Since about May of this year I don't think I've seen the actual colour of my nails for anything more than 5 minutes. While I was in Virginia I got my hands on a number of different brightly coloured polishes, and since then I've been hooked, painting my nails every colour under the rainbow. My last run consisted of red, white, and blue nails for 4th of July, which were hell on the whole OCD symmetry but rich enough in colour to make up for it. I've also become a sucker for dark reds and bright turquoises (sometimes together), and have created a colour-blind nightmare of turquoise-red 'eyes' on my toes. I had been planning on doing something with green and blue next, but, well, that's not going to happen.
The whole pride-goes-before-a-fail thing came and bit me on the backside, really. I have very weak nails at the best of times (I have calluses on both hands because I can't and won't strum like normal people), and it turns out that nail polish, while making things pretty, also dries them out, and so now I have very fractured, very damaged, above all very boring nails. Which is why I'm now typing with fingers drenched in almond oil. Apparently it helps, and I'm banking on it, because I intend to play guitar at Sidmouth if at all possible, even if that means sacrificing my pretty colours.
Instead, I'm looking at brightly coloured temporary hair dies- because as yet my hair hasn't managed to fray. Since my last haircut it's been something of a managed mass of frizz with a curly set of bangs. Bizzare, but workable. Now I want to put green or blue or something in it. Maybe I'll just have to substitute brightly coloured clothes.
Next time- my lovely day out on Dartmoor with Kerensa and why Josh's philosophy symposium is going to be the death of me.
Monday, 11 July 2011
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
The Paris Rant
Yes, I have a brand new blog. A brand new, very pink blog. The pink is surprising. I can't, and I won't, guarantee that it will be updated regularly, but my UConn experience got me into the habit of posting rambling updates on my life to the interwebs in genera,, and hey, currently the summer is looking infinite. Anywyays.
I want to go to Paris. I really do. I've been a Francophile ever since my parents welcomed mon grand frere Laurent (a French exchange student, but I was 2), into their Colorado home. My spoken French is appalling, and my writing is even worse, but I still continue to have a love affair with that glamorous land across the water. Aside from all that, though, is the fact that in a few days' time the UConn girls will be meeting there for what will hopefully be the first of many reunions, and, due to money and stupid weekend job, I can't go. I want to go, but I can't. This was how things stood yesterday. I was annoyed, yes, but there wasn't a lot I could do about the situation.
Today, everything changed. I've been putting off admitting that I can't make Paris because, well, that's what I do. I finally put it in writing in my grand, end-of-blog post yesterday on my Going to Connecticut site. Today, then, while talking on Skype, my Dad told me that he would have paid, had I told him sooner.
Gah is the phrase I would normally use in a situation like this. Gah and bother and humbug. It's too late to sort it out now- too late, and too expensive, and also I kind of have this unfortunate weekend job stacking shelves and communicating in grunts at the local Tesco's which should, fingers crossed, be starting on Saturday. (I hope. I really hope. Because if it doesn't I am going to be doubly pissed.) So I'm upset and annoyed with myself and also reconsidering all the things which I will now be missing. Bother bother, people. Bother bother.
Next week, if I can be bothered, I'll update you on the aftermath of all this. I might also talk about Teraria / Glee / accounts / writing (lack thereof) / shelf stacking, or none of the above. We will see.
I want to go to Paris. I really do. I've been a Francophile ever since my parents welcomed mon grand frere Laurent (a French exchange student, but I was 2), into their Colorado home. My spoken French is appalling, and my writing is even worse, but I still continue to have a love affair with that glamorous land across the water. Aside from all that, though, is the fact that in a few days' time the UConn girls will be meeting there for what will hopefully be the first of many reunions, and, due to money and stupid weekend job, I can't go. I want to go, but I can't. This was how things stood yesterday. I was annoyed, yes, but there wasn't a lot I could do about the situation.
Today, everything changed. I've been putting off admitting that I can't make Paris because, well, that's what I do. I finally put it in writing in my grand, end-of-blog post yesterday on my Going to Connecticut site. Today, then, while talking on Skype, my Dad told me that he would have paid, had I told him sooner.
Gah is the phrase I would normally use in a situation like this. Gah and bother and humbug. It's too late to sort it out now- too late, and too expensive, and also I kind of have this unfortunate weekend job stacking shelves and communicating in grunts at the local Tesco's which should, fingers crossed, be starting on Saturday. (I hope. I really hope. Because if it doesn't I am going to be doubly pissed.) So I'm upset and annoyed with myself and also reconsidering all the things which I will now be missing. Bother bother, people. Bother bother.
Next week, if I can be bothered, I'll update you on the aftermath of all this. I might also talk about Teraria / Glee / accounts / writing (lack thereof) / shelf stacking, or none of the above. We will see.
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