. Booked.

(Oh, and by the way, the bloody nose has stopped by now.) (And another thing; I use far too many parentheses. If I was the reader, I'd find it kinda fun at first, but then soon the novelty would wear off and it would be distracting and obnoxious.) (Good thing I am just the writer and not the reader, right?)

So then I, in my post reality television haze, decide to look at old pictures of old me. Or whomever (whoever? sigh.) that was. The disconnect is amazing, but not shocking. I lived that life? I dated that boy and then that boy and then that guy? And why so serious in all of the poor quality photos? Did I really think it was a good idea to write such telling, borderline risque captions? I have led so many double and triple lives. I was sucked into whirlpool after whirlpool. Gotta go through all the college phases, right? And these phases, photos, friends, lovers, hazes, pools - these broken pieces - want so badly to become a tragically beautiful, poetically perfect mosaic. But realistically they don't. They just get hastily swept up and tossed out, failing to even cast a shadow, they are that small.