Go Brush Your Hair, Michael Bolton!

This is one of the cleverest, most surprising, and hilarious insults I have ever witnessed. It is received by Langly in the X-Files from a competing group of government conspiracy theorists in season 6’s marvelous Three of a Kind, if memory serves me well. Of course, Langly having the long, wheaty hair rather unbecoming for a grown man, one could argue that he kind of deserves the burn, but the expression has grown on me to use in any given circumstance whatsoever, whether there is hair involved or not. If my significant other, for instance, a fellow with the sensible short haircut of a twenty-first century man, hovers around me in the kitchen in the annoying way he sometimes does as I am trying to prepare my breakfast in peace. Also, I use it as a comeback line in a variety of situations, all relationship-related, because what’s the point really to waste such a fabulous insult on someone who won’t get the reference? My man knows where it is from and the circumstances of its delivery, and being a fellow x-phile (although not as freaky and dedicated as your truly) it never fails to make us both laugh.

The reason the abusive line from the Nineties show came to me this morning is that I think I myself need a wake-up call from not having been very efficient lately in anything but a few selected things. I guess I need to get up and smell the coffee instead of roses, to get my shit together. I know it’s summer and all, and everyone is entitled to do some chilling, but I don’t know. I have been putting stuff off, and it is very unlike me to do that.

I have at least four unfinished stories brewing on the back burner as we speak, and this is starting to in fact piss me off. I don’t know if I’m spreading myself too thin right now, or if I’m not having enough on my plate. That, too, can make a lazy girl. The old saying is true that you get a lot more done if you are already enormously busy.

I have failed to go to the goddamn store to buy some new laundry detergent.

I have repeatedly forgotten to bring Roberts’ birthday present with me to work, so often in fact that she is beginning to suspect that I am pulling a chandler on her. You know, from Friends, when he told Phoebe he had something real special back-ordered for her, and it was so obviously a lie and he was so busted for it.

I haven’t done my spring cleaning in the house, and it’s June, for christ’s sake. My winter coats are just being buried I guess in the huge box in the middle of the library.

I have forgotten to water my plants and ended up giving them enormous quantities of I’m-sorry-water, almost drowning the poor bastards in my extreme incompetence.

I haven’t gone to see my parents, who are asking me to visit in every phone conversation now, and I am starting to feel like the prodigal daughter.

I bought a new flower table from the flea market, and it is just sitting there because I haven’t bothered to make room for it.

I haven’t had my hair cut – so the Michael Bolton insult is literally just a few centimeters away!

I haven’t – horror of horrors – written in my journal, or made any plans in my daily planner. And it was kind of an expensive planner with beautiful white covers and now it is just mocking me on the table and who in this world is more about being neat and organized than me?

I have been obsessing over Hanks’ wife Rita going to see Beyoncé and Jay-Z in Stockholm and the fact that I am not going and why is that, and I have been living vicariously through her.

I have been dancing, as stated earlier, and trying do get my core moving again in the way that it’s supposed to move.

What else? Last night, I watched Army of Darkness for the first time in probably ten years, and it was so much fun, and I laughed in my wine glass and stretched my bare legs in the recliner.

I have soon read every book Liane Moriarty has written so far. She became my May-June Author Project – I seem to develop those, sometimes. I read a kick-ass novel by someone, and the next thing I know, I have ordered every single book they have ever written and devour them all in one huge gulp in a state of ultimate monomania.

Oh, and guess what else? This morning, I deliberately got up early, not to do my dance exercise this time, but to check out the millions of stories I’ve got saved under the In Progress -tag, and to try and make some sense out of them. You know what I did first, though? Well, I innocently opened Instagram, just to see what was what. And there it was. 

Beyoncé and Jay-Z’s new collaborative album, dropped live sometime during my sleep last night. 

Why, why did I have to do that? Damn you, social media! Damn you, Beyoncé and Jay-Z!

There is no way now I can concentrate on the stupid writings. I need to put on Everything Is Love and listen to it on repeat until the cows come home this evening. Another day of absolute pleasure instead of collecting those ducks of mine in a row.

You know, I may be bad, but I feel good.

Quote from the all-time grooviest, most insane, what-is-plot-anyway -celebration of fun moviemaking; Sam Raimi’s incredible, joyful, most wonderful pile of otherworldly blood and body parts -pancakes, Army of Darkness.