My intent was to reward myself, not torture myself.

I turned in my last assignment of the semester on Monday, so yesterday I decided to treat myself to a haircut, a manicure, and a pedicure.

The mani/pedi was uneventful, although I did learn how to say "thank you" in Korean--kom sa hom nida. (This brings my arsenal of Korean phrases to two! "Hello, how are you?" is onyo hashim nika.) After that I headed over to the hair salon and was quickly taken back to the shampoo area where I was second in line for a wash. As I waited, the woman getting her hair washed complimented the shampooer on her head massaging skills. The shampooer (let's call her Katie, because Katies tend to be peppy in my experience) giggled with glee and informed everyone in the vicinity that "every person today has said that to me! They all said I give a really good head massage! Every single customer!"

Truthfully, I was excited; the shampoo lady (her name was "Nile, like the river," she told me every single time I saw her) at my last salon in Virginia was excellent, and I've been longing for a head massage like that for some time now. By the time Katie finished up her customer, I was ready to enjoy some fontanel fondling!

Well, Katie must have been really into it by the time she got to me, because holy shit she worked my scalp like a mad woman. I'm no longer an infant so I'm assuming the soft spots in my skull have fused together by now. I must be wrong. Either my soft spots never closed up or Katie drilled new ones for me. It felt like she was digging her fingers into my brain, trying to steal some intelligence.

Ugh, what a traumatic experience, and it didn't end there! My hairstylist gave me a great 'do, but I really suffered in the process. The way he cut the back of my hair was by tilting my head forward, forcefully plastering my hair against the back of my neck, and then scraping the scissors against my neck.

As I left the hairstylist said to me, "Beautiful! ...and badly needed." Yeah, thanks.

It hurts to be beautiful slightly above average.

It's hard to be productive at 6 AM.

I slept fitfully last night. (Haha. I would never use the word "fitfully" in person.) I kept waking up and wondering why I was awake. I gave up on sleep about an hour ago. As I walked out of the bedroom, I felt the need to do something productive. I had a mental dialogue with myself. "Shower? No, too loud." The shower's in our master bathroom. "Paint my nails? Ugh. I don't feel like waiting for them to dry." I'm usually sedentary but for some reason when I'm waiting for my nail polish to dry I suddenly get the urge to accomplish a thousand different tasks.

Upon entering the living room, I realized what I needed to do with this free time. "Vacuum!" You see the problem with this plan, right? Vacuuming at 6 AM? I quickly vetoed the vacuuming and moved on to plan B. "Sweep!" I proceeded to sweep the Pergo in the entryway, living room, dining room, and kitchen. I knew I wouldn't be able to clean the rugs with the broom, but after I finished sweeping the faux hardwood floors I tried it anyway. It didn't work. Sweeping the rug just scraped off all of the crap that had previously been stuck to the broom bristles. I guess it's a good way to clean brooms, though.

Other people think I'm funny too, you know.

I happen to think I'm hilarious. I laugh at all of my jokes. Other people even join in sometimes.

A few years ago, I had a fairly successful blog called Tailbone Lust. The majority of my posts there consisted of random funny stories from my everyday life. At the time I was just an insignificant, low-achieving high school student. I went on to become an insignificant, low-achieving community college student: two years of college and less than twenty credits to show for it.

There's another layer to that story. It was during that time that I met and fell in love with a boy. It was also during that time that I was finally able to get a hold of my chronic major depression through proper, professional treatment. I moved to Long Island to live with my boyfriend and I enrolled in yet another community college.

Let me bring you up to speed with where I am now. Tommy and I have been living together for two and a half years. I'm currently in a bachelors program for social work, with the intent to earn my masters, become a licensed clinical social worker, and have a private psychotherapy practice. Earlier today, I was silently practicing my valedictorian speech in front of my bedroom mirror, praising my fellow classmates for their perseverance in the face of adversity and applauding them for their desire to pass that courage on to their future clients.

Okay, fine. I just started that bachelors program this fall. I still have three semesters to go. I'm not valedictorian...yet.