Before You Go Home For Christmas
TO DO
- Break into someone's house to use their washing machine, because the stark reality of several weeks' worth of unwashed clothes piling up in the laundry basket in the closet has finally hit - the very real, very terrible reality of wearing spandex exercise pants, not to exercise, and not as a joke.
- Buy some food coloring and a nail, the final items necessary to fully install and appreciate the weather barometer I (no joke) got for Christmas and still can't quite believe I actually possess. WEATHER! BAROMETER! Apparently Anna thought Art was a little insane for thinking it would be an acceptable Christmas gift, but I can promise you right now I will be positively glued to the thing and may even forget to go home for Christmas.
- Find out where the internet lives; throw rocks at house. This kind of tomfoolery isn't even funny, it's just plain cruel.
- Read 483758392947 books.
- Figure out how, exactly, girls manage to have so many pretty, girly things laying about in beautiful arrangements of class and femininity and duplicate it. Maybe this requires having secret admirers send you things over a lifetime? Fine.
- Pretend to be my own secret admirer and leave me packages with beautiful, romantic notes scrawled on the packaging to be torn off and kept in a shoebox under my bed. I can do romance, even if I have to do it for myself.
- Get a haircut. I know it's lovely and long, but it's threatening to take over your life. Make sure it's still quite long, though, because your mother and grandmother both want it short, and what are you, compliant?
- Spend more time with the Microsoft program Paint, creating whimsical recreations of every person you've ever met, with the only distinguishable difference being the mismatched eyes, crooked mouths, and cartoony, never-duplicated-in-reality color palette you have to choose from.
- Break into someone's house to use their washing machine, because the stark reality of several weeks' worth of unwashed clothes piling up in the laundry basket in the closet has finally hit - the very real, very terrible reality of wearing spandex exercise pants, not to exercise, and not as a joke.
- Buy some food coloring and a nail, the final items necessary to fully install and appreciate the weather barometer I (no joke) got for Christmas and still can't quite believe I actually possess. WEATHER! BAROMETER! Apparently Anna thought Art was a little insane for thinking it would be an acceptable Christmas gift, but I can promise you right now I will be positively glued to the thing and may even forget to go home for Christmas.
- Find out where the internet lives; throw rocks at house. This kind of tomfoolery isn't even funny, it's just plain cruel.
- Read 483758392947 books.
- Figure out how, exactly, girls manage to have so many pretty, girly things laying about in beautiful arrangements of class and femininity and duplicate it. Maybe this requires having secret admirers send you things over a lifetime? Fine.
- Pretend to be my own secret admirer and leave me packages with beautiful, romantic notes scrawled on the packaging to be torn off and kept in a shoebox under my bed. I can do romance, even if I have to do it for myself.
- Get a haircut. I know it's lovely and long, but it's threatening to take over your life. Make sure it's still quite long, though, because your mother and grandmother both want it short, and what are you, compliant?
- Spend more time with the Microsoft program Paint, creating whimsical recreations of every person you've ever met, with the only distinguishable difference being the mismatched eyes, crooked mouths, and cartoony, never-duplicated-in-reality color palette you have to choose from.
Labels: Lists
posted by juxtaposer at 3:06 PM
3 Comments:
I would do the secret admirer bit, but I can't write poetry or romanticish stuff. :P
And my admiration is hardly a secret. I can attempt to be coy though. No guarantees.
Don't go changing, Liz. While I can picture you combing your hair from some fairy-tale boudoir ornately arranged with delicate, weathered baubles from some by-gone age, I must proffer a scoff, a mite of huffy disdain at the thought of the mighty Liz doing any shapeshifting except what she does when fighting crime. Be a better you, certainly, but don't stop being you. Amen.
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