Mirror, Mirror, on the wall...

"There is a great importance in working with trains", I kept hearing Audrey Hepburn say in her dramatic yet eloquent way of saying things as I was waking up to the sound of my alarm simultaneously with some toots from a train this morning. I don't know whether it was just one train or several, but it seemed to go on for hours. And I wasn't annoyed, which is highly unusual for me in the morning as I'm not tolerant of any noises, movements, or sounds until about 10:30 am. And it was 6:30 a.m. As I lay in my cozy bed with one eye half open and looking at the picture of Barishnikov I have mounted on the wall next to my bed I was insisting that I stay in bed because it should be illegal for anyone to have to get up in order to go to work while it was still dark out. I was very convincing, and managed to convince myself to stay in bed for another half hour before I realized that that train I had been placing so much importance on doesn't run itself. There's someone driving that train; someone, just like my granddad so many years ago, who has been up and driving that train for many lightless morning hours. I got up.

Ms. Hepburn was still lingering in my head enough for my morning shower song to be "Without You" from My Fair Lady. This has been my theme lately. La vie sans les hommes. I haven't had very much luck in the love department and with each distasteful experience I have even less interest in seeking it out. Yet, for some reason, the more difficulty I have finding someone the more I believe in the concept of soulmates and there being just a select chosen few you could spend your life with. Is that crazy? All this trouble of the dating world will make you appreciate a special guy (or gal) that much more.

A couple guys have crossed my paths lately, and it's been more of an awkward clashing of paths versus having him join my path (cause it's always my path -- maybe one day some boy will convince me to forge a new path, but it will have to be closer to my original route than his). I'm fine with the awkward clash and getting it over with so he can easily rejoin his old dirt road instead of the mess of him following my path for a while and then realizing it's not for the best and having to clamber through shit back to his old path. This is what I think about. This is why I'm going to die an old maid. I'm already 22 (in 4 days, at least)

I was still singing "Without you" until I remembered that Audrey didn't sing her own songs in My Fair Lady, which made the song a bit sour, so I switched to Moon River for my last rinsing. That song suits me better anyway because I have a terrible voice and I feel I can sing songs that are sung by mediocre voices more earnestly. I love terrible voices. Perhaps this is why I view Bob Dylan as my estranged husband, touring the world.

Being in a relationship is all about sharing a bed, isn't it? Let's put the sex thing aside for a second. When you get to the point where it's habit and an unspoken agreement that you can have slumber parties all the time, that's when you're in a relationship. It's so exciting. It makes going to bed and getting up that much more fun. I don't mind being single at all, I rather like it, it suits this stubborn independent lady quite well, but I wouldn't mind having someone in my bed that I could turn to at 6:30 am and announce "There is a great importance in working with trains" with one eye half open before dozing back to sleep for a half hour. He could then maybe grab me around the waist and boa-constrictor spoon until we absolutely have to get up and shower where he will have the important intensely-focused job of cleaning off my boobs. Let's face it, my boobs just go filthy without a man to frequently spend 5 minutes soaping them down.

I maybe the only hetero girl in the world that gets the fascination with boobs. They are part of the creation-creating aspect of the female body, which is what mystifies and intrigues. I know, that's what I see every time a boy says he loves me upon seeing me naked. They are my favorite body part, even if they are itty bitty. Perhaps I like them because all boobs have the same amount of nerve endings and so the smaller ones have more per. Why would any small-breasted woman want to ruin that blessing and god-given treat in order to get implants and ruin all those nerves? Counter productive, if you ask me. But I suppose not everyone wants to look like a 14 year old boy like me. I even dress like one...that was a dumb paragraph. I hope if anyone's reading this, it's only ally.

So why am I writing this? No clue, it's 8:52 and I have to be at work til 5 and I thought I'd kill some time, since I have no responsibilities as the admin library secretary. I smile and say good morning to everyone who passes through until noon, and then I'll switch it up to "Hello" and maybe "How are you?" in the afternoon after I've seen everybody. I sit at a desk all day. People wouldn't know if I didn't have pants on. This was my argument for why I shouldn't iron my pants this morning. I am wearing two bows today, one placed at my boobs on the collar of my shirt, and one bow-belt at my crotch. It looks like presents to be unwrapped for christmas! I thought I'd have this little joke to myself the last day I'm at work before christmas. My job description consists of answering phones, making copies, I sell office supplies, I sort mail, and I look at craft projects and recipes that I print off instructions to but never actually do.

Sometimes, though -- but mostly the cooking thing. I've been commissioned (of sorts) to paint naked pin ups of my friends. Last night I completed one of my cousin and his two best friends naked on a bucking mechanical bull. I drew his name for christmas (we have about 20 cousins), and that's what he wanted. It's odd how much fun it is to paint people you know naked. I don't think anyone is more self-absorbed than me, but, I have thought about how funny it is that so many people my age are interested in having a naked picture of themselves. Our generation is a self-obsessed one. All you have to do is look at how much we log into our own facebook, myspace (or blogger) accounts -- it's like looking into a mirror. And kids spend hours on facebook adoring themselves and all their photoshopped pictures and all their photoshopped friends. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all? I'm just as guilty as the next person, but the future does frighten me with this crop of kids, with all the self-entitlement there is little room for manners, consideration, and neighborly love. But despite, I still have an optimistic view that we'll do great things, we just have some growing up to do.

Anyway, thank god for blueberry muffins. I had it in my head this morning that I would have a croissant for breakfast. I miss parisian croissants. I miss Paris. I'm too in love with Paris to be away from it for this long. Anyway, the non-flaky croissant at the library cafe was $2.10. I had a five and two dollars, but not 10 cents. After the thought of how many tips that always exceed 10 cents I've given those baristas passed through my head, and after envisioning the pile of change I have on my desk at home, I reluctantly bought a blueberry muffin for $1.60 instead. This is difficult for me because when I have a craving, I Have.A.CRAVING., ...but! It was 8 in the morning so the muffin was still warm and the berries were melted like chocolate. Maybe it is ok that it's legal for people to get up and go to work while it's still dark out.