“Thank God it’s all over.” – Professor Henry Higgins, My Fair Lady
Have just realized that the best part of this entire year was really only in the month of January, because the OPT started in February, and along with it came the initiation into the rat race, after which it all went downhill. And am now thinking of the coming year with a slightly lighter heart, because — aside from the fact that at least have some things worked out — compared to this year, 2008 really couldn’t be any worse, could it? There isn’t anywhere else to go but up.
How much longer can this go on for? How much further can it be dragged on before it digs its heels in and refuses to budge until conditions improve or it can see its way on? Why do we let ourselves run wild without thinking about where we’re actually going and how long we can run for before giving up?
It’s so unfair that in a world where so many things can come to an end, the crying is the one thing that just never stops. We cry for the things we’ve done, the things we couldn’t have, the people we care about, and the people we lost in the end. And we cry for the things we want but don’t know if we will ever have, because we don’t know if we can last until the finish line. When can I stop crying?
“Ooh I like your sex hair!” – Jeremy
“I could have gone up there; I have the frog underwear going on tonight!” – obviously Jeremy
One of the greatest injustices of life is that the only time my hair ever looks good is when I’ve just been to the salon; any attempts at duplicating that Look in the following days are futile. Was at Chez Ann Salon yesterday morning, and I was so tired of my hair being unmanageable that I told Ashley to cut it all off into a bob. And she flat out refused: “With hair like yours, you’ll regret cutting it all off!” Am constantly torn between the need to cut it all off and the desire to grow it back out (though not, obviously, down to the waist in memory of high school days). And then after getting maybe an inch taken off and finally some decent bangs, moved on to Genevieve for the monthly Brazilian, during which she asked, “Are you going to have to look for a place that does this when you go home?” and that promptly gave self a tiny panic attack, because of course have absolutely no idea.
Went downtown with Jeremy last night, first to the Chocolate Bar, which was more crowded than had ever seen it before, then on to Marcella. Have not been to Marcella in maybe a year, and last night proved to be hysterical, mostly due to an underwear contest held in place of a drag show. Watching girls flash their underwear and dancing to The Divinyls’ I Touch Myself (“Sandra, get up there! You’re like the poster child for Victoria’s Secret and you just got a Brazilian!”) is nothing compared to gay men in nothing but their underwear; it’s like being crippled by the inability to look away from a car crash — you’re completely mesmerized by it but at the same time you can’t bear to look.