body like soft serve

I died my hair dark brown today. I look porcelain skinned now. Pink cheeks. Like some 1920s doll. Without the eyelashes or rouged lips. The hair dye was a remedy to a $100 hair fiasco that befell me on Saturday. I was blond. BLOND. No good. I could not be any further from a blond if I tried. I am not tanned nor sporty nor bombshell. I am pale and bookworm and maybe on a good day, mysterious. So the blond had to go and it had to go might quick. It took courage, courage I tell you, to walk my blond ass up to Walgreen’s and buy the first box of dark brown hair dye I came across. I wished for a hat. A scarf would have been nice. I would have even considered a helmet quite frankly. I nearly ran home. 30 minutes later I looked like myself again. Ahhhh.

I’m painting my apartment this weekend. It’s icy blue, pea soup green and burnt orange. I’m rather random about where I apply each color. A little here. A little there. The colors don’t really match any of my stuff, but I’ve decided that matching is overrated. So 1990s, if you know what I mean. I figure it’ll all go because it just so won’t go. It was the easiest I’ve ever had at picking paint. I didn’t even take a swatch home. I held it up to no pillow! I worried about no rug! I stood in front of the billion trillion choices and picked the first three that I liked, bought a roller and went home. When it’s done it will be airy and bright. And my couch will look like it’s from outer space. Perfect.

Paul is coming back this summer. For a few weeks. His mission is to help me sort out the boxes of receipts and sales reports and bills that are the remains of Purgatory Coffee. Right now they’re piled in a closet that I pretend isn’t there. But. It’s there. And ignoring it isn’t making it go away. It’s holding me back. Keeping me in place. Slowly turning me into a hamster running in a blue plastic wheel. I’d really rather be a girl. So Paul is coming. To rescue my girliness from the grasp of rodentdom. To be my own personal superhero. To drink wine with me on the window ledge. One step further. One more. One more. One.

It’s all deep breaths and runaway thoughts with him. Butterflies. And tidal waves. I knew the second I met him that he would be important to me. Felt it in our handshake. Didn’t believe it was true. But here he is. Being important. We would talk for hours and both smile the whole time. He reads books I wish I had written. And makes movies in his head. Like me. His are stories. Mine are pretty pictures in slow motion. I remember him saying that the wings I painted were perfect. I remember telling him that I felt like I was 14. This isn’t a love story. It’s a hunch turning into a true. It’s being rescued a little. Poked fun of a little. It’s holding on and letting go. I can’t decide how I care. Brother or best friend. Mad crush. Daydream fodder. The boy I pine for. Supporting role. Crisscross. He is buried in May twirl and there are streamers everywhere. Maybe I’ll know when they float to the ground.

My new obsession: POKEY!

What flavor I am: Chocolate!