There's No Place Like Home, Wherever It Is...

Wassup. It's been a while, I know. Apologies on my part. I've been really busy lately. I have spent the past few months juggling two jobs, packing up all my shit, and watching my sanity slowly slip away with the last remnants of my old life. It's really less heinous then it sounds but I have a flair for drama.
Whenever something weird is happening in my life, I usually have an urge to write. I write anything; stories, songs, poems, whatever. It's therapeutic. Right now, I have an urge to write. I have spent the last year watching my family mourn the loss of a dearly beloved staple in our lives... our family farm. For a year, this has been a constant weight on my shoulders and my back is starting to ache. I have a distinct talent of shutting out such emotion and continuing on with my daily life. It's not like it had no effect on me, I just chose not to respond. I have been accused of being completely devoid of emotion. This is a complete false-hood. I just hate dealing with emotion openly.
I'm losing my childhood home. I have long since said good-bye to my childhood, but I never thought I would have to say good-bye to my home. It has always been there for me, a constant source of comfort to soothe whatever has pained me. There is a quote from the film Garden State that has completely stuck with me since I heard it. The quote states, "When does your home become not your home anymore, but just a place to put your shit?"
That question blew my mind... It was like someone finally stated the question I had been struggling with. When did my home just become a place to put my shit? I think that's been my problem for awhile. Even before my parents decided to sell our house, I began to see our house in a different light. It no longer had that sense of home and comfort that I had always counted on. I haven't felt at home for a long time, and I think that's what I'm missing... a sense of home.
For the first time in my life, the responsibility of making a home for myself has finally fallen upon my own shoulders. I'm not only moving out of my house, but I'm moving out of my parents' house, hopefully for the last time.
I'm finally responsible for every aspect of my life and that scares that absolute shit out of me. I have always been a fan of routine and familiarity, and it scares me to think that I have a completely new life just weeks away... I shouldn't say completely new life. I still have my friends and family as a constant, but there's no denying I have finally realized that I'm going to miss this place I used to call home.

Sunny With the Chance of Guilt

A summer breeze has finally picked up around here. Thank God. I don't know about you, but the first actually warm day of the year has always brought me a sense of renewal, or cleansing perhaps. It's like the first good shower you take after being away at camp. It's pure therapy. Unfortunately, those kind summer winds have forced me to take a look-see at my post-hibernation body. I need to go back in the cave it seems.
And so my dearest readers (namely the three that I'm aware of), I begin my deep dive into denial and depression that is this wonderful time of the year. It is that lovely time of year that I must face my fat-ass and remove my crumb-covered hand from that jar we call temptation. It is time that I must remove myself from that oh-so comfortable ass-print I have been perfecting these last several wintery months, and drag my rather wiggly edifice out to the garage where my bike has been collecting dust. If my bicycle were alive at this moment, it'd be giving me the finger.
However, I digress. The point I'm getting at, is that I need to find the drive that, at one point in my life, allowed me to get to a reasonable weight. Yes, I am only a mere eight pounds away from my lowest weight. But that eight pounds of lazy flab, ok ten pounds on a bad day, has been taunting me since Thanksgiving; and frankly I've had enough! I'm ready to get back at it! But that would require me to remove myself from my sedetary lifestyle. Shit.
Well, there's no time like right now. So what if I downed a whole gallon of ice cream in less than 24 hours? It's was fat-free and no sugar added! Bonus!!!

Savvy?!

