I can't move my arms

The nurse stabbed me 6 times, thrice in each arm, and then couldn't even get enough blood to fill a little baggy!
Turns out I have huge ninja veins that elude even the most skilled needle technicians (several of which tried to get 'em), or I have baby veins that seem to be there only to mock needle technicians and not to actually transport blood. Nothing in the middle though.
So my inner elbows are bruised to shiznit, and my head is fuzzy, and my stomach is churning sickly - and I didn't even get to save a life like the advertise on tv! How disappointing.

When I grow up

I got a booter yesterday. A good squishy, slurpy, wet and nasty one. It felt really good, really like spring.
But, when I woke up this morning there was mud between my painted toes, and earrings stuck to my cheeks, a necklace choking me, and mascara all over my face. I wondered if perhaps this was an indication of something.
Do I sleep enough?
Do I drink too much?
Am I losing it?
Meh.
I'll worry about it when I'm grownup... in 2 weeks...oh dear.

Stilettos 1: Tatyiana 0

Tatiyana and I had another race today.
The last race was the fateful day I challenged spring and then lost to a truck and a puddle.
The stakes were higher today because I was wearing fun floral print, pink stilettos.
I won.
I will more than likely break a leg or an ankle on account of this gloating, but I'm unreal in the 100 meter stiletto dash.

The sun was shining today. I've determined that even though it was cold, and my dad feels like shit in the smelly hospital, and my mom is full of chemo, and Callie and Tatiyana don't even have flour in their house- it's a great day to be alive. It's great because the ice is cracking; and dad's going home; and mom crochets stylish hats; and I have flour to spare.
So it's good. Or it will be as soon as I can convince myself to believe that. (Which I will). Because life is far too short to be moody. (Unless you write brilliant poetry, which I don't so I'd better get over myself).

spring is in the air...and in my hair

Unfortunately it only took until 2:41pm for my sunny spring disposition to be dampened (literally).
I woke up this morning in one of those moods that can only come with a new season or a new pair of shoes. In addition I'd had a good, long, deep sleep - the remnants of which were stuck to my cheek and dried to my pillow (which was a relief after a good week and a half of self inflicted sleep deprivation...self inflicted? I guess that's another story...).
And then there was the miracle of breakfast. That's right, real food in my house that I could actually eat. Food that makes me happy like oranges and almonds and a hot cupper (with milk!).
Of course all of these events were mere prelude to the elation of stepping out into the brightest, boldest, most beautiful morning of the year so far. The sun kissed my cheek; the sweet breeze tickled my nose with the promise of warmth and melting, and I didn't even mind that I was going to Education Psychology 390 with the most mind-numbing professor in existence.
It wasn't until I was in the prime of my day, just having finished a Starbucks and a Louise alone time that it happened.
I was waiting for the hand to change into a man at the meridian dividing college drive when a truck decided it was neither convenient nor important enough for him to slow at the enormous puddle right behind me. Perhaps I'd earned this early afternoon shower after the comment I made yesterday to the effect of, ' I like that my pants get wet in spring, because at least it reminds me that I don't have frostbite!'.
Sure, in the life of irony that I live, that comment was begging for trouble - a puddle shower seemed inevitable.
The second vehicle which failed to discern the effect his speed and mass would have on the puddle he was driving through though, that was unwarranted. Not only was this particular shower get my pants wet - it got my f-ing hair wet! Not to mention my shirt, vest, bag, homework, belt, shoes, arms...I look like I'd fallen in!
And then, as though the gods of all things slap stick drank a little too much cheap sherry, as I walked from the scene of humiliation my left shoe started to squeak. And squeak it did - loudly announcing my shame as I slushed, slurped and squeaked all the way across campus.
So the moral? Wear yellow rubber as often as possible.