Yesterday devolved into a pre-election anxiety shopping rally. Tried on the entirety of Zara, including the aforementioned dress, and many other things with leather and zippers that looked so banging on the hanger. As it turns out, one must have the body of the hanger to wear this shit.
Zara, we needs to talk about the boobs, and how I have them. You did not leave room. Perhaps you think they detach? Is that the purpose of your oversized clutches?
I vengeance-bought tights instead, and these little crushed velvet red shoes that I will refer to as oxblood-coloured, because oxblood is the colour of the season. Oxblood.
I also ate an entire box of off-brand Frosted Mini Wheats while muttering at polling data. And then at 2:00 a.m., with a bottle or three of wine, we took to the streets and exhaled. For the last couple of months I've been coming back to 2008, and to the memory of that night, when my ex said he was sort of tired, and would rather go to sleep than watch the election. I didn't argue, and I called him weeping when they announced the win, and he sort of murmured that it was good, and then went back to bed. The country was waking up, and he just wanted to sleep.
It is snowing outside, full fluffy flakes. The leak in my bedroom ceiling has finally slowed, leaving a wide brown maw behind. I've been watching the same video of Darren Criss for the past hour. Darren Criss is such a delightfully compact man. I keep thinking I'll cry, but I don't.
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