I have always thought myself more technically inclined. I have always been able to "save the day", as it were, by switching the television to the DVD setting for my parents. I have often come to the aid of my poor father; after watching him struggle for a good twenty minutes with the DVR, as he so desperately tries to recieve the basketball game he had so successfully set to record earlier that afternoon. It is not until he has begun to sweat, removed his glasses, and fervently rubs his temples while muttering a stream of profanity that even the most vulgur reality show would be forced to bleep out, that I interveen. I have always taken great joy in taking ballet-like strides over to the fraught parent and with a sigh, grab the forlorn object (most usually a remote of some sort), and with a flit of the fingers, I fix the problem. The problem is usually my parents; there is nothing wrong with the television.
I have, on one occasion, been tracked down at a party. I remember rushing to the phone, thinking the absolute worse that my imagination could muster. Picturing my mother in a body-cast, I tentatively picked up the receiver and meekly uttered, "Hello?"
"It's Mom. We've been trying to get ahold of you for nearly an hour!"
"Oh my God, what's wrong?" I answer, my voice raising a decibel with every word.
"Your dad and I have been trying to watch this dvd on Gordon Lightfoot for the past hour and we can't get the player to work!"
The breath escapes from my lungs like air out of a whoopee cushion. "You've got to be kidding me."
"No I'm not kidding you! All we wanted to do is sit down and enjoy our meal. Your dad's been doing yard-work all day and all that he asks is for a little sit-down time and a beer. Is that so much to ask?"
I had a distinct feeling this conversation was veering off course. I heaved another sigh, speaking over the continued saga of what has been my parents' day. "Mom! Mom? Are you looking at the television?"
"For God's sake, yes I'm looking at the t.v.!"
"Ok, turn the channel to 3 and then press the button on the DVD player that says 'Power'."
"Oh will you look at that."

And so it goes. My life has been a series of technilogical feats. It's really amazing if you think about it. For an entire lifetime, I have been led to believe that I was an undiscovered genius. But alas, it was just the ridiculous lack of technilogical sense that humored me until this point in my life. For it is now that the machine is smarter than the girl. I have just purchased a new cell phone. Apparently, my old cell phone was an ameba in comparision with the device before me. I have purchased a Blackberry, ladies and gentlemen. And it is obvious who is more intelligent. My phone has a test to practice texting. I am taking a typing class for my phone. Doesn't that seem a bit ridiculous? I think so! So I apologize profusely if your upcoming texts from me seem more like mutterings from an illiderate than the musings of an intellect. I'm still learning how to turn the damn thing off. The thing keeps chirping and I think it's laughing at me.

Walk-Ins Welcome, Please Have Pscyhiatric Report on Hand

The most uncomfortable experiences of my life have resulted from taking in a walk-in client. I completely understand the reason we, as hairstylists, take in this nomadic clan of the unkempt. Not everyone goes to the same hairstylist all the time. They go where they are. It's the convienence factor. It is the hairstylist's job to lasso in the walk-in client and hope and pray that our work is appreciated enough that the walk-in will turn into a request, and finally into permanent clientele. It's a cycle, don't you see? Unfortunately, when you are dealing with a random smattering of people, you tend to come across some clinkers.

My least favorite of the walk-ins is the mother who thinks that the salon is a fast-food establishment. She has about, I'd say, ten children in tow; all of whom have monstrous amounts of hair, and equally monstrous personalities. She comes up to the counter and stares you down with cold eyes. You grasp your shears in self defense, eyeing the motley crew of children, all drooling and clinging to their mother's coat. They resemble the cast of characters from Lord of the Flies. She cranes her neck over the desk and tries to read our books upside down. Excuse me, but there is a reason the desk is so high; it is when we see people like her coming, so we can lie and say we are all booked.

Slowly, you approach the minute woman. She is always short and petit, so she can camoflage into her surrounding brood. "Can I help you?" you ask, trying to crack a helpful smile.

She shoots a cold glare at you, so hard and sharp that you flinch and your skin actually hurts. "How long?" she spats.

Now, maybe it's just my smart-ass personality, but I never want to give a direct answer to this question. Especially when I can tell the woman is a bitch. Obviously, this woman has entered a salon, a hair-cutting establishment. I know exactly what she wants. But I really do loathe the question, "How long?" How long for what? How long until Satan hires your little minions to do his bidding? I give the kids a glance; not long by the looks of it.

