840

Well. It's late. It's 12:52 a.m., but this will post as being at 11:52 p.m. Why that is, I do not know. I just consumed 840 calories so I feel like going to sleep now really isn't an option. So obviously typing is the best thing to do--burns all those hard-to-target fat zones in my fingers. Right. I started to write a story tonight. The birth of a great novel, no doubt. It's about some girl named Eliza (I won't reveal her full name--can't have anyone stealing the rights to what is sure to be a bestseller, currently in its embryonic stages). The story begins with Eliza thinking about nervous break downs and heating up a frozen pizza. Genius, I know. I've been thinking about a lot of things and in some kind of burst of... something... I decided to write a story. But I'm not even sure that was my real reaction. In one of my favorite books the main character gets super confused and scared and whirl-winded and in reaction to all that lousy emotion, she just sits down and writes an idiotic story. I think I was trying too hard to be the character in that book. I don't know why. I like the character very much. And she has red hair--something I wanted all while growing up. But my hair is brown and my name is not Shannon and I'm not going to finish my story. It's been saved on my laptop with a half dozen or so other starts to different stories. So, what was the point really? I myself ate a frozen pizza (unfrozen at the time of consumption) while writing it and now the roof of my mouth is burned and peeling. Perhaps I was writing about Eliza so she could be me. But I don't even look like an Eliza. Fanny would be a better name, perhaps. Perhaps not.

My roommate put a poster of Johnny Depp on our wall today. Well, the wall by her bed. It's him off the cover of Rolling Stone magazine and my two roommates and I had a discussion about whether or not he waxed his chest. On the poster he has this button up shirt that is, incidentally, buttoned down to a point that approaches his navel. I'm looking at it now and feel fairly creeped out. Wondering whether some movie star waxes his chest is not something I do often and I can feel those 840 calories churning in a nausea-inducing kind of way. I suppose I should be thankful that he's not on the wall near my bed in all his hairless chested glory.

One of my roommates tighens the bolts (screws?) on the kitchen chairs every weekend because they come loose. That is an incredible detail. I like it. I kind of wish I did it. It's like white-washing your mailbox every Thursday morning or something. I would like to own a Jersey cow. I will name her Mailbox and white wash a letter from the Greek alpahbet on her every Tuesday afternoon. I feel like now is the time to make a disclaimer about my own apparent insanity, but the fact is that I find all of that rather delightful.