My finger started swelling today.  That’s my ‘Spidey-sense’ telling me the weather is changing – as if the massive thunderstorm outside my window wouldn’t clue me in.  I should talk to Charles Xavier or Stan Lee or God or something because if this is the only Superpower I get, I want a refund.

But as long as I’ve decided it’s summer, better treat it like one.  That means shopping, sleeping, and trashy romance novels.  Ain’t nobody can have a good time like me. (“Ain’t nobody can play dead like me, Ernest.”)  I went for a bit of Retail Therapy over the weekend and I have to say, all those magazines that tell you not to shop when you’re emotional are full of crap.  I had the best time shopping, and I don’t feel one bit bad about it.  The only problem is, I want to go back.  To the mall.  To the shoes.  Now.  Except that is both physically and fiscally impossible…better distract myself.

Bring on the trashy books!  Actually, haven’t read anything that bad lately (nothing I’m willing to admit to here, anyway).  I finished my birthday present from Anna, Good Grief, and I really enjoyed it.  While I was at home last weekend I read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, and it lived up to its hype: very good and very unique.  Also while I was home, CK returned my copy of Tales of a Drama Queen (the book, totally unrelated to the trashy L. Lohan movie…ew, don’t think such evil thoughts about me).  If I haven’t made you read this yet, and you are a girl, beware.  So far the book has made the rounds to Lacy, Anna, CK, and Heather…I am a library (a very pushy library.  Maybe more like a drug dealer.  But we’re talking about books here…the ultimate escapism…so really, what’s the difference?).  No one to lend it too at the moment, so…better just reread it myself then, huh?  If you recall, I’m not allowed to read at work, so instead I surf the internet for information about my books (it doesn’t get much nerdier than this, people).  I did this yesterday on Drama Queen, and discovered the author has literally just released a new book.

This is a sign.  This, much like a 60% off sale at New York and Company, is not to be ignored.  This does not just happen.  Suddenly the Barnes and Noble gift card I’ve had for six months begins to burn a hole in my pocket.  Forget exercising.  Forget grocery shopping.  Forget shopping altogether (mostly) (just for a little bit) (at least stop fantasizing about shoes) (just for a little bit) – Rachel’s plan is buying.  Buying and devouring a trashy Chick Lit romance novel.

Gee, I’m shallow.  Like most shallow people, I do not care.  Like most shallow people, I am convinced I’m actually quite deep.  I am, really, or at least I would be if I weren’t so bored.  It’s either writing this or figuring out why one of my shoelaces seems to be getting longer.  An intriguing mystery, to be sure.  Was this shoelace harvested from a wall of climbing ivy?  Does it have some sort of vendetta against my foot and is attempting to strangle said appendage?  Is it trying to escape ratty sneakers – in which case I do not blame it; I am only wearing them in deference to the rain, hence the magnified shoelust.  If I were a shoelace, I would not want to be in these shoes.  If I were a shoelace, I’m pretty sure I would want to be lacing up Wonderwoman’s boots.  It’s difficult to be Wonderwoman in ratty sneakers.

This returns me to previous topic of superpowers.  I wouldn’t mind being Wonderwoman, and not just because of her boots.  Because of her earrings, which (and I’m not kidding) allow her to breathe in outer space, and her bracelets, which deflect bullets.  Wonderwoman knows how to accessorize.  Except she doesn’t seem to have much going by way of actual super powers, just a killer outfit, invisible plane, and of course the Lasso of Truth (okay, so I spent the past twenty minutes researching Wonderwoman.  It keeps me busy).  Her main weapon seems to be spouting loads of feminist theory (so there’s a chance I had her as a professor last semester).  That wouldn’t be my first choice as a weapon, but it’s still way better than the weather-predicting finger….of doom.


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