Of course, what she wants is a haircut for each of her offspring. And of course, every stylist is free to do it. The drooling clan of the gentically impaired take a step onto the salon floor, and all hell breaks loose. It is impossible for the childrens' feet to ignore the tempting pedal that pumps our chairs. They pump them up and down, up and down. I give the mother a pleading look, as I try to tell little Tommy that the chairs are not toys and should not be used in a such a manner. My smile seems some-what unconvincing beings that my eyes are about to pop out of my face and I am starting to foam at the mouth. They continue to swivel and swirl, refusing to remain in a still position. Is it just me or do the youth of this generation have no fear? Do they not feel pain? For if it was me, as the child, purposefully ignoring the requests of an in-charge adult, my armpits would have no feeling. My mother would have grasped me under the arms so swiftly and tight, that all circulation to extremeties would be cut off so alarmingly, my arms would theoretically fall off.

The mother obviously is blind and/or deaf. She makes no effort to displine her children. She just sits in the only available saln-chair left, a crumpled mess, head in hand, obviously looking back on her life with great contempt. We finally wrangle the unwiley crew and get them seated in our chairs. We have slapped mussels on their faces, in the form of lollipops. Our shears are poised by the little precious angels' head when the mother finally seems to awake from her stupor. "How much is this gonna cost?" she demands, obviously expecting something in the 50 cent range.

"Children's cuts are $16.00." I reply. I wish the rate was higher.

"Aw hellllllllll no!" She leaps from the chair and swiftly nabs each child from their position. "Ain't no way I'm gonna pay 16 dollars for a haircut!"

In a flurry of fuzz and sucker wrappers, the group is gone from our sight. We can hear the mother kavetching all the way to the other side of the mall. We clean up in silence, secretly relieved that we didn't have to finish the service, but still verbally bitching about their behavior.

You'd think that this was just an isolated incident. But, unfortunately, it is not. There will be others just like them in the future, and many others that make me just as uncomfortable and uneasy. It comes with the job. But you know, for every horrible client I get, there are more than equal amout of people that are just wonderful human beings who make my job absolutely worth it.

It's a Twister, it's a Twister!

A tornado siren is going off in the distance. Pure coincedence, but deliciously appropriate. It's Tornado Awareness Week, and beings that neither my father or my sister could hear said siren; I believe our safety in a cyclone is questionable. However, I'm not talking about weather today, folks. But the tornado siren just sets the mood.

Anne Hathaway has been cast in the title role of the upcoming Judy Garland biopic. I know, gasp. I'll give you a moment... whew. Okay, are you good? I'll continue.

Beings that I am a colossal admirer of the late, great triple-threat, I believe my opinion to be of immense importance. Even though I completely respect and am a fan of Miss Hathaway, I fear she is completely wrong for the role. For years, I have pictured myself in the title role of "Get Happy", the Judy Garland biopic. I'm just saying I'm the same body type, the same height, and I can belt out "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" like nobody's business. I have conquered the dance moves of "Get Happy" from her last MGM production, "Summer Stock", and I can quote every line from "Meet Me in St. Louis". I have watched "Me and My Shadows" numerous times and suffered through the book of the same title. I am made for that role, goddammit. But I digress.

It is not fair of me to just bitch how I did not get the role. I didn't audition, I just read the book. What do I know? I'm just the fan who feverishly digs through piles of old sheet music and records in the local antique store, hoping and praying that I come across some Judy paraphenalia. I might not be the girl for the part but I do have an educated opinion. Anne Hathaway, while musically talented, is just too sweet and tall to play the songstress. Yes, she has an Oscar nod under her belt for a role as a junky. But Judy is not some sickly drug-addict, sprung from rehab. She had guts and soul. She kept her glamour intact as long as she could, or rather, the allusion. She was not responsible for her drug addiction. She was the a show-biz kid, a product of the studios who was warped and manipulated to become another star in the MGM heavens. However, rather than disappearing into the same void so many young girls did, Judy seemed to have a spark about her that made her so different than the others. She had gumption and character that made her one of the most admired entertainers in history. Here's a warning for you Anne- Don't fuck this up.

