March 4, 2001

I had tried to write in this diary three separate times over the course of last week, and I kept getting sidetracked. Anyway, here it is.

I had an unexpected pleasant day with S yesterday- he took me to the new outlet mall that opened up down south, brimming with new stores and local Cubans. The place was so jam packed we couldn't shop much (plus I only had three dollars), so we browsed just a few stores, especially this one store where they sold vinyl, goth, fetish, club-y clothes-- everything from the ten inch platforms with the flames on them to the blue-haired, nose pierced salesgirl. It was a great store, but when that underground fashion comes to the freaking mall, you know it's passe.

I'm the extreme opposite of someone who follows fashions trends-- which, in essence, makes me follow a fashion trend! See, I love those tight, hip-hugging red plaid punk-style pants with the little belt, but I won't buy them on principle cause they're too damn trendy. I see them at all the stores now, and pretty soon I'll bet Wal-Mart will be carrying them. So, not wearing them because they're trendy (even though I like them) is as bad as wearing them because they are. Right? It's so confusing. It's like an atheist preaching the word of non-religion, therefore becoming just as obnoxious as a bible thumper.

When you stand back and really survey girls' fashion, it's gets a little eerie. It's like a parade of humans in the accepted female uniform-- tight pants, baby T, cute little belt, those J-Lo Versace sunglasses, platform shoes. After a while it becomes irritatingly repetitive. I really need to learn how to make my own clothes. Anyway.

After the mall we went to Tony Romas and got the best fucking burgers of our lives, and we decreed that Tony Romas should NOT be famous for ribs, but famous for burgers. Not that I've ever even had ribs before...

Next, on to Barnes & Nobles so S could buy his sister a belated birthday gift, while I sat on a cushy chair reading that book everyone's reading these days, Who Moved My Cheese? Everytime I pick up self-help books, I can't help but think that Samantha should start reading them herself. I wonder if she does. Her entire fucking life is full of "I wish I could...", "I really should do that...", "I'm so tired...", "I hate my body...", etc. Not that she's not pleasant to be around, but if you're observant around her, you notice these things. She's one of the most reactive people I've ever met, and I hate that--mostly because I see myself in her, or I see my old self in her, and it's not a good way to live.

I absolutely, positively need to study now. So that's all.