2003-05-14 - 1:38 p.m.

Ain't no thing but a chicken wing.

I am a frumpy lil' cuss today. A clunky Grump-a-rina, bumping into mental walls and kicking up dust all over the place. I would go into specifics, but I think I'll just Big Brain it into generalities, curbing in the process my six-year old desire to resort to name-calling and sticky finger pointing. But what I wouldn't give to get into a tasty I'm-rubber-you're-glue exchange right about now. Oh yes, the Fanged Faerie is itchin' for an elementary schoolyard fight. So bring out the dodge ball. I've got a score to settle.

*Sidenote: remember the rubbery maroon smell of dodge balls and the echo-y squeaking sounds of tennis shoes on gymnasium floors? Mmmmmm. Sensation-al memories in stereo are yummy, lovely things.

I guess I'm such a dumpy, grumpy girl because I am trimming the fat off my current relationships (triple snaps for bad metaphor usage), watching sadly as some of my oldest friendships begin to die of natural causes. One friendship in particular is causing me great concern and frustration, and has involved misunderstandings the size of which make my head bulge with over-thinking. We've taken two different paths. She's a "grown-up" with a career at an "agency" and uses phrases like "mortgage payment" and "the real world", and I'm a philosophy major at the local university who thinks "being a grown-up" and "the real world" are modern day myths. So I am stranded in this bizarre in-between place of transition, where I don't have many close friends. Not that I'm some super-needy Hug-osauras or anything, I just miss the closeness that I had with friends when I was younger, as it seems difficult to cultivate that closeness as an adult.

Sadly, society breeds isolation, and isolation breeds eccentric craziness. Soon I'll be be covered in cat hair and singing nursery rhymes to myself (soon...as in this morning). Grin. So don't be alarmed, understanding readers, when I mention my new stuffed animal collection and how it's a veritable salve for my soul. Do not stare, open-mouthed, when I tell you I've constructed a little family of "people" out of nothing but leftover brush-hair, and how these "people" are my family now. Do not laugh when I write a book about how said "people" are sacred and powerful, and how The Hair Club For Men is evidence of a huge government conspiracy to achieve male dominance through harnessing their power. Blame it on society and cross safely to the other side of the street. I won't be offended.

Moving On.

Tonight I do yoga. This makes me little-kid happy in a bendy way. I am going to let all of my tension drain away into my sweaty non-stick yoga mat. I am going to backbend my way to bliss, and then I am going to come home and drink tea and read until I fall asleep. *Sigh. Lovely lazy plans.

For my curious invisibles, the book I am currently reading is Susan Faludi's Backlash (Sorry, don't know how to underline in HTML). I have a great amount of respect for her as she accurately aims her annoyance at popular culture and the media, instead of bashing anything with a penis over the head(!). Intelligent empowerment, that's something I can get behind. As a result I've taken to yelling the word Backlash! every time I notice some phrase/image/word that belittles women. Both a funny way to comment on inequality, and nice way to top off my crazy-tourettes syndrome image. Hey, kill two birds with one stone. That's my motto.

Alright everyone, out of the pool, the Fanged Faerie is done talking.

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