I will be first in line to see this film, and I will be happy to say I was wrong about the casting. I would love to see Anne Hathaway conquer the role like it needs to be conquered. But if she does fuck it up, I'm getting my head-shots taken and I'm putting together my resume. Here's the question- does the fact that I can swallow pills quite easily count as a special skill?

Back in the Saddle Again

I greet you today with a happy heart. It seems, sometimes, one can have their cake and eat it too. It's utterly fabulous. This particular cake is in the shape of my very own apartment. The cake I'm eating is a fantastic trip to England in a few months. It's deliciously grande.
I'm finally back in the saddle. I almost have control over my life. Well, almost. There's always a bit to be wrangled. But the ignition under my ass has finally turned, and I'm rearing to go.
I even managed to lasso a roommate, my colligiate cousin, a lovely girl who embraces my love of the quirky and vintage; and also understands my hobbit-like mannerisms at times. She's even willing to split the cost of a portable dishwasher. God bless her.
And now we delve into the land of decoration. I have just started searching the web for ideas, though I already have a few of my own. First off, I want to do the bathroom in a rich plum. My sister's best friend has a plum bathroom, and I utterly adore it. Actually, I friggin' love her entire apartment. So, I believe her habitat will serve as continuing inspiration. Then I want to do the living room in a rich coffee, maybe with some cream and sage. It sounds like I'm baking. But, the most delicious foods often make the most delicious colors.
I think the kitchen will somewhat match the living room; most likely sage green or a nuetral cream. I have no idea, actually, there are sooo many possibilities! Anyway, I just wanted to update my most loyal of readers on the the on-goings of my life. This week is Customer Appreciation Week at work, so I'll be a bit flightly for the next few days. Just wanted to touch bases with you all!

Free Your Mind and the Rest Will Follow...

I'm checking the time, and no one with any sense should be up this early on a Saturday. Well, I clearly lack sense on a daily basis, so why shouldn't I start not making any sense at the ass-crack of dawn? Am I making any sense? No? Good.

I have long-since toiled with the thought of being confined to certain expectations. I clearly have not been very attentive. The fact is, I live with my parents. There should be no shame in this. However, when this issue is brought to light in conversation, there is nothing but grief for me. "Oh, well at least you're saving money." or "I wish I had done that." To that particular comment, my eyes light up like a child at Christmas and I try to stoke the waning fire of freedom. "Really? You wish you would have stayed with your parents?"

To this query, the respondee looks taken aback, clearly frightened by the crazed look in my eyes. "Um, well no." They answer, "I couldn't take it."

And so with this blog, I want to hitch up my shorts Barney Fife style and make a few things perfectly clear. First of all, I want everyone to know that in a perfect world, I would not live with my parents. In a perfect world, I would live in a hobbit-hole in Hobbiton and knock back a few pints with Frodo. Alas, life is not perfect, and modern society does not allow for my dream.

In a fair world, my pay check would allow me to actually pay rent. Wouldn't that be fabulous? But, technically, I am still a beginner hairstylist trying to get my name out in the world without the fleeting statement, "God, that girl fucked up my hair."

Do not feel sorry for me. You may be out on your own, but I'm being fiscally responsible. Or at least that's what I tell myself when I cry myself to sleep. I will move out of my parent's house, not someday, but very soon. And I will not be in debt, so suck on that. Living with the parents adds a bit of stress not seen by the naked eye. Yes, I do not have have to pay for food or lodging but I do pay an emotional toll. Aye, there lies the rub.

I'm an adult in an adolescent living situation. It clearly sucks. I always have to let my parents know where I'm going to be, even though sometimes I cannot answer that question myself. I'm kinda a go with the flow type of gal, unless it deals with scary movies and control of the telelvision volume. However, I digress. This is not because they care about me, which they do but that is besides the point. It's because they do not want to awake in the middle of the night with my face smashed up against the window screen begging for the door to be unlocked. My father is a very routine-oriented man and this has been an issue in the past.

