(When you have an opportunity to post a pic of Liz Taylor as Cleopatra, you just go with it.)
Today I read this article about a Baltimore hair dresser who has proven that ancients weren't wearing wigs at all, but really had crazy ass hair. So basically she has debunked centuries of historical thinking because she saw some Roman busts at an art museum and got obsessed.
After I thought it was cool and posted the link to Facebook, I kind of got a little sad about myself. Right now, besides watching The X-files and refusing to wear weather-appropriate shoes (I've been wearing these in bright green without socks for the last week and they clash with everything), there is nothing that I'm obsessed with. My writing has stalled a bit (been writing the same short story for months) and my job is a total dead end. It's times like these when I have to remind myself that most famous writers were miserable people, and even Charles Dickens was a total dick and his children hated him. Gotta look on the bright side.
Anyway, here's hoping that once this baby is out of me and I don't sit in a windowless office 45 hours a week that I might feel a bit more inspired. Also, it's FEBRUARY. At this point in the winter, it's pretty much an accomplishment that none of us have committed suicide, amiright?
Feel your pain. Inappropriate shoes that don't match. Windowless office. Dead-end job. Stagnant writing. Hopefully it gets better. I've always aspired to be a writer that isn't miserable. But that's probably "the dream," isn't it?
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