I try to warn people when I'm grumpy, when I know that I'll be unpleasant to talk to, when I'll want to hit you with my hula hoop. It's only fair. Those are the days that I answer every, "How are you today?" truthfully, with a, "Cranky." So it isn't my fault that everyone who tried to talk to me today about football--to talk to me about anything--got a snarly answer. They ought to have known better.
I liked the way you looked at me like fingernail scratches, like I was a new species of girl that you weren't quite sure just how to classify. Like you were starving.
I found on my camera today what amounts to camera porn, from Saturday night's drunken carousing. It's a video of me putting a new cartridge into my Polaroid and ejecting the blank film cover from the other side. If I were a camera, I'd have been aroused.
Vegetarian dim sum is squishy but delicious. There. Now I feel like part of the club.
I am still masquerading as Little Miss Crankypants, and will be camped out here in semi-formal clothing with my arms crossed until someone presents me with some good news. I mean it, people. Cocktail dresses and tennis shoes and bottles of wine, until everything smells like daisies and blue beverages again.
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