I cannot leave my shit around the house. In my own house, there's going to shit everywhere. Deal with it. My friends find this fact particularly humorous after they tried to taunt me with threats to get my shit off the stairs. This is a continuing running joke amongst a small group of them. I'm not a particularly dirty person. My messes are organized chaos. But they are organized dammit, and I like it that way. My mother does not agree with my organized chaos theory, apparently, and there have been some emotional and physical bruising caused by this difference in opinion.

Thank God I'm employed. I take refuge in my job. I'm not just a lazy shit who yells at my mom for more meatloaf. I actually have friends who are entertained by my wit, therefore I'm a joy to be around. I'm a hoot. I can't help it. These facts alone keep me going. I know, I sacrifice so much. In years to come I will probably look back at this time in my life with altered nostalgia. But for right now, I take full advantage of bitching and until I sign a lease, I will continue in my solitary pity-party.

Well That's a Horse of a Different Color!

I am actually writing this particular blog post whilst waiting for a perm to ripen. I know, my life seems so thrilling compare to your own. Maybe it's just the fumes, but I'm feeling particularly glamorous today. Not. I'm staring out into the middle of the mall, the fountain flows lavishly as my amputee admirer makes bedroom eyes in my direction. Isn't life deliciously grand? I hear a child screaming in the direction of the food court. God, could this get any better? However, I digress fellow readers, and I apologize. Now to the topic at hand... it's one of my favorites! Make-up! Not to ADD off the subject of the goings-on at the Northtowne Mall; but it is not only grotesquely dull, but that's a horse of a different color.
It has long-since been my dream to make a career out of naming cosmetics. Half the fun of purchasing make-up is choosing the cosmetics with the most entertaining names. Is it not? Oh the heart palpitations I get when I verbally rejoice in the fact that I'm wearing an eyeshadow called "Dirty Skank." I'm just kidding, that color doesn't exist; but I picture it as a taupe. How I glow when I know that I'm wearing a lip gloss blessed with the name "Sexy Mother-Pucker." My cheeks begin to tingle with anticipation when I just think of smothering them in a bronzer called "Half-Baked."
I would have to say that three-fourths of the pleasure I recieve when making up my face is looking forward to answering the question, "What color is that?"
I can't help but haughtily preen my pretentious feathers when this question is posed. Instead of responding with some boring hue, I reply with a fabulous shade, "It's called Moroccean Midnight." It's not only a kick-ass name, it is also brims with entertainment value.
I doff my cap to the following cosmetic lines for not only shading in my my predisposed pale face, they also bring joy to my daily vocabulary.

1. Urban Decay- God, I love Urban Decay. Instead of leaving me in anoymity with a blase palette of powder, they have graced our eyelids with shades such as Sin, Chopper, Polyester Bride, Grifter, Last Call, Mildew, Maui Wowie, Smog, and who could forget Shattered?!

2. MAC- Holla to the MAC folks! Not only do they produce the best quality is some-what affordable products, but they actually blessed their products with cool names. A few of my faves are Swimming, Gorgeous Gold, and Material Girl.

3. Mark- Oh Mar, we haven't talked in a while. We need to catch up. But, even though we're not up to date in each other's lives, that doesn't mean I can't mention you! Do I not still apply Dragonfly to my eyelids or Player to my lips? Have my cheeks not glistened in the beautiful coverage of Gold-Glo?

4. Aveda- I suppose that I must mention the products of my alma-mater, Aveda. They might be a munch of pretentious, recycling, granola-munching drama-queens; but boy do they have a way with words. A few of my favorite shades from their natural cache of custom colors are Vinca, Lemon Spice, Poppy, Sweet Grass, Moss, Field Stone, and Sunset.

