I’m feeling chatty.

I’ve had a glass of wine* and oh my gosh you guys, I just want to, like, blog. But about something really, like, important. Which is a trifle unfortunate because I…kind of don’t have anything like that to discuss.

So can we do kind of a free association thing? Please? They’re all totally appropriate and in no place to I talk about mind-but-unfortunately-nothing-else-numbing cramps or my bra size, like the last few days. Oops. Except for right there, I mean.

First, the Very Serious Historian part of me wants to comment on the plane crash that killed the president of Poland and 94 other people. Unfortunately, she wants to say “ZOMG TEH RUSHENZ R COMIN.” Because while I have every sympathy for the victims of this accident, I’m sorry, your plane goes down over Smolensk and the part of me that is really sorry she missed the drama of the Cold War wants to start hoarding soup and practicing waiting out the nuclear holocaust underneath my desk.

(I KNOW relations have been normalized.)

(I’m just saying maybe they shouldn’t have been.)

Second, my hair. (Keep up, people.) Yesterday I started experimenting with curlers.

(Yes. I know my hair is curly naturally. Yes, I know it makes very little sense to straighten my hair and then curl it again. I have no answer for your logic except that I look like a Muppet the way God made me. And that’s unacceptable.)

I’m kind of trying to convince myself that I’m growing it out. That’s about 50% true- I do want longer hair. But the other 50% is that I’m terrified to have it cut again. See, I’ve only ever had one stylist.

She started out totally awesome. I loved her. I went in every six to eight weeks, she gave me lovely bouncy haircuts, I was this close to inviting her for Christmas. Then…she kind of started cutting my hair really short. And…okay. I looked pretty cute with a bob. And she would always redeem herself by throwing an okay cut into the mix. Until last July. Last July she…I can hardly talk about it. Suffice to say that if you look at pictures of me from October, it’s still barely to my ears.

So I haven’t gone back. Because a.) I haven’t needed to. It’s been nine months and it just hit my shoulders last week sometime, and b.) who knows what the voices inside her head will be telling her that day?

And I really don’t want to go to my graduation with a Britney Spears-esque look. And I don’t even mean when she shaved her head. Pretty much any Britney look.

ANYWAY. The curls are a way to disguise the fact that there are so many split ends they’re contemplating what kind of legislative assembly they’d like to set up.

Finally, my sister posted the video of Mmmbop on her wall. And I watched it. And I almost fell out of my chair.

I was all about Taylor. Huge, secret, did I mention the the huge and secret part? massive crush on him. I was going to marry him and we were going to have lots of babies and their hair would be MAGNIFICENT.

And…after watching that video? Holy Christmas on an ocean liner, that makes me a pedophile lesbian.

I mean, not really. I’m younger than him. At the time, 15-year-old Taylor was a very mysterious older man. But…he was a BABY. And looked like a GIRL BABY at that.

So. That was an exciting and disturbing trip down memory lane.

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