(no subject)

I am having a shittacular time of it lately, given that my iPod is missing, and I swear to god something has been motherfucking amputated from my soul. I hate Portland, which is the last place I saw the iPod, and I hate driving home at two in the morning, which is when I drove home, and I hate the cold, which made me wear gloves, so maybe I dropped it outside and the skinny methhead across the alley stole it, and I hate the fact that I had no-fucking-pockets because of this insane skirt kick I have been on for, like, five months now, and maybe I dropped it in my apartment, but if so it's not exactly turning-the-fuck-up, and I am pissed off, and it's like someone kicked my puppy and broke my windshield and graffitied my front door and killed my sixth grade teacher. Even though I have food and shelter and clothing and a job, I have no iPod, and it is worse than death.

Also, my car, which I just spent $575 I DO NOT HAVE on it needs to learn to not be an ungrateful bitch and NOT MAKE SCARY BINDING NOISES WITH THE STEERING COLUMN RIGHT NOW, OR, IN FACT, EVER. Shut up, I can totally order my car to put out in exchange for a meal, even if I wouldn't do that to a person. My car needs to shut the smack up and fucking work already. It just got more money spent on it than it EVER has, so why is it making this noise, and if the noise persists, can I make the garage that repaired it repair it again, for free?

And you know what's actually WORSE than winning ten cents in the lottery? Going to Portland to go to Powell's to exchange books (because for serious I have NO MONEY, I realise this is not an uncommon state in this world, but it is for me and the IRS and the car can both bite me, and then give The Holiday Season a spaghetti breakfast) and getting there, seriously, three minutes after they stopped buying books for the evening so that I could not buy anything. Or rather, I bought two books, via a payday loan from one of the people I went with*, and now I think they were both Really Bad Choices. One's on fashion of the last 40,000 years, but not, like, serious examinations of fashion, more like "sidebar on using poisonous lead makeup you crazy Old Kingdom bimbos" and things like that, and so far I have found that just about everything they have to say about A) Queen Elizabeth; B) farthingales; and C) bustles are pretty much, um, categorically-fucking-wrong. And the other book, god help me, I don't even know why I fucking bought it (and there's a scary story there!) but it's a book of "Street" fashion (from 2006) and even though I thought "Ooh, these two outfits are awesome and I will recreate them because for serious what is NOT TO LOVE HERE," A) the book is dated and B) I want to punch every single person in it in the face for being a total fucking prick, basically. All you art students and fashion models in Paris, you people who just, like, wrap a vintage dress around your neck and call it a scarf, or cover yourself in what you describe as "a tablecloth" (sidebar: SO NOT KIDDING) and who have extremely bleeding edge haircuts - yeah, I want to shoot all of you. WHAT IS UP WITH TWENTY YEAR OLDS WHO BUY DESIGNER JEANS THAT COST TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS? Do they not have educations to get? Mutual funds to invest in? Houses to buy? Drugs to purchase? WHAT THE FUCK?

Oh, and C) the book does not get into what makes up the aesthetics of ANY style, though it seems to be "wear whatever you want as long as you look ironic and deeply uninvolved while doing it," and I already have that part down, though I admit I got rattled in DC. But telling me that I should really just completely bag the retirement fund and fly to London to shop at Camden Market (why? Nothing would ever possibly fit me, because nothing EVER DOES WHY DO YOU THINK I SEW?) is...yeah, I'm not into that. And having the other half of that manifesto be "and if you are not shopping at vintage stores you suck SO. HARD." is completely useless advice. There are just SO MANY kicky 1950s-era cocktail dresses and shoes for someone who's, let's just SAY, 6'4". In the 1950s, women who were that tall were probably euthanised. So, clearly I had an attack of dumb brought on by late-night consumerism.

But the worse book - and this will teach me to hang out in the Orange Room, hoping against hope to find, like, a Janet Arnold I want - was Misshapes, which I was into, at first, because it was introduced by Jarvis Cocker (what is not to love?) but then it fell open to pictures of MIKEY WAY and it was like "Wow, I do not need to be stalked by my own fucking obsession IN THIS CONTEXT THX WORLD BUT NO THX." So I put it back. Because it was TOTALLY not a logical place for that book to fall open. Oh, and the book itself was shit, it was just all pictures of kids who go to this Misshapes club in New York and, um, are weird about things. WHOOPDEFUCKINGDO. And, sidebar: do not credit "My Chemical Romance" on the back if, like, TWO OF FIVE show up in the book. SERIOUSLY. TWO OF FIVE DOES NOT MAKE AN ENTIRE FUCKING BAND. Credit "Gerard and Mikey Way", dicksmacks! That's like if Shirley Manson showed up in the book (probably) and they said "Garbage" was in it (which they probably totally did). No!

So, I'm dissatisfied. A LOT. Fuck you, life, get the fuck better.

On the bright side, I'm thinking about bleaching my hair all out tomorrow. Victorian horror and bleach - an awesome combination.

*When I cannot even let myself buy books, that is when I have no money. OMG. Plz to be Friday. Plz to be Friday.