Feeling tranquil but not quite sleepy, despite the flight and the fact that we're three hours ahead so my brain should feel like it's 2 a.m. I started another of the books from my stash - the one I thought would go down smoothest, but I'm twelve pages in and already turned off.
Maybe it's because Diablo Cody suggested that 30 is the cutoff for sowing one's wild oats - and being less than a month shy of 30, I resent that. Not to suggest I have a long shopping list of Wild Oats Left to Sow - there will be no skydiving, no Peace Corps, and no career changes that involve learning to undulate in undies - though I did feel slightly affronted when my Peahen asked in some exasperation where this latest flurry of body modifications had come from. "Aren't you a little late with that?" asked she, who pierced and tattooed everything imaginable about ten years ago and is starting to have things taken out.
I still order off the Kids' Menu whenever and wherever I can (better cover up that tattoo or that's not gonna work for much longer) so psh, I say.
I have had a slight fascination with the candy-girl life since I met the stripper ex-girlfriend of one of my ex-boyfriends in '02. He kept nothing from me, so I knew all about her before we had that bizarre run-in at the movies. I listened to the stories with morbid curiosity - what a life, to be paid so much money to turn yourself nightly into what Diablo Cody calls "brown goop" at a "girl buffet." I didn't see it that way then - I saw the ex as an adventurous (if not slightly crazy and very opportunistic) girl who in turn saw dancing as an opportunity to make a lot of money while she still had the goods. But when I met her that day (which must have been five years after her dancing "career" ended), she just looked ... old. And I don't think I was seeing her through rose-colored, I'm-the-girlfriend-now eyes. She looked about 45 (I think she was about 30 at the time) - and an old 45. Run-down tired. She talked like a chipmunk, and was cute like one, too. A cute, old chipmunk. I would almost have felt better if she were gorgeous - but here she was, the tired brown goop, and I wondered how much the buffet had had to do with it.
Anyway, I guess I'll keep at the book. She has a tendency to overmetaphorize (as I have a tendency to make words up) and I almost threw up at the part about open menstruation at Amateur Night (although I'm sure the experience was heavily embellished), but the girl got her start in blogging, after all. She got a book offer based on her blog. That in itself is awesome. She also wrote the Academy Award-winning screenplay for "Juno." (And may I just say I totally approve of quasi-animal prints on the red carpet. Rawr.)
Earlier today I was contemplating The Writing (I would call it The Nonexistent Writing but ... self-fulfilling prophecies and all that) and decided that I need a group. Some years ago I had a group, and even if we sat around talking story and tasting each others' coffees for the first 3/4 of any given meeting, we did get some writing done, and that was the point of Us. Little by little we disbanded, and now I am an orphan with a leaky pen, an itch to write, and a summer break that stretches itself out before me. The Writing is like The Running. I need mates.
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