I've never been the sort of person to have a simple, uncluttered life. Sure, I might ooh and aah at the sleek lines and sensible Scandinavian design in an IKEA catalog, but when it comes right down to it, I know that I'll never be able to maintain it. I could get a roomful of long, low tables made of white pine and accompanying low black leather chairs, add a beige rug or two, and accent it with a kicky orange or lime-green lamp, and then stand back and think to myself, "Wow, this looks so lovely and grown up!" I can guarantee that about five minutes later, everything would be covered in books and papers and coffee cups and ashtrays and mail and wineglasses and pens and chargers and bottlecaps and paperclips and probably some more books and things for my computer and probably also piles of clothes and a still-packed suitcase.
You can actually find my book about the clap on Amazon.com.
If anyone were to decide to musically score my life, Michael Buble singing "Feeling Good" would be, without a doubt, the title track. For the past several months, I've been utterly unable to function unless I listen to that song at least 3 times a day. Plus the video is fucking hot, especially the half-a-second shot where he pulls on his tie at two minutes fifteen. Whoof. Someone fetch me a martini, I'm feeling a litle light-headed.
Blue Apron Foods has the best fucking olives in the world. I've quite literally been having dreams about them.
I talk to myself in public. A lot. Full conversations where I call myself by name. Like, if I want to remind myself of something? I'll actually say "Okay, Chris, don't FORGET this THING you have to do." And then I'll usually realize there are people nearby, and I'll tell myself to stop talking to me. Unfortunately, I tend to say that out loud, too. "God, Chris, you look like a crazyperson. Stop talking to yourself."
My awesome company just changed insurance providers so that we could get domestic partner coverage.
I think I'm on a shoe-buying kick. No pun intended.
When you're stupidly independent to the degree that you enjoy cutting your own hair (and possibly also straightening it, bleaching it, buzzing it, and/or dying it hot pink) getting your hair cut in a salon can feel like the very height of decadence. Not only does someone else shampoo my head -- being cleaned by other people is weird!!! -- but I get to chat with someone, wherein the sole topic of conversation is my hair. Not "hair in general," or even "my hair and their hair." Just my hair. What do I want my hair to look like? Am I happy with my hair? What kind of products do I use in my hair? God, it's just fantastic. I mean, I've been part of a lot of self-centered conversations before (hello July 23), but getting your hair done really lets you talk about yourself, without even feeling guilty that you're totally boring the crap out of your friends.