5. OPI- What is a list of the cleverly named without OPI? Oh OPI! You're the queen, the master, the ringleader of coming up with shades that are so much fun to say, that half the pleasure is at the tip of our tongues instead of the tipsof our toes? Where would we be with Lincoln Park After Dark, I'm Not Really a Waitress, or You Don't Know Jacques!?

So readers, I beg of you. Screw Covergirl and Maybelline! They obviously do not care about their offspring. They didn't give the time of day to bless their palette of products with a name? What's in a name, you may ask? Well, my make-up brush, that's what.

The Empire Strikes Back

Here's a little tip for you. Never ask me if I'm pregnant. I will eat your face.

I happen to wear a lot of empire-waisted tops. Deal with it. When I think of empire waists, I often am lost in a world of beautiful british accents and pretending I am in love with a man named Edward. Pregnancy is the furthest thing from my mind. However, it seems that everytime I wear a flowy top, I'm always approached about my due date. I could fucking strangle somebody.
I, personally, think that pregnancy is a very private matter. Even if I'm absolutely sure the person I am talking to, is with child, I tend to tip-toe around the fact until the pregnant woman actually verbally confirms my suspicions.
This year alone, I have been approached on two different occasions by two different women, WOMEN mind you. You'd think that the female population would share my qualms on this subject. The first time I was asked if I was going a leave anytime soon. I stood there for a moment, quite confused about the posed question. It was the look of sheer horror on my friend's face that brought me into the light. I, quite dryly, replied, "No, I don't think so."
My friend, Misty, jumped right in, for it was her client that had approached me. Somehow, it's always Misty who's there, comforting me when my self-esteem has taken a blow. Quite shrilly, Misty tried to make excuses for her client, an otherwise kind woman who had obviously rubbed me the wrong way. "It's those darn flowy tops, and the way you were standing! That's all! She didn't mean it! She's old and confused, senile in fact!"
I brushed the encounter off. The lady was old and I'm a forgiving soul. Not. The second time I was chatting with Misty as she shampooed her client. This lady wasn't exactly elderly. She looked at me with a kind smile, "You know, maturity clothes are so cute these days."
Misty got that look on her face again, this time giving me a strained smile that said, "What do you want me to say?!"
I don't exactly remember how I curtailed that particular comment, but I do remember shlumping to Misty after her client left, the Charlie Brown theme music clearly going through my head. "Do I really look pregnant?" I asked, my puppy-dog eyes on the brink of tearing up. Actually, my eyes probably resembled the likes of a pit-bull than a puppy-dog. It was Misty's dear, sweet grandmother who cheered me up. "Honey, you just ignore those old bats. They don't know fashion!" God bless you, Mrs. Girlie.
And here I go on my tirade. Even if I was pregnant, why is it anyone's goddamn business? It's not anyone's right to know what is going on in my uterus. Never ask me if I'm pregnant, it's as simply as that. Not only does it make for a socially awkward situation, it's just fucking rude. Even if I was going into the ninth month and the kid is crowning, do not even try to allude to the fact that I am pregnant. Maybe I'm just fat, and you don't know me. (Insert finger wave and cocking on the hip.) I, like many women, am very sensitive about my appearance and I don't need anyone else trying to tear me down from my very fragilely-built ego. So, in conclusion, never ask me if I'm pregnant. I just like flowy-tops.

Face-Hooked

I am about to step up onto my metaphorical soapbox, so I'd prepare myself. I begin my plight with a blip of conversation that I have had on my many accounts with variable of my friends;

Me: Hey, guess what? I totally found an original piece of Judy Garland sheet music! Isn't that just flippin' awesome?!
My lovely variable friend: I know, I saw it on your Facebook status.
Me: Ah... well, I was excited. And apparently I have no new news.

