Hot mess.

I love Chelsea Handler.  I am in the middle of her second book after laughing my ass off at her first.  I highly suggest both.  Anyway, in this book, she refers to herself and her friends frequently as a “hot mess.”  As in, “You are a hot mess.”  Sounds dirty (yes?) but it’s not.

From the Urban Dictionary: 

(Noun)  term used to describe somebody that has NO REASON to look the way that they are lookin at the time.  Also describes somebody who is lookin like a DAMN FOOL.

Word.  I think that pretty much describes me and my ill fitting track pants, giant boobs, precarious mental state, propensity to pick fights with those that are closest to me, addiction to both peanut butter, chocolate and Discovery Health channel after 10pm.  I am a collector but not a user-upper.  My kids don’t know whether it’s okay to kiss me or if they should run from me.  Instead of crying, I seek out those who have it worse than I.    And, until a few hours ago, I hadn’t had a haircut or, more tragically, a color since halloween.  I was a sheep dog with a dark (and silver) streak down the middle of my skull flap.  Criminal.

A hot mess.

I don’t know what I want.  I want to be fit but hate to sweat.  I have to make a drink before I can watch Grey’s because the beeping and the cancer make me want to crawl out of my skin.  I want to go out, be out, be impressed and impressive but I sit here in my chair and get older. 

I don’t know what I want.  But at least I know what I am.  Lookin like a DAMN FOOL.

   
 
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