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10-24-01 - 10:29 p.m. Well, I got a second tattoo this afternoon and randomly broke down in the bread aisle this evening. And just a few minutes ago I twisted the shit out of my ankle when my cat tried to murder me. All in all, it's been a pretty average day. My tattoo is a very small (one could even say "tiny") fairy on my left hip. ("But what about when you get pregnant?!" Kellie said. I just glared at her.) I love it. I am in love with my hip. I want to marry it. The butterfly tattoo (I refuse to ever say "tat") on my back is hideous when compared to my fairy. Bryan drew the design and came with me, mostly because he was bored without his car, rather than the fact that he wanted to see his work come to life on my hip. He didn't get anything done, though. It hurt a lot more than my back, probably because it was right on a bone, but the lady who did it constantly was complimenting my skin so no worries. Rob and I went to pick up some things at the grocery store. We have a system for shopping: we split up. He takes aisles 1-8 and I take 9-17. We comb our respective aisles and the crap on the store edges and then meet in the middle at the back of the store. People usually think we're strange because we'll often have two shopping carts and only about six items. But the system works so we're not going to mess with it. It's not about socializing. It's about getting the job done as quickly as possible because it is freezing in there! Anyway so I was in the bread aisle, choosing among the many brands and grain-factors of wheat breads, when I suddenly felt that all-too-familiar lump in my throat and burn in my eyes. For whatever reason, I was about to cry. I grabbed my bread and untied my ponytail, bringing my hair around to shield my face. Then, with downcast eyes, I hurried to push my cart to find Rob. I told him I'd meet him at the car. He didn't ask questions. I thanked him for it and drove us home. I felt pretty stupid about it and admonished myself silently for a while, but I didn't let myself cut and I didn't let myself leave to get some, uh, fluid verification of my own self-worth. Rob came in, and, because he somehow has telepathic powers and is one of maybe two people (Sharon is the other) in this world able to tell when I'm faking contentment, he sat down next to me and said, "I did it, too. At work the other day." "But boys aren't supposed to cry." "Neither are big girls." "That's just. An al-i-bi." We are so lame. So tonight I made spaghetti for myself and the boys-plus-one (Justin). I used penne noodles and made my own sauce. From scratch. Oh yah. I'm that good. People always seem shocked that I can cook. But when I remind them that, having raised myself with zero parental guidance until the tender age of 16, cooking and cleaning and shopping for myself and quite frequently for my pathetic excuse for a mother, they seem to understand a little better. Dinner was good tonight. The sauce was just the slightest bit spicy, thick but not too chunky�I beat those tomatoes into submission. The rule is this: If I cook, the boys clean. Even if I don't cook, the boys clean. It's my apartment. Go me. As I was walking down the hall, tying back my massive amounts of hair, my cat dashed out of the bathroom and stopped. Right under my foot. It's a game she has. Because my hands were in my hair and she was very fast, I tripped over her, turning my ankle over and falling down onto it. It's a little swollen but not too bad. I wanted to kick the cat. I didn't, though. I yelled at her and called her a "punk-ass bitch" as she zoomed off, probably laughing her head off in her own silent kittyish way. Ugh. My cat is the devil.
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