Exercises and Bad Language

For the second weekend in a row, my roommate is gone, and I find myself tucked away in my apartment wearing my pajamas, socks on my feet, eating entire containers of food, and watching Bridget Jones (the first one of course) at least two times in a row.

Today for lunch I cooked a box of rice, the Uncle Ben's cheesy broccoli kind, and ate it straight out the pot, cussing as I burned my hand on the not-quite-cooled-down pot.

If my grandfather had not died of lung cancer, I think I would be a smoker. And if I didn't have a fear of headaches or the fear of a potential repeat of a drunk phone call I made a few years ago, I think I would drink a lot more than I do and wake up with terrible hangovers everyday, which would make my time at the Ackland Art Museum much more interesting.

I wrote some poetry this morning as I listened to "Green" by Brendan James. Sometimes I think I will end up like Sylvia Plath, writing emo poetry for a living. Except my poetry won't be as good as Plath's.

Weekends like these, I find myself listening to a lot of Chaka Khan as I stare into my mirror, making faces, trying out new haristyles, experimenting with purple eyeshadow. My friend Dayna memorized a monologue for an audition in which the speaker speaks to herself in a mirror, "doing her exercises" as she calls it. I do exercises. They go like this:
I am confident.
I am hot.
People are not scary.
People love me.
I have a facebook fan club.
Everyone has insecurities, not just me.

I wish people could hear me when I drive. I have the worst road rage. I'll be on the phone with someone, and then out of the blue, I'll scream, "Move, you f****r!" Most of the time, it happens when I'm on the phone with my mother, who replies, Thank God you're human.

I actually love weekends like these where I cuss like a drunk sailor (with a British accent) at the oven which has burned my bagel. I paint my fingernails black, then take it off and paint them red, and then realize that maybe the fingernail polish remover shouldn't be next to the lit Cinnamon Bark candle.

After I post this, I'm going to vaccuum the carpet. And then, I'm going to do a crossword puzzle.

Thank God I don't live alone.