Quoting the fabulous Steve Martin, "Welllllll EXXXCCCCUUUUUSEEEEEE MEEEEEE!!!" What has our society come to!? When has it become a faux pas to verbally repeat something that was published on a social-networking sight? Is it poison to your ears? Can you physically not withstand hearing something that you've already read? I mean, isn't there an entire genre of books that are turned into movies that serve the same purpose? This is not the only time I have had this conversation. It has obviously weighed on my mind for some time.
I apologize if I come off a bit harsh, but I tend to get this way when I'm irritated. I have tendency to vent my opinions to anything not nailed down. My friends can see it in my eyes. Usually, my irateness is a form of humor to my close circle of friends. If someone is absolutely pissing me off, my friends usually make a series of hand signals similar to the signals used to land planes, and gather in an abandoned room so I can de-pressurize and continue having a good time. I'm a sarcastism-pressure cooker.
However, I do not have my de-pressurizers around me at the moment. Namely, they are Shannon, Amber, and Kaleigh. They all bring something to the table in the ways of calming me down. Shannon always tells me I'm being ridiculous and tells me "it ain't like that!" But I can still get her to laugh. Amber is my little sidekick. God love her. If I ever need a comrade to enjoy my sarcastic quips, it's her. Kaleigh just tells me I'm being ridiculous, which is needed because I usually am being ridiculous. The girl keeps me grounded. However, I digress.
So I am using you, dearest readers to vent and sarcasticly de-pressurize. I feel that if I'm venting cyberly, my topic should be related to the computer.

My Love/Hate Relationship with Facebook

I have often asked myself, "What have I come to?" This is usually after I have frantically checked my Facebook account for, I don't know, the fifth time in one day. I feel somewhat ashamed of myself. How lame have I become?! I am somewhat lucky to be apart of the generation that remembers life without Tivo, DVR, and ipods. Yet, how is it possible that I cannot recall my life without the daily greeting "Welcome to Facebook!"?
I ask you, what the hell? I am serious when I say I love Facebook for very self-possessed reasons. I love seeing that little red conversation bubble in the lower right-hand corner, especially when it contains a number higher than one. I love knowing that someone cared enough for to write on my wall, comment on my status, and maybe perhaps, if I'm lucky... tag a picture of me. I giggle like a little school girl when that happens!
However, I don't give a shit about alot of people. I don't care that you're going to be leaving your computer, I refuse to "text it!". I don't care that you love your family and friends. We all pretty much knew that. I do, however, appreciate clever statuses. I really do. The funnier the better.
So to conclude, I am a very selfish Facebook member. I care for a few peeps, namely my top friends, and those who humor me. Now, away with you. Somebody just ended their relationship and I can't wait to see the comment blood-bath.

Opening Credits

I stare blankly; my mouth hanging open, drool testing the laws of gravity, like a single big toe testing the temperature of a steaming bathtub. Clearly intellect was the forty-sixth chromosome that jumped ship at my conception. I have a tendency to lose myself to my own thoughts, and I never looked attractive whilst in the moment. At least my jaw isn’t jut forth like some kind of ape, a look that I am known to illustrate when the there is no thought in my head to get lost amongst.
I have just described to you every attempt I have ever made at creating a blog. I’ve finally decided to give in to public outcry and give the people what they want. You should know now, I tend to exaggerate to make my life seem a bit more colorful. I live a life that is filmed in black and white. I write in Technicolor.
Over the three and half years I have owned my own computer, the file "My Documents" has been slowly filled with half-assed attempts at creating genious. Almongst the rows of abandoned projects are the first pages of several works that I had pretty much copied from some movie or book that I really liked. I have a tendency to do this. I watch or read something that sparks my creativity and I jump into a story. Usually the first few paragraphs are pure genious; poetry that flows from my fingertips like sangria when I'm not counting my Weight Watchers points. Oh, do not fret my friends; you will get to know my relationship with the scale; she can be a cold, hard, dirty bitch sometimes. However, I digress.
So, where was I? Oh yes, my attempts at genious usually continues for about five pages then it goes like this:

The author wipes her brow with a sigh of relief as she scrolls up and reads over her tireless work. A look of accomplishment disappears from the author's face; like nail polish that has been tested a bit too soon. The author scrolls up once more, this time a bit hurried. Her brow furrows as she disects her writing a bit more. She reads on, her lips mouthing the words with furvor. She finishes and looks up at the empty room. She sighs heavily, "This is fucking Twilight."

