Truman Capote’s Holly Golightly had the ‘mean reds’, which sounds like a bitch! The mean reds was like having the blues, but they were red, and mean. That’s really fucked up! Having the mean reds must be like you’re actually in hell!
I didn’t have the mean reds. I had, what — the toasted teals, the burnt burgundies, the peach pits. This was two weeks ago and I’m glad to be on the other side, sort of. It was hormonally induced but it was based on real issues.
While the funk is ebbing out, I’m suffering from the tail end of it. Getting a bad hair style from my hairdresser was not something that should have happened at this time. I’m so full of shit — ‘Years ago, this would really have been monumental. But I’m more mature now’, I told people. ‘It’s only hair,’ I said. Bullshit! This morning after washing my hair, I cried. Yes, I cried. I hate my hair!!!! Can’t I have anything on this planet!??!!!
What I imagined making me feel better was drinking a bottle of Jack Daniels and watching Henry: A Portrait of a Serial Killer. My grandma would tell me to count my blessings and get over it. Grandma, you’re the best! You know, she’s right. So I’ll just watch the movie sober and count my blessings — here they are two blessings:
- Mme. Weebles is very thoughtful. Knowing how much cake means to me, she gave me the picture of a cake that she made for my sidebar. This made me happy. I love the pink frosting to balance off the white frosting on the other two cakes up there. Mme. Weebles is the best!
- I got compliments on my hair today and I think they were genuine, and not just to make me feel better about looking like Ronald McDonald on crack.
That’s all folks!