Today is an 'I hate my hair' day. All my life I've been told I have great hair by stylists, and normally I'd agree but today it's on my shit list. It didn't occur to me until a couple years ago that I have fine hair, and since then I haven't been able to forget. I mousse, use a leave in conditioner, blow dry with my head upside down for volume, and still, by the end of the day it's flatter than Saskatchewan. I haven't had a cut in six months, which my mother won't let me forget. She keeps encouraging me to go to her stylist, who's latest creation for my mother includes a retro Mrs. Brady flip at the neck. I'll pass, thanks.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

I need to clean up my bookshelves. Last summer my dad put up three shelves that run the length of the wall, plus two half shelves below those. Despite all this room, I still have stacks of books on the ends, in the middle, and on the floor. I keep looking over and praying a stack doesn't tumble and take out my Corpse Bride action figure collection, and that sometime I should really get around to alphabetizing. But will I? Probably not.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Milk Duds are the devil's handywork.