Greater than my fear of being raped on my way home at night, being struck by an enraged bicyclist, or being arrested by the police of Iowa City for various crimes (theft, panhandling, underage drinking, for example), is my fear of slipping and breaking my head on the ice covered sidewalks as I walk about campus. One nasty slip, and my ass is grass.
On that note, I had a fairly embarrassing fuck-I-slipped-on-the-ice-but-very-obviously-caught-myself-after-thrashing-my-limbs-about-like-a-crazy-person-but-everyone-still- saw-me incident in front of Kum and Go yesterday. Yeap. It’s going to happen. I’m not going to make it.
I would qualify earmuffs in the same “don’t ever fucking wear these” category that I place, say, Crocs, overalls, scrunchies, and high-waisted pants, however at this point, earmuffs don’t sound like such a bad idea. Ten degrees or so lower, and I will not hesitate to sport a fluffy pair of Mickey Mouse earmuffs to and from classes to save my precious lobes from frostbite. Don’t judge me. That being said, I don’t think there are many other things I can do to worsen my appearance on a daily basis, so earmuffs might not be too far out of an idea. I seriously look disgusting Monday through Friday, like people don’t talk to me or sit by me if at all possible. I don’t mind. I mean I’m alright. Ya know?
..not even a tick?
Chelsea Handler needs to contact me and we need to party. Plain and simple. This woman is officially my role-model: she’s funny, famous, rich, and a raging alcoholic—everything a girl could dream to be. I wonder if she would adopt me. Probably not.
Someone needs to shoot Britney Spears.
Time to study.
“You know, Tori Spelling is mad at me because I called her a man, but I refuse to apologize to him.”