1985: You might have been a child of the '80s, but you had nothing on my mullet.
1990: Headband, GapKids.
1995: Was I trying to guarantee that no high school boy would ever want to talk to me ever? Or was this just my attempt to look like Dave Barry?
2000: Nothing against Kate Goselin who appears to be going through a hard time, but let it be known, I had the hairdo first.
2005: I married that Asian guy for his money; he married me for the hair.
One of my classmates, the one I suddenly discovered is actually kind of hilarious to tease, was telling me yestereve that he was going to spend his summer "finishing my novel." And my impulse at that moment was to pull all his hair out from his nostrils and rub his sternum with sand paper and bark in his ears THAT'S WHAT I'M SUPPOSED TO GET TO DO WITH MY SUMMER! I SAID MY SUMMER! DO YOU HEAR ME? MY NOVEL MY SUMMER MY TURRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN. But instead I just gave him a high-five, like a white girl does, meaning I kind of missed his hand.
***
I've been getting up at 6 a.m. to write my thesis. Meaning I've done it once, on Monday, and it was beautiful. The birds were twittering their motivational thesis fight song, and my head was so clear I could write a symphony with my eyes closed and I can't wait to do it again tomorrow.
***
After I put this thesis to bed, I'm dying to work on my novel. Meaning the one in my head, about all those multi-faceted characters that I've been inventing throughout my life who are going to intersect in a way that is masterfully orchestrated by my brilliant machinations. I can practically read the acclaims that will cascade across the hardcover stock: "Stanton Lee writes with sensitivity and charm; her words are like nymphs alighting their scattered flight in a deep rich forest of plot...she is the Frank McCourt of her generation...." ***
But for the rest of the day, what I really want to do stock my freezer with Fla-vor-ICE and find some girlish flip flops and summer skirts online. Hang with my two favorite people and pursue literary narcissism another day.
So he come to me, he come up to me and sez, "Babeh Girl! Why don't I see you down the playground no more? Tony and Johnny and Franky are all there, all mixin it up on the monkey bahs, and we look around and we say, What's up with Babeh Girl? She too good for us? She don't think we're like family no more? Fuhgeddaboutit."
So I sez to him, Mario, look at me. Do I look like someone who has time to be fiddlin around on some monkey bahs with a bunch of chumps like yous? Do you have any idea what kind of bologna I have to deal with, with my mudda, my fadduh all breathin' down my neck to eat some more meatballs? I'm pounding six bottles a day and all they give me is more hawtache. A load of poop, I tell ya. Somebody bettah gimme a break around here.
