Someone once pointed out to me that most Billy Joel songs are just Billy Joel complaining about someone, and now when I listen to his songs I’m all, gol’ dangit. It’s true.
Dag nabbit. Okay, I’m done not swearing.
Anyway, Billy Joel. Everyone works too hard, or doesn’t fulfill his or her potential, or is a stranger, or god forbid a virgin. He does seem to enjoy an uptown girl, but look what happened there.
Hang on. Frida’s crying. …Now I’m typing one-handed holding kitten.
My hair is ludicrously wet, as first I had to clean up after kittens, then physically clean kittens because they look like this after they eat:
and then I had to feed them again so I can start this process over at noon. Today I tried giving them only dry kitten food, with a little moisture, to see if they can eat that. I heard teensy crunches, so maybe that will work and I won’t have to go through this slop face 3x a day.
So anyway, that was my issue today and I couldn’t wash hair till just a few moments ago, and now my choices are go to work with soaking-wet hair or blow it dry and look like Chaka Khan the copyeditor. I read for youuuu!
And speaking of Billy Joel, which we no longer were, if I die of a heart attack and people ask you what happened, I need you to say,
Anyway, that’s all that’s new. I have zero plans for the 4th of July, which dags my nabbit. Remember a few years ago when I didn’t have plans and I ended up watching the fireworks with the clerks at the grocery store? I see I’ve come far since then with the social life thing. Maybe I should text them. See what they’re doing. “Hey, dudes! Remember me? What do you mean no?”
Oh! And while we’re here bemoaning my life, my boss, crnt., decided to just keep the two pair of shorts, out of all the clothes that we looked at and voted on last week.
Also too, I know I said I needed a hobby, and do you know what I want to try to do? Apparently you can find antique roses, like really old ones, and try to plant them. They don’t do all the things new roses do: they don’t bloom twice in a season, and they aren’t tight and perfect like my ass. But they apparently smell wonderful. I want to get me some of those and see if I can grow them.
I realize I’ve picked a hobby that keeps me at home, with no people in sight, alone on the 4th of July and sometimes even Christmas. Go, me. Go Thorn Bird Rosy June.
All right, I have to get ready for work and decide which thing to do with m’hair. Either way I’m walking out of here looking ridic. Am not an uptown girl by any stretch. Maybe Billy Joel will read this and write a song complaining about my hair.
You may be right. I may be frizzy,