My toes are cold. My hands are cold. I rub my cold hands on my neck, absently.
I am, amongst other things, a pile of cliched prose winding itself around my head.
I found a black skirt in the attic that I bought from the French Connection in NYC a good four years ago. It fits! This skirt was made for dancing. It is flouncy.
There was this girl I knew my freshman year who was the wildest dancer I've ever seen. No one could dance like her. She flung her arms up and down and whirled like a mad thing. It was crazy.
My life is lacking in castanets.
2003-01-16, Uh huh
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