And so it goes, just insert different titles; Twilight, Harry Potter, the Bible, what have you. I have written my own version of many works, and as you can see; it has gotten me so far. So after several attempts at a novel, I tried to break into the world of film. Obviously, basing my writings on the works of others did not garner much success. So what other resource could I suckle to achieve literary infamy?! Well, the answer is always going to be my friends and family. They are a literal infestation of literary lice. And so I began my very first screenplay.
Locked and loaded with nearly 21 years of artillery, I put on my Diablo Cody a-line bob and set off on the yellow brick road to Oscar-town. God bless Facebook and my generation's obsession with recording every goddamn quote they find heart-warming and humorous. I must admit, I tend to skim over the countless Taylor Swift lyrics and any sentence that ends in a little heart. But this is where I found my most meaty lines of dialogue. To anyone whom I might of pilfered some of your most precious "Favorite Quotes", I will formally thank you in my acceptance speech for "Best Original Screenplay", if I ever return to my script. And so you might guess, the yellow brick road ending in a little culdesac called, "My Friends Are Going to Kill Me if They Ever Read This-Ville". I might have delved a bit too deep into reality. So the script was laid aside and I jumped to my next medium- poetry.
"Poetry for Shoetry" are wise words once spoken by a more lymric-lipped friend, whom obviously is more apt at the haiku. I do have a talent for turning nursery-rhymes into kick-ass raps, but that is where my talent for the rhyme ends.
And so the detour route is da blog. And so fellow readers, I must introduce myself. My name is Ellen Leah Kohart, but you may call me Elle for short. I am an over-ripe piece of fruit in the the refridgerator of life called my parents' house. Yes, yes, I am a victim of the so-called "boomerang effect", a term that I first became aware of in my darling parentals' AARP magazine.
I am a hair stylist at a salon in a mall, you can usually find me there, giving the stink-eye to the old-man amputee and his side-kick who like to sit outside the salon and rate the perkiness of my fellow stylists' bums. I hate to think that that's all I am; a hairdresser at a Northwest Ohio mall, where my sole purpose is to serve as some old bastard's eye-candy. Yes, I consider myself eye-candy; deal with it.
I'm often asked how I like working at the mall. I respond with the same glazed-over look that the interviewer has as they prompt me with said question. "Yeah, I really like it. The girls are really nice there." This is all true. I really do like working at Regis. I really do like the girls I work with, a couple in particular. It's the whole working at a mall, and working in a corporate salon that are real ball-busters. It's very much like being a chef whom studied in the very best institutions in Paris and Milan, and ending up being employed at Applebees. It's very disheartening. Pretty much that's where I work, the Applebees of hair. We're much better than McDonald's or our greasy cousin White Castle. But we're just not up to the cut of Douglas J, or Ken Paves. We've got the talent. I am Aveda-trained goddamn it. But I digress.
Another aspect of my life that has something to do with hair is my deep love of make-up. It is not just an accessory that we chose to wear to cover up a lone zit in seventh grade. It is an art-form, one that will be the basis of many future blog postings.
A few more of my deep loves are as follows: anything to do with Judy Garland and her eldest offspring, musicals, the works of Bill Bryson, critiquing films-I don't just watch 'em, I bitch about 'em too. Hmmm, what else? Well, I already mentioned Weight Watchers, but I'm also a rather recent member of the veggie-tribe. Yes, I am a vegetarian, and so far so good!
And this is where I leave you now fellow reader. Please do not fret, I am brimming over with tons of shit to discuss but it is Law and Order SVU time, and Chris Meloni has that smoldering look, so I must take my leave...

Salut.