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Insomniaville -- All the Stuff that Keeps Me Up At Night

4/5 -- Life is Just a Barrel of Sea Monkeys.

(Did I really only update three times in January? That's just pathetic.)

Richard Hatch, the sea monkey I believed to be the very last of the alpha tribe I grew last year, has finally shuffled off this mortal coil. That's the bad news. The better news is that Richard was apparently a female, and before she died she must have been producing eggs like a fiend. Two of her offspring survived to sea monkey adulthood. I think after a certain point, the monkey water gets so unbelievably foul that only the hardiest of babies can live. Richard's kids are happily swimming around as I write. Last week, they even tried mating. (I guess I shouldn't be such a species-ist, but ... ew. Nasty.)

So Richard wasn't the last Survivor after all. No million bucks for her.

on wednesday night(And Jerri will never be the last Survivor. Bwah hah! I'm sick to death of hearing her protest that she's really kinder than Mother Teresa and the editing of the show made her look bad. I wish one of these gutless TV interviewers would point out what's glaringly obvious to the rest of the planet: "Damn, bitch -- you gave those editors a hell of a lot of material to work with, didn't you?")

Seriously, though, I feel kind of bad. As Bill pointed out, you can't get too attached to the sea monkeys when the tank is crawling with them. But when there are only two or three left and you can actually tell them apart, it gets sadder to see them go. I didn't stand there and blubber or anything, but I felt vaguely blue.

(Am I the only person in the world who'd bother to tell her sea monkeys apart? Would I be a happier and more well-adjusted person if I didn't do this kind of silly shit? Most likely.)

I have a new batch growing at home and yet another new batch underway at the office, where my co-worker told me about the friend of hers who used to stir her sea monkeys and her hot chocolate with the same spoon and ended up with sea monkeys in her cocoa. Considering how gross sea-monkey water gets, I have to question why anyone who'd stir it up with a spoon that she actually uses to eat would be bothered by a brine shrimp or two in the Swiss Miss.

Bill wasn't home tonight and I felt like doing a little shopping after work, so I headed out to Pentagon City Mall. Tonight will be one of my last trips for a while now that we're headed full-tilt boogie into DC tourist season. (Christ, is it already Cherry Blossom season again?) Apparently, no American high school considers a trip to DC complete without a visit to Pentagon City. The kids have a knack for clustering in huge, surly knots anywhere I'm trying to get through: outside the Metro entrance; by the mall escalators; in front of the MAC counter painting themselves with the green lip gloss and giggling.

Yes, I used to be a teenager, and yes, I was probably every bit as annoying. It's unfair, though, that you get only a few years to be an annoying teen but the rest of your life to be annoyed by them.

Speaking of annoying teenagers, I stayed up too late on Saturday night watching "The Breakfast Club" on TNT, and suddenly one of the mysteries of my own college years became as clear as day.

In college, I wore black clothes pretty much all the time. I also teased my hair and used lots of Aqua Net and black kohl eyeliner. I didn't eat Pixy-Stix-and-Cap'n-Crunch sandwiches, but I probably resembled Ally Sheedy's character Allison a lot. And to this day, that horrible scene where Molly Ringwald's popular Claire makes Allison over and eradicates everything about her that was different and mold-breaking and cool and interesting (as if a simple makeup change could even do all that) makes me want to retch.

And while I watched it again and gagged again last Saturday, I remembered that I'd run up against preppy, peppy, pretty girls in college who wanted to do the same damn thing to me. My RA nagged me constantly. "You'd look so pretty in this pink shirt! Why don't you just wear colors once in a while?" The 25-year-old girlfriend of a friend of my mom's expressed her desire to make me buy an entirely new wardrobe and give me a complete makeover. To them, my appearance was some unfortunate habit that they honestly believed they could break if they just showed me the right Benetton sweater.

And for what? I didn't understand why they wouldn't just leave me alone, but now I get it: They had Breakfast Club syndrome. They saw that movie too many damn times. And they thought the whole makeover scene was an Oscar-worthy moment of cinematic history. They thought it was really cool that Claire stepped down from her high fucking horse long enough to reach out to freaky Allison. They actually thought they'd be doing me the favor of a lifetime. They'd clean me up and put me in Gap clothing, and I'd immediately step into line and fall in love with Emilio Estevez.

And they'd get to French-kiss Judd Nelson in front of their parents.

Sure. Clean me up and stick me with the dweeby jock. Take the fetching bad boy for yourself. I don't think so.

I probably inhaled too many hair dye fumes on Saturday afternoon. But I'm telling you -- it made a lot of sense. It was one of those life-clarifying moments where something that's bothered you for years suddenly becomes clear. The preppies wouldn't leave me alone. All because of that damn John Hughes.

Indulging my inner hit slut

(Clix me, you fool. Please.)

The next entry.

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April 2001