You know those multi-colored candy canes difficult to locate in your average pharmacy, and when you do manage to locate them are usually suffocating beneath some kind of reject sale candy batholith (BWAH geology plus edibles)? The ones that unexpectedly taste like the best cherry cough syrup, as opposed to peppermint?! I found some on a CVS outing the other day, the purpose of which was hairbrush-buying, because my hair at its current length has become increasingly prone to tangles, which makes me feel totally insane. Breaking from the process of determining potential hairbrush effectiveness, the exhaustive struggle to narrow down myriad offerings of spiral brushes and paddle brushes, I came across these incredible candy canes, because of their rarity almost exclusively reserved for private personal fantasies only, and ate one on the way home. I also bought some really ugly gloves that I'm almost embarrassed to wear because they are hot pink and my reservoir tip hat is RED. But fuck. Three dollars.
Caring for a cat is less difficult than finding a job, but more difficult than listening to Steely Dan's Greatest Hits, I'd imagine.
I never thought I'd become a nail biting person, but here we are. My middle finger is starting to embarrass me. The last time I got a manicure, which was not recently, the lady pointed to it and guffawed in a manner so sincere I couldn't even find myself angry.
Anger is unusual, but not persistent humiliation!
Pizza is never something to balk at.
I still need to knit a hat.
Everyone and I mean everyone should read Lydia Davis's collected works. Seriously, if you don't buy it immediately, or at least check it out of your nearest public library, you will never read about neighbors masturbating with oboes. A grave tragedy, and I'm not even kidding.