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2001-04-13

Touch Touch

Okay now, how many times do I touch my face during the drive to work? If you asked me that yesterday, I would have said, What're ya talkin' about, touch my face? Why would I be touching my face? Let me explain how this question came to my mind this morning. Step by beautiful step.

I woke up, not to the alarm, but to my cats playing in the vertical blinds that cover my window, over my bed. I don't think you can grasp the amount of noise that two cats and plastic blinds can make. Add to that the strobe effect of morning light coming through the blinds, off and on - off and on, as they play. I picked one up, Ella-the-passive, and threw her across the room, hoping it would serve as a warning to the other, Nina-the-unpredictable.

Didn't work. They found a floaty candle and somehow managed to throw it against the wall over and over and over and over, bang BANG BANG, I'M UP! Fine, I'll feed you! GOD! That out of the way, cats satisfied and gloating, I swear I saw a smile through the crumbs on their furry little lips, the bitches. I was actually in a very good mood. Friday! So, I go about my morning, notice my clothes are all clean and my room is looking much less cluttered (I had some obsessive-neurotic attack of spring cleaning yesterday), I felt lighthearted.

All ready for the day, out to my car, hmm. I notice that there seems to be very little air in that tire. I kick it I pinch it I notice the guy waiting for my parking spot and hop in the car to move it out of his way, flat tire or not. Pulled into a local gas station, up to the air pump. Okay. Now, I know I've done this before, someday, somewhere. Well, I know I've had a lot of people do it for me, but I also know I've done it myself. Okay, turn on start button, great. This is when I noticed there were people around. I did not want to look like an idiot, rather I wanted to project myself as the self-made and independent woman I am, the kind who can do what needs to be done.

Oh yeah, gotta screw off that little cap first, doh! I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. There was a way to adjust the pressure of the air going into your tires, I didn't know what it meant, and I'd be damned to give in and start asking someone. Help! I'm retarded! I own a car that I don't know the first thing about! Yeah, no. I flipped my hair back out of the way, and began to pump. Actually, I began to let air out, but then I began to pump. Felt good. Kept my face in position, yeah, I know what I'm doing, done this a thousand times, pumpin' up the tire, yeah.

A car is waiting for the pump. My tires are uneven, but no one would notice, right? I replace the nozzle by letting it go, and the box sucked it right back in, like a tape measurer. My fingers were black. BLACK. Kleenex in the car, I wiped and wiped, poured water on them, cleaned all the way to work. Apparently, I missed a few spots.

When I sat down at my desk this morning, coffee in hand, I decided to glance in my little desk mirror (any unwanted hair to tweeze?) and what did I find!? Black smudges ALL OVER my face. ALL OVER. When was I touching my face with dirty hands? What was I touching my face for? I thought my hands were on the wheel, I don't get this. How stupid did I look driving to work with black all over my face? Ah, well, I washed it off. And washed my hands 5 times so far. So far.

But the mystery remains. Why are my hands on my face while I drive? Isn't that odd? And how many times to I touch my face in a day and for what purpose? You know, this is going to drive me crazy, and I can already tell as I reach for scratch paper and a pen, that I'm gonna start documenting. Hoo boy, here we go.

-Barbarella

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2007-05-19
NEW SITE!!!!

2007-05-16
Links and Update

2007-05-09
Two Links

2007-05-06
Yes, Even MORE new pictures

2007-05-06
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Touch Touch 2001-04-13 8:57 a.m. Okay now, how many times do I touch my face during the drive to work? If you asked me that yesterday, I would have said, What're ya talkin' about, touch my face? Why would I be touching my face? Let me explain how this question came to my mind this morning. Step by beautiful step.

I woke up, not to the alarm, but to my cats playing in the vertical blinds that cover my window, over my bed. I don't think you can grasp the amount of noise that two cats and plastic blinds can make. Add to that the strobe effect of morning light coming through the blinds, off and on - off and on, as they play. I picked one up, Ella-the-passive, and threw her across the room, hoping it would serve as a warning to the other, Nina-the-unpredictable.

Didn't work. They found a floaty candle and somehow managed to throw it against the wall over and over and over and over, bang BANG BANG, I'M UP! Fine, I'll feed you! GOD! That out of the way, cats satisfied and gloating, I swear I saw a smile through the crumbs on their furry little lips, the bitches. I was actually in a very good mood. Friday! So, I go about my morning, notice my clothes are all clean and my room is looking much less cluttered (I had some obsessive-neurotic attack of spring cleaning yesterday), I felt lighthearted.

All ready for the day, out to my car, hmm. I notice that there seems to be very little air in that tire. I kick it I pinch it I notice the guy waiting for my parking spot and hop in the car to move it out of his way, flat tire or not. Pulled into a local gas station, up to the air pump. Okay. Now, I know I've done this before, someday, somewhere. Well, I know I've had a lot of people do it for me, but I also know I've done it myself. Okay, turn on start button, great. This is when I noticed there were people around. I did not want to look like an idiot, rather I wanted to project myself as the self-made and independent woman I am, the kind who can do what needs to be done.

Oh yeah, gotta screw off that little cap first, doh! I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. There was a way to adjust the pressure of the air going into your tires, I didn't know what it meant, and I'd be damned to give in and start asking someone. Help! I'm retarded! I own a car that I don't know the first thing about! Yeah, no. I flipped my hair back out of the way, and began to pump. Actually, I began to let air out, but then I began to pump. Felt good. Kept my face in position, yeah, I know what I'm doing, done this a thousand times, pumpin' up the tire, yeah.

A car is waiting for the pump. My tires are uneven, but no one would notice, right? I replace the nozzle by letting it go, and the box sucked it right back in, like a tape measurer. My fingers were black. BLACK. Kleenex in the car, I wiped and wiped, poured water on them, cleaned all the way to work. Apparently, I missed a few spots.

When I sat down at my desk this morning, coffee in hand, I decided to glance in my little desk mirror (any unwanted hair to tweeze?) and what did I find!? Black smudges ALL OVER my face. ALL OVER. When was I touching my face with dirty hands? What was I touching my face for? I thought my hands were on the wheel, I don't get this. How stupid did I look driving to work with black all over my face? Ah, well, I washed it off. And washed my hands 5 times so far. So far.

But the mystery remains. Why are my hands on my face while I drive? Isn't that odd? And how many times to I touch my face in a day and for what purpose? You know, this is going to drive me crazy, and I can already tell as I reach for scratch paper and a pen, that I'm gonna start documenting. Hoo boy, here we go.