Peacock Skeleton With Crooked Feathers

Sometimes I don't even recognize myself. In pictures, in the mirror, from this summer and summers past, sometimes in my own writing. Not because I look any different than usual, but because it's as if I never really knew me. These days, nothing much happens, and I am letting weeks go by without even noticing. Christmas is in less than a month now, and that means I am even closer to my Ontario trip. By the time I get there, it will have been 4 solid months away from Ontario. 4 much needed months away.

It's snowing a blue streak here, extremely cold with a snowfall warning in effect. I didn't leave the house today. Instead, I cleaned my room, read a book by the fire, and ate cookies. Glorious.

Every day, I look more and more like a 15-year-old boy. I don't really bother with my hair anymore, which of course only makes it look it's best, and working at a clothing store only further improves my style (and expands my wardrobe). I now own 17 pairs of jeans. That I wear. I won't even try to count the number of t-shirts I have, because obviously a jeans-and-t-shirt girl will have a lot of jeans and t-shirts. And really, really cute shoes.

I digress.

Christmas is coming, and I've sold my soul to the devil. I am the retail whore, in chains and fire and brimstone and on the road to perdition.

I present my newest tattoo (from September 10th, 2006):