Friday, May 18, 2012

I'm stabby and fabby and gayyyy!

I'm queer! (Well, actually I identify as "gay" but that doesn't rhyme.) I'm here! Get used to it!

Well, you follow this blog so you're probably already used to it. In fact you're probably thinking, "You spelled 'crazy' wrong."

But hear me out.


I suppose asking you to hear me out is more effective if I have a point.

But I don't.

I actually have no idea what I'm writing about. I think I just wanted to write a post with the title of this one. Because it's fabby. And fabby is a new word I created because at first I said "I'm stabby and flabby and gayyyy!" But then Kayla ruined it by pointing out that I'm not flabby. Well, not to her anyways. I don't like my body, but this isn't about my body-image issues (though I suppose it could be because then it would be about SOMETHING). I know I'm thin. It's just that the grandma of my best friend when I was nine said that I had the biggest boobs she's ever seen on a boy and I never got over it. Anyways, don't worry because I'm not anorexic or anything. I actually eat a lot. Like a lot a lot. Like everyone at Qdoba knows my order by heart.  Except for the cute guy. Though he tries because I was just there and he put one of those jumbo burrito shells in the steamer as I walked up and then I ordered 3 tacos and he opened the steamer and threw the big shell away. It's the thought that counts. Especially when you have biceps like his.


Where was I going with this? Oh, yes: no where. I think it all started because of [things I can't mention because of certain people who read this blog] and then I felt really stabby. Well, not actually stabby, because I'm not homocidal. But I was angry. But I just got my hair done so I was rocking the whole fabulous and gay thing. And then I wanted to sing about it to Kayla. Via text message. And that's when I was all "I'm stabby and flabby and gayyyy!" Then she was like O_o because I'm not flabby. So I coined the term fabby because I couldn't think of any other words that rhymed with "stabby." And here we are. Though now I feel less stabby. I don't feel any less wronged but drooling over the cute guy at Qdoba helped. As did giggling about the girl in line ahead of me continually checking me out. I'm wearing a musical* shirt for Pete's sake! Do you need more than that?

*Spring Awakening if you must know. Though I didn't really like that show. That's what I get for buying the shirt BEFORE the show. The only positive thing is that I can say I saw Lea Michele live. Which I did. But please don't ask me how she was because I might meet her someday and I don't want any bad vibes between us. (Animosity? Is that word?)

P.S. Also, my going blond didn't go well. Because my hair is a bitch. Let me start by saying that I went to a professional. I didn't do it out of a box. Well, after our first attempt it was gold. Like very gold. So I just decided to live with it (meaning that I didn't actually tell my stylist that I didn't like it, but the lighting wasn't great so I was sure that it would be better in different light...but that's not true at all so really I'm just a bad client). So I lived with it for 8 hours and then I needed it fixed. My stylist is amazing and got me in to fix it. She put in new product that would make it a nice blond. Maybe not as light as I wanted, but at least I would be less stabby. Well, then I was a ginger. It was a very nice, natural red, but I want the sterotypes associated with blonds, not gingers (Sorry to my ginger friends!). So then my stylist was like "Fuck it! I'm dousing it in green so it becomes brown again." And while we're doing that another stylist was like, "Going back to natural?" And my stylist was like "Yeah. I put [random letters and numbers...okay probably not random] in and it turned red." And the other stylist was like, "[Not random letters and numbers] can't turn it red..." and my stylist was like "Exactly." So my hair is just an asshole.

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