Going to write a Kara-style entry today, because I miss that girl like summertime skies.

I had a meatball sandwich and a large Sprite for lunch, because my interview went well (meaning she looked pleased with the frantic typing and the letter and I hope to high heaven that I get this job, because $6.65 an hour for being all businesslike and such is just too beautiful a prospect to contemplate). Fanfiction.net is worthless and I really want a new layout. I feel like wearing Louis Vutton shoes today, because the Joe Boxer ones I'm wearing pinch my feet. Cordelia has MSN and that makes me happy but , why, oh why do all of you girls come online when I don't have time to talk? Lipstick does a lot for my appearance, and I'm going to paint my nails in glossy red when I get home. Cotton balls squished between the toes, just because I think it looks sexy. I miss talking to Madi. Trying to talk myself out of getting a 1950's pinup haircut, because my intellect is informing me that no, I won't curl my hair each day to look like Marilyn and it will just be hella crazy to deal with. Nita and I are going to write a bestselling novel. I want my promised birthday facial from the health spa now, and I really am going to give up old-fashioned doughnuts from the vending machine. Hella is my new favorite word, and Kara, please don't mind that I'm borrowing it, because I promise to give it back when the mood passes in a bit. I bought four postcards of art prints to send to Nita (not all at once), and a French test at one, but I'm blogging instead to tell you all that I bought the latest issue of Vanity Fair because
1) Ewan was on the cover.
2) There's a picture of Alan inside.
3) I'm hella shallow most of the time and I had five extra bucks.

Writing my resume, I think that this all seems so distant and fragile, this girl who types 63 words a minute and is experienced with Corel, HTML, Microsoft Word, and customer service. It belongs to the dark red blouse and pencil skirt I will wear tomorrow, to those black secretary shoes, and something in me just watches bemusedly as I scramble to apply just the right amount of makeup. I want a job where I can show up with my hair tucked under flyaway silk scarves and bright red lipstick applied too high.

But wish me luck anyway, kids, because that's showbiz . . . and I really could use the job this summer. You can't live on poetry alone.

I know. I've tried.

If I had my druthers I'd do things like wearing polka dot dresses and open-toed square red heels, and I would tie strings of enormous fake pearls round my neck. I'd eat lunch every day at Einstein's, tomato soup and a toasted plain bagel with honey butter, lemon-glazed pound cake and ice-cold water. I would wear floppy hats with huge ribbons and ask how are you, dahling? just marvelous today, thanks. I'd carry striped packages and shopping bags from Saks and Nordstroms, and spend lazy hours browsing The King's English (My favorite store. Ever. Terribly delightful books). I'd wear too much red lipstick and paint my nails scarlet, go out dancing in a backless little black dress with a bow tied at the neck and a pair of Breakfast at Tiffany's shades. I would cut and perm my hair instead of wearing it in thick, unkempt, stick-straight braids, and oh, oh, wouldn't it be loverly?

CHICAGO WON BEST PICTURE.

I am insanely happy about this.

Michael Moore, you are my hero.

And Nita, say it with me-- Adrien Brody, where have you been all my life?

Am watching Oscars and typing frantically with my online girls.

Renee's dress is darling.

Richard is wonderfully handsome and charming. (Cue dreamy sigh). Catherine Zeta-Jones is marvelous, as is Queen Latifah.

Chicago has won four awards!

Hurrah!

Ah, I'm just another squealing fangirl.

I know all my entries lately have been links to somewhere else, but somehow pictures these days say more than I can. I feel like all my words are wrapped up in little, unpolished stories or scraps of verse, and there's nothing left for me to become. Everything I am begs to be made flesh, like photography and web design or stringing tiny glass beads on curled white string. I want to be a manifestation of more than printed words. When Crystal, Kassy, and I talked about love last night, I wanted to say that I don't want it. But like everything else, it's a sort of half-truthfulness that forms more falsehood than fact. What I really want is for someone to take me, swallow me whole, reinvent me in ways that my clumsy hands don't know how to do, because I can only tell stories. And barring that, I want nothing, I want to hide inside my ways, because I can't, can't, won't settle for anything else.