To dye for, or: not a bang-up job.

Word count: 8,178.
Short of projected word count: 152.
Things I need to do before I can justify popping in a Gossip Girl DVD: Wash dishes, unpack my clothes.

As I texted Leah, I can see why writers like Bukowski and the like mix drinking and writing. Since I opened a bottle of wine (I was only going to have half of it then switch to beer; it's at slightly less than half now) and started cooking and eating and writing the words started to tumble in. I attribute this partly to the fact that I've had the outline for this in my head for well over a year now (so, so lazy, but in my defense I let myself fall apart in a destructive relationship then took awhile to build it back up) and partly to the fact that...actually I'm not sure where I was going with that. I've had over half a bottle of wine and I'm still trying to beat a guy out of my brain. That's part of the story of my life. I worry that since I have the story all figured out that it will end up writing itself but doing so halfway through the month and then I will be trying to flesh it out in terrible, shlocky ways.

In an attempt to reclaim my annoyingly waivering confidence the past few days, I decided to dye my hair red. The cycles of my hair are two-fold: One, I growit out and out and out until I get fed up, chop it, keeping chopping it then get nostaglic and start growing it out; two, it's brown, I get bored and dye it dark brown; I change my mind and try to make it light brown, I start to question everything then realize it's time to dye it red; I get bored again and try to dye it back to dark brown.

So we're in a red cycle. Only I didn't do so awesome of a job. I didn't do so hot namely on the bangs. So really it looks like I have burgundy hair with brown highlights. But ever since I got the bangs and started growing it out I'm desperate to come off as mod in a punk way, not a hipster way. Though I will forever associate me getting despearte enough to go red with Angela Chase. And the fact that I did not such a great job reminds me of the time that my mom insisted I could never dye it correctly and that she'd do it for me, so I said fine, I get to pick the color which is how I ended up in my parents' kitchen with some box of reddish purple hair dye, yelling at my mom who was laughing and laughing because for all of her insistence that I couldn't dye my hair alone she had managed to get it all over the place when she did it for me.

Chance of me caring that this is ramlbling: Zero.
Chanc of me proofreading it before I post it and then going to unpack my clothes: See previous answer.
Number of times I listend to "Runaway" by Kanye West while typing this: Two and counting.