This past week was incredibly busy and yet I have only gone to one class. Just to clarify, that’s probably not very good. But I have written a very bad History of Costume midterm, handed in a gorgeous short story series six days late, acted as a faux bartender at a boutique party at my internship (I will write about it sometime), went to a burlesque show with a friend (who is more like a lover to be honest) and wallowed in hopeless ennui of pining after a boy.
Speaking of pining, it’s not a very good thing either. Unhealthy for one, creepy for two, and annoying as all hell for friends to bear with for three, so I’ll be capping that nonsense yesterday, no matter how pretty the boy is or how many sad love songs I have listened to in the past day alone. That is actually all I have been doing. Lying in my bed, pining, listening to sad indie love songs and honestly when has my life become an after school special (I am actually a grown woman, I promise).
A thing that’s happening: I’m reading Deathless by Catherynne M. Valente and I’m not sure if it’s both good and bad because on one hand I have something to project my fears and insecurities onto, but on the other it’s making me want to rip some hearts out and burn down a castle. What a terrible, terrible book. (And just to clarify, as far as I’m concerned, in my vocabulary terrible means that it makes me want to cry and laugh and feel more than ridiculous procrastinating grown ass women should feel when they have weeks ahead of them of work and sleeplessness and disasters.)