Sing it, Darryl

I just jumped out of my chair, tore my shirt off, and walked six feet towards the bathroom intending to jump in the shower and change my hairstyle from straight to curly. Why? I got a fucking haircut tonight, and as usual, when I make a drastic change to my appearance, I'm sick about it.

What if it's too short? It's short, it's cute, it'll be easy and quicker to take care of, but what if it's too short? What if the color's too dark? I kind of hate the color. Maybe washing it will make me like it better. Maybe it will look better curly. I can't fit it all up into a ponytail anymore. Shit. I now have no options for the mornings when I don't feel like showering and claim I'll do it after I work out. This is a lot more commitment than I wanted. Shit.

I don't have clothing to go with this haircut. It's too classy. I'm more girl-next-door. I don't wear enough makeup to make this haircut work. Fuck! I wanted to grow my hair out just two days ago. What was I thinking?? I want long hair that I can curl just so. All the models have long hair. Guys always say they like long hair better.

My boobs are too big for this haircut. Not that that's a surprise. My boobs are too big for everything this season--clothes right now are for those without chests. It infuriates me. Also, I'm too short. If I were tall and flat, maybe this hair would work.

Does it make me look too young? I can never hit it right with hair; too short makes me look like a brunette (and incredibly buxom) Dakota Fanning, too long and I look like a junior high student, albeit one with a butt. (there is no haircut that I know of that makes me look older.)

Now I can't put it up for R's brother's wedding like I planned to. Then the dress I bought after a ton of stressing and second-guessing will look bad, and his parents will hate me, and we're going to break up, and I'll never get a chance to steal his little sister's white coat.

What I intended to write about was the fact that although I've heard it pour several times today, whenever I've been outside it's been putting out the gentlest kind of mist, like Cleveland is a delicate orchid. If Cleveland were an orchid, it'd be made out of steel. (note to self: become sculptor. make this.) And now my hair is possibly too short and too dark and I can't seem to make myself remember that my hair bleeds color like a freaking pile of emo kids on the top of my head, and also that it grows pretty fast. So I can't write pretty things about Cleveland, and I can't write the three short stories that popped into my head while I was at work. Not right now.