Fifty-Six

February 25, 2012 § Leave a comment

Day 56.

The crazy girl with David Bowie hair, they might say.

 

When I wake up in the morning my short, blonde hair stands straight up off of my head. It is hair only a mother could love. Although I am not sure mine does. Recently while watching David Bowie on television I commented that he made me really happy, but I wasn’t sure why. “Maybe it is because you have matching hair,” said my mother from her seat on the couch. She’s right – about mine and David’s hair that is; side-by-side pictures would prove the uncanny resemblance. A couple of days ago I got a haircut. Now the even shorter strands stand up even straighter in the morning as if putting my feet to the floor causes an alarming electrocution. The Bowie look is now more difficult to achieve.

“Don’t tell anyone what I just told you!” I hollered as I walked away from two hours of tea with a new friend. I have hardly any apprehensions with honesty. And despite what my psychologist from 10th grade might say, I am rarely lacking for words. “Are you an external processor?” my friend asks, although there is not much of a question mark at the end of his sentence. Honesty plus verbal enthusiasm equals sharing with said new friend the weird head games that happened during the previous night’s hockey match. “They had to win so I could seem cooler against the opposing team’s fans…or specifically one fan” – was the crazy girl’s gist of a conversation that cannot be boiled down to any sort of pathetic gist. As long as he doesn’t tell too many people, I should be fine.

It has been sometime since I liked a boy – an absurd thing when you are…well, me. My standards have become increasingly high over the years – though not high enough to keep me from falling for a guy who is nonresponsive. It is the same old story told over and over again. “I’ll just listen to a lot of Adele and get over it,” I reminded my sister when she showed me pity earlier today. It is as if I am turned off by the ones who actually like me, choosing to pine after the affections for those who barely recognize my existence. But it is sort of fun, like having David Bowie hair or talking too much. And if I cared what other people thought about me, well now that wouldn’t be any fun at all.

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