d*land

A Rush Of Blood To The Head

Alright.

I finally broke down and bought Coldplay. After a year of pleading from my friend Dave in San Diego, and a couple of comments from other people, I went and did it.

I've heard In My Place somewhere, but not on the radio. I can't imagine who was playing it, or where I was, or what I was doing.

. . .

I don't leave the house with make-up on. I rarely do my hair to run errands, or get dressed into anything but overalls.

The reason is that I get attention, and I hate being stared at. I hate people looking at me. Probably because I'm paranoid. But they do. They stare.

Today, to be safe, I pulled my hair back into a messy pony tail, put on two shirts, and overalls... didn't shower, didn't even wash my face. Bushed my teeth, and wiped the sleep from my eyes.

I'm walking out of Target, and a car slows w-a-y down. Out bellows, "Hey, baby! Hey!"

Keep walking. Don't look.

On the way to the post office, the girls in Daddy's Buick turn around to stare. I'm checking myself in the rear view mirror.

No. Nothing hanging from your face. No bags, no circles, hair mostly in place.

I guess I've got something going for me today. I mean aside from the hacking cough and body ache.

. . .

And now I've wasted enough time.

I have a party to go to tonight, and then Kristin and I are going out with her brother and his friend. (Yes, the friend who's comment on my appearance was, "I'd fuck her." And that's not saying much.)

I've promised pictures. And pictures there shall be. Tomorrow.

12.14.02 || 2:00 pm

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