Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Reason Number 111: March Approaches, Imminent Self-Fortification

You know, in life, really bad shit happens.

Like Youtube starts inserting advertisements into otherwise unadulterated Destiny's Child videos.

Kenneth Cole appears in news articles because of some stupid insensitive comments about Egypt and inspires people to pay attention to his disgusting and embarrassing clothing, even in infamy.

The Project Food store runs out of Kashi Go Lean Crunch and 1 percent milk in the very same day.

Golden raisins happen to innocent baked goods.

You find yourself liking particular Kelly Rowland songs for no reason you can identify consciously.

You purchase unflattering pale-colored pants you can't afford while too tipsy to control yourself.

The month of March.

Staples begin creeping out of your always stalwart, perfectly-constructed clog boots.

You begin to wonder if, in your heart of hearts, your self-defining hatred of all cheeses might be dissipating along with the vestiges of your suburban childhood.

You use phrases like "heart of hearts" in place of something that means anything. And then you're like wtf do I even know myself one tiny bit?

Then as you prepare to squirt the heinous three dollar Johnson and Johnson baby shampoo conditioner hybrid (NO TEARS? More like MANY TEARS because I'm POOR, with the worst split ends) into your outspread hand, you take comfort in wtf. Something as dumb as a healthy heap of unrefined oatmeal in a bright green bowl will get you to apply lipstick so red it repels certain insects, and thinking of weird inside jokes makes you smile broadly enough to showcase the crimson smears all over your front teeth to strangers at Fashion Week events.

And in spite of crusty black ice patches and sinus impairments and resounding halt in professional success, the Project Food Store will never stop carrying Colt 45 tall boys. And after twenty-seven years of daily pixie stick ingestion, your teeth are free of cavities. You discover a secret C Town(town (town)) so close to your house you could practically throw a stone through the window if you could throw a stone at all. You fall onto your knees, get right up and poke your gigantic bruises without a single flinch, look down at your boobs, which are bigger than they used to be, and then at the end of the day you open your freezer to the comfort of APC jeans and supple, untouched chicken breasts, and deduce with a sigh that soup is imminent, and in your control.

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