3am posts reek of optimism and a regular sleep schedule, eh? I try my best.
In other news, I’ve decided that when I do fail at life, which occurs often and purely for comedic effect, I do it with perfection. Mucking up life as art, if you’ll allow the allusion.
So, for instance, when part of the amusement for me in Sayville blew up in my face? I chalked it up to my savvy. And when the crypt keeper hit on me in that dark bar while sitting next to his weathered-looking girlfriend (you know, once pretty, too much tanning and self-loathing?) who looked like as if she was going to cut me, but that was semi-acceptable because they were both drunk anyway? I was okay with it. And when my really cute shoes cut up my feet because I’m an IDIOT for wearing them, knowing good and well that peep-toe heels were invented by Satan to make women hate themselves, I let it go. But when that muscle head spilled his can of beer in my chair, the one he brought WITH him to a bar and didn’t say anything until I had sat down, making my dress look as if I had piddled on it, I thought that, perhaps, something wasn’t okay.
Because that’s what I do. I perhaps things. A lot. “I go to seek a great perhaps.”