I am the only still up. I should go to bed but can't. I feel ill at ease or something. It's nothing serious. I honestly believe a good part of this discontent stems from American Idol. I watched it tonight and got all caught up in the "magic" of it. Then I remembered there is no magic here. Since I can remember, I've wanted to be a singer. I sang and still do sing my heart out given the opportunity. And while sometimes I can do a pretty mean mimic, I cannot actually sing. I do not know the notes, I can't hit the notes; Lauren Alaina (sp?) I am not. And I am definitely not Hailey. I'd really like to be Hailey. I'd like to be 17 and look like that, sing like that and move like that.
Instead I'm 34. Apple shaped. About 1/2 inch of grey roots on the go and my moves are limited to switching laundry loads, vacumning and toilet cleansing. A lot of that means I'm bent over, so maybe that counts for something? Well it might, if I still worked out. It would likely also be of benefit if I weren't usually wearing a pair of sweat pants that make it look as though I've shit myself.
Now come on, some positive scanning, some Oprah gratitude. I am not a Butterface. In fact, I'm likely the opposite. Don't know what a Butterface is? Please go over to Pretty All True and she will enlighten you. My kids are intelligent, socially adept and attractive. Yes I'm mentioning looks and yes it does matter. We can all pretend it doesn't, but really, if you have social skills and people don't suggest a bag over your head as an accessory, chances are you will have some level of success in this world. Even if you are just clean and have social skills, you'll get your foot in the door to wherever it is you need or want to be. So I am grateful for their non-hideousness and non-assholeness.
Except, as not ugly as I am, and as charming, funny, witty and plain fucking fantastic as I am, I am not and will never be a rock star. Not even a pop star. My voice is rightfully confined to my home, car and any place that serves alcohol.
Oh and there's one more thing, I've also always wanted to be a biker or just affiliated with that sort of club. Then I found Sons of Anarchy and even though it's a television show, each season, I live SOA and convince myself I am Gemma's apprentice. And that Jax knows I'm out here and is just waiting for the right time. There is no man more gorgeous and....sigh, I can't put what I want to put here because my kids read this and they are already disturbed by his topless photo on my laptops desktop. It's from some men's Fitness magazine. He's oiled up and...
Now I'm distracted.
Anyway, I would be Jax's old lady in a heartbeat. Yes, of course at first I would need to drop about 40 pounds and get some 'work' done, but then I'd be all his. And he would be all mine. This would include his hair. I have liked boys with long hair since I first started noticing boys. So imagine my horror, my woe, if you will, at finding out Jax cut his hair. He's got what pretty much amounts to a brush cut. This is not okay. This is breaking the rules. If I'm willing to go under the knife for him (no I'm not that delusional but in my pretend world, there is a chance for he and I) then the least he could do is not cut his hair. Ever.
It's been a heck of an evening. American Idol, once again, crushed my hopes and dreams of singing stardom and my #1 fantasy boyfriend betrayed me with a hair cut. No wonder I can't sleep. Where will the madness end?