Friday, August 27, 2010

Friday afternoon... I'm supposed to be working.

--So, I'm clearly the last bozo in America to find out that Oprah is, as one blog put it (quite some time ago, I might add), one of us. In fact, this just raised my Oprah-like meter by like a thousand points. I didn't dislike Oprah until she featured a show about puppy mills on the anniversary of Dr. King's death* or something to that effect. But that's another subject. I distinctly remember my mom telling me that Oprah's hair wasn't a weave.

Mom: oh no, that's her hair.
Me: (stares quizzically at mom, clearly doubting her logic.)**

Clearly, I still have traces of that "'regular' Black people don't have long hair" syndrome that gets passed down to you practically from birth.

Nevertheless, the point is that Oprah is now my friend again... almost a year and a half after she told everyone her hair isn't a weave. Oooops.

--Timberland boots are only sexy in places where the heat index doesn't make you feel like you're melting. For whatever reason, today, in the CY room, the air conditioner decided to be a punk and stop functioning properly. (It's probably because it's as hot as Hell's microwave outside.) Oh, it's still on, and yes, cold air is coming out (I think), but the room isn't getting cold like it was this morning. I've been sitting here, supposed to be doing work for the last hour, but have been staring blindly at the screen, trying to push little thoughts through my head. Must.go.get.water.Must.leave.desk.

I definitely dislike the cold, but I simply can't function efficiently when it's too hot. How do I live in Miami, then, you may ask? Well, as long as I don't have to do anything that requires significant effort of thought*** (such as working, writing things for work, pretending to be working, etc.) then I'm fine. Lying in sand and drinking cute drinks with umbrellas in them**** requires no significant effort of thought whatsoever.

Back to my point--Timbs are too hot to be sexy in Miami summer. So I'm sitting in my room, with my uniform and nametag on, with my boots off and my pants rolled to the knees. It's too fucking hot, I tell ya.

--Maybe it's because I ate McDonald's for lunch for the first time in a long time that I feel like a drugged alien. Actually, that shit was delicious, so I take it back, that's not why.

--I think the problem is that I got eight hours of sleep last night. Before you pummel me with hard, hot stones from a Miami sidewalk, I'll explain--my body is not used to getting eight solid hours. From the IB program to now, my hours of sleep have shortened significantly. And because I'm like my mother, I can function on little sleep. (One time, I went to work after having stayed up for 24 hours.*****) So, frequently, I get little sleep. I always tell him that I'm always fatigued, and that's just the life I live. Last night, I got in the bed at like 10 and was gone to world within probably 5-10 minutes. And now I'm sleepy.

--That last sentence is a lie: between the time I was finishing the last paragraph and starting this one, I engaged in a conversation with my corps members about other languages, and because my brain was stimulated, I woke back up and now I don't feel as hot. So, the key to body temperature and fatigue is brain stimulation? This is good to know... the more you know...

*ding* (What up, VSB.)

*--don't quote me on this. I'm going off the dome right now.
**--thanks Shari from The Brisk Convergence for your dialogue inspiration. I love the way you depict conversations with your mother.
***--you could argue that writing requires significant effort of thought, but for me, it doesn't. It's like my second skin, so I mentally kind of fall back into myself and let my second skin do the talking. So right now, I'm not even really thinking, I'm kind of just operating on this different plane of existence where I don't really know what the hell I'm going to write until it's written. Cool, huh?
****--I have yet to go to the beach in Miami, and I have yet to have a drink with a damn umbrella in it. In fact, when I was in the Keys, I was on work time, so there was no alcohol consumption whatsoever. Drat.
*****--I stayed up all night on the phone with him that night, and then when the sun rose I had to hang up because I had to go to work... I got there at eight, and was fine until I sat in the chair and realized by nine that I'd fallen asleep with my head back and mouth open. Needless to say, I can't function on no sleep.

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