I am now pink

Yeah, got my hair did, and made it all pink an' shit. It's like cyber-punk meets The Little Mermaid, Disney edition.

Watch someone call me for a interview tomorrow. WATCH THEM.

And there is no reason for Karl Urban tongue because, frankly, you do not need a reason for Karl Urban tongue. I mean, lookit! That GQ motherfucker should be an everyday fixture in every red-blooded woman's life.

Fer serious.

Why I Hate This Summer: An Essay of Bitching

It's not that I can't get a god damned job to save my life. I'm bitter but I'm not overly upset.
It's not that I don't own a car. That's gonna happen, one day.
It's that I'm at home.

Home is being remodeled, completely DIY, off-the-cuff construction. And now that I'm home, I can help! Yay!

I don't mind labor. It's something to do. It's just how it's done here.

My mother is very much one to march to the beat of her own drummer. She does things her way, on her own internal timetable that seems to defy everything man knows about its fellow man through centuries of observation. Which is awesome. I want to be my mother when I grow up.

But there is a problem. There is no set schedule to what she does. She'll be cutting drywall one day, and then will ignore the job for the next week, almost as if she forgot about it. But she never forgets. No, she'd bidding her time. For what, the world may never know. But as a result, she works in spurts and sputters, confounding us all.

How this relates to me is thus: I help out when it's clear that there's work to be done. She stops, I stop, having no idea what her next step or plan of attack is. I wait. I sit around the house, kick my heels, and wait some more. I finally get bored and make plans. Then, boom, she's back at it and I'm stuck looking like a leech, living under her roof, eating her food, not lifting a finger to help rebuild the bathroom/re-enforce the gutters/pry up kitchen counters because I'm too busy going out with my friends.

And there's nothing I can do for it, because my mother does not plan and therefore cannot tell me ahead of time when to not be busy. It's like ships in the night.

This is, of course, overlooking the typical arguments over sleeping in (an outrage that I just do not understand in the slightest), gas, who has the car which night, who's going to drop everything to take my sister to her fifth softball tournament in as many days, and, of course, who's turn it is to take out the trash.
And I really do not want to get into the peripheral drama of friends and their relationships/breakups/emergencies/frustrations/issues, either.

It feels selfish, because it is, but I do not want to be here, and I have not enjoyed my stay. Barring some freak incident or absolute necessity of my being here, I do not foresee myself returning home for another summer. I am too used to doing my own thing, and it feels as if I'm the one doing all the bending.