Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

you tell me

I feel out of sorts today. Out of laundry, disheveled, fat, sore-fingered, with shaggy hair, six months behind on writing, unable to focus on work, uncommitted to my life. Fuck off, world.

I need summer clothes and I've looked at the Bon, and seethed because their seasonal line of plus sizes is rack after rack of lime-green, hot-pink, brightly flowered crap, nothing of which I'd willingly wear. Then I ordered the Lane Bryant catalog and got *really* angry. First, all their clothes are modeled by size-four women whose thighs don't even fucking meet under their tidy little twats. And the clothes? Are ugly, ugly, ugly. They offend me. They *really* offend me. As in, here is a whole company of shitheels who deserve to writhe for an eternity in the lowest pit of Hell for designing hideous clothing, *knowing* that larger women will have to buy it because they have so few other options. They can foist whatever shoddy, shapeless nightmares they like off on their customers, and they do, the evil fucks.

I've been wearing the same dozen shirts for the last year, more or less. I hate shopping.

I dreamed all last night that I was running from a serial killer. I spent about eight hours on the run, actually. I was Phoebe Halliwell for a while and then I turned into katallison. I don't know what this means.

I've been meaning to thank people for their feedback and garlic recipes and advice on joint pain. I am paying attention even if I haven't been replying to comments.

My vice president has dyed her hair the color of Spike's, my co-editor is in Europe, and my manager stopped by my desk to chat just as I sat down and booted up this morning, unnerving me for a solid five minutes and forcing me to make conversation about nothing in particular.

Maybe I need a latte.
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