Day 15, a song that describes you, also meems are for lamewads
If "Rainbow Connection" is spring, "Spaceman" is September. Not in a Sinatra kind of way, of course, or at least my thirties better not be my September years because that would be like drinking beer before it ferments. So like, barley dipped in water. This better be the motherfucking May of my years, with blooming and getting drunk on porches and Red Rover, Red Rover, send Rassles right over.
It's not that the lyrics necessarily describe what's going on in my life like a Zack Snyder movie but this is just another one of my favorite songs, and it's what plays in my head when I'm going through the motions of waking up in the morning.
Okay. Press play.
If I'm ever the star of a morning preparatory montage this is the fucking song I want to play in the background, and not some bullshit Sheryl Crowe cover that the director had recorded or something just because I'm a girl so a girl has to be singing when I drag open the blinds to welcome the sun. I have a wide, glorious window covering the front wall of my apartment, and it sucks in the cold and owns in the sun.
Whatever, so when I'm shaving my legs I don't want a fucking leg stand-in, okay? You will watch me shave my turtle legs and you'll like it, especially when I knick my ankle like a fucking amateur. You'll like it hard. Just like you liked it when I alternated hitting snooze on my dual alarm clocks for half an hour and then dutch-ovened myself, because it's a good way to get me to scramble out of bed and I like to fucking party.
After I shower, I brush my teeth, dribbling toothpaste down my cleavage. I don't notice it until I change clothes after work ten hours into the future (BABOOM! Time travel). Then I oggle, but ultimately dismiss, the dental floss.
Cut to me standing in front of my closet just wearing an ill-fitting bra and a pair of polar bear boxer shorts that have a prominent hole tattering across one creamy ass cheek (no ass stand-ins, either, not in my fucking house). You'll be able to see an unfortunate tan line over my chest and shoulders, which I forgot about until I looked down just now.
Because you see, in this hypothetical montage, I got home from vacation in LA just last week with a wicked bad sunburn and sore calves from wearing goddamn high heels at a Beverly Hills wedding (told you I liked to party) and since then I've turned sort of...golden and freckled. I alternate pasty, freckled, and golden.
So I take a shirt from a hanger that I haven't worn in over a year and slip it on, but it buttons tightly across my boobs and I look like a fat freak. I consider duct tape and then stomp and rip the shirt off, flinging clinking button shards across the floor. From now on all important and wearable shirts will have snaps, and I turn to look for the fallen button and see that shit my blinds are open.
I drop quick, crouching low because the window ledge hits my knees, and creep over to the window to lower the blinds speedily and discreetly, but I am not an expert blind-lowerer and I always accidentally pull it wrong because you have to do that thing, you know, where you pull the string horizontally, but if you don't get it just right then shit, those motherfuckers snap up like a rat trap and you're left standing in your ladyknickers in front of an open window.
Of course I live across the street from an old Ukrainian church full of old Ukrainian people and why didn't you put on a nicer bra this morning, you dirty underwear hag? More importantly, why didn't you just flip the blinds open with the little plastic stick thing earlier? Ever think of that? No, you didn't, because you don't think. You know what happens when you let your guard down? Tony Soprano gets shot, that's what happens, and why are you just standing in front of your open window like a fucking retard? (Don't say retard, you have to stop doing that, you were doing so well!) Shit. Pay attention. Get down. NOW. .
I snap myself shut faster than the blinds snapped open and wonder if anyone saw me, but I realize that I was too busy thinking about myself to notice that there are other people in the world who like, you know. Exist. People are always walking their dogs right now, going to the bus, those kids that get high in the alley over there before school.
I decide to own it, rising, fists akimbo, lording over the sidewalk just ten feet below. I glare around the street so I can stare down my audience with the pride and the fury of the half-naked bourgeois, like an empress with no clothes, but there's no one there, no old ladies or dogs or stoned high schoolers or nothing. I'm slightly disappointed. And very cold.
Quit fucking around.
Sure, now the blinds close easily.