it's not you. it's hannah.

listen: hannah's back on the book. as in, there's been all this talk about finishing it. and whenever one of us gets on the bookwriting wagon, the other just finds the whole thing silly. it's our twinned rebellious streak self-defense mechanism. like, i begin screaming "poetry" while performing an interpretive dance dressed only in magnolia leaves to "suddenly i see." hannah snorts, says something about the lameness of it all. anyway, she's writing, which means it's my turn to get my hair done.
(incidentally, she's using some terrible thesaurus. like, she wants to coin a word for "charging," as in the bull charges. she types in: frantic, running, desperate, attack. the thesaurus says, "canter," and "lope." similar to when you find yourself in a trailer park in easley while looking for a new restaurant and the GPS system says, "you are AT your destination. you are AT your destination.")

i call hannah today and she actually answers:

me: thank god. what should i do with my hair?
han: i definitely like the honey blond instead of that thing with red you sometimes do.
me: what about cut?
han: um, i trust you on that one. it always seems so, uh, well formed. like it'll just stick with you. no matter what. like, it's not going anywhere."
i realize she's referring to, instead of the elements, my personality. like she's shocked my own hair puts up with me.
me: do you know what propitious and carbuncular mean?
han: yeah. i mean propitious i do.
me: a carbuncle is a festering, pustuous wound.
han: why are you telling me this?
me: they're in the waste land.
han: have you ever thought maybe people don't use words like that anymore because, i don't know, we don't walk around with open wounds these days?

later:

han: how's the hair?
me: blond and bobbed.
han: maybe you could send me a picture. or i can see it myself when you come visit in, who knows, like six months.
me: yeah, when we finally see each other, i show up with a long, golden brown braid down my back.
han: so you're showing up as sally?