Post Number Five

I should have been blogging last night, but the server was down. Besides I was a little too concerned with a dysfunctional friendship that I’m currently trying to rekindle. She happens to be one of the aforementioned ungoogleables, which is good because I would probably include a link here to whatever site she might be on.

She’s a great person who every once in a while I just don’t get along with for various reasons, which I’d rather not go into online because we’re going to make up over the next few months (like always) and it’s better not to incriminate yourself.

Instead I’d much rather make wisecracks about the flustered chick-lit heroine I’ve become. You know the type, always in slight disarray, messy hair, spills coffee on her blouse (like I did yesterday) or her pants (like I did today), always works with impossibly flawless yet mean and vindictive women but somehow manages to be cute and win the guy anyway. I woke up and realized that for the last few weeks I haven’t been a person in the “normal” sense, I’ve been a caricature of some one I read in a not so great book (I know, I’m not supposed to read that trash, but I was young and wayward, and everybody reads bad books sometimes, except really, really cool people). I have become the girl who digs for two hours in a bag that’s half my own body weight for a pack of cigarettes I no longer have. I walk around all day with a coffee stained shirt and only half the people notice.

At some point I know I need to stop thinking of myself in those terms, but those books have ruined the lives of many young wayward girls.