Wednesday, March 25, 2009

I do not have a Monday outfit for you, for several reasons. The first of these is: today is Wednesday. And the second of these is: no one wants to see pictures of me in ugly sweatpants and a filthy, decade old t-shirt, my hair 24 hours unbrushed, which is how I looked for all of Monday.

Instead I have for you the picture of the ridiculousness that was me on Saturday morning. See, I had gone out on Friday night, already all high on self-pity and indignation. I forced E. to take me out to the Pour House, which was having some kind of herring season/spring break promotional event involving Jagermeister schwag, pretty girls in tippy heels and scandalously short skirts (you know they were short if I thought so) whipping Jello shots like softballs across the bar, and challenges from random strangers that ended with: "YOU'RE the one I want to do a body shot off of!" In other words, not the sort of scene I normally enjoy. I like to drink my whiskey in PEACE, thank you. The upshot of it all was, I declined the body shot from the itinerant herring tender, I split a Jello shot that tasted of cough syrup with E., who was actually still coughing, and I scored some WICKED SWEET giveaways. On top of this, I had been making rather cruel comments earlier in the day about Supersoakers full of Jager and the type of person who enjoys them... so I was forced by my own conscience to wear this in penance:

I am pretty sure spring break does not coincide with Sturgis. Also, these are the Rock of Love scandalpants.

So then the rest of the weekend happened, and if you are reading this, you probably already know that the rest of the weekend was the shittiest 36 hours of the last three or four years for me. All the studded leather jackets and bitchface in the world couldn't keep me from the melancholy that beset me.

So, for the second time in a mere six months, I impulsively laid my money down to flee. The first time I was flying straight into someone's arms; this time I will probably have to shop around a little bit. We'll see what charms Texas Rockabilly Revival holds; I am going this one alone, and so will most likely spend my time pressed up against a monitor, making eyes at a guitarist who is busy making eyes at the 24-year old with the cut-off halter top and tattoos across her boobs. At least I will get to watch Jimbo slap his stuff again, and see the Queen of Rockabilly before she kicks off this mortal coil. I won't say that there isn't a curious weight in my chest when I think about how the one person I would dearly, dearly enjoy sharing this with can't even bring himself to look at my Facebook page, but that is neither here nor there. Rock and roll will burn the sadness right out of you.

Speaking of impulsive... um. Turns out the day H. shows up with her locks shorn into a delightful yet manageable bob is the day I ferret out a 2 year old bottle of peroxide and go all Patricia Day on my bangs:

I am only wearing half my makeup, and half my clothes. I guess it's good this is a headshot.

I went a little overboard, maybe. But I needed to do something in order to crowd out the running monologue in my head, the one that says things like this.

I am not making any outfits for RAB Revival, by the way. I am just taking those scandalpants and that Jager shirt. And the highest pair of Hey, Sailor! stiletto heels I own. Maybe the red ones.

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