--originally posted 1/26/2001--

Just because the fiasco of a girl and her deodorant is that good I'll re-print this.

In a rather anticlimactic epilogue to this story, I bought a stick of deodorant.

I do not like it.

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I come back. Rather swiftly, I may add--it didn't take the week of neglect I supposed it would to get my rear into writing again. The topic today, kids? Well, it's pride.

I've never understood pride, myself--such may be one of my weaknesses. I do feel it now and then--like when a patron complimented how neat I keep the new books, or when I finally got the smell out of the fridge--but I never feel it in conjunction to things that you'd think you should feel pride for. I often get complimented for the few yaoi stories I've written, but all the same, I do not fancy myself a good writer. I never feel pride in that trade--nor did I ever feel pride back when I painted. But when I do menial work, from organizing those new books into crisp rows and selecting the prettiest books to place on the top of the shelf, to sweeping my bedroom floor 'til it's actually decent, I feel a sense of happiness. A sense of oneness and accomplishment, and all that good fluffy stuff.

However, there are some things you can only be proud of for so long before you realize...

"I really, really need help."

Case in point: my deodorant. Seriously, I am proud of how long I've made that thing last, and it has become MY FRIEND. I've had this stick of deodorant for a year, using it faithfully, like any decent human. But this stuff--it lasted a /year./ And due to it's longetevity, I feel really proud of it. But it's days are limited. A month ago I dropped it on the floor and stepped on it, breaking the plastic head off. So now the little tray thing that the deodorant is upon just kind of... floats there. Also, I've used almost all of it now. I'm down to about 5 molecules of nice-scented armpits, and the plastic is gouging my skin.

Logically, I know I need a new stick. But there's a few problems. One--I'll miss that stick. It was with me for a YEAR. It never questioned the fact that I was jamming its head into my armpit. It never cried when I stomped on it and loudly cussed at it. It was a wonderful stick of deodorant. Two--I have a certain sense of accomplishment in making one stick last a year. May not mean much to you, but with me, quite often I'd demolish a stick before I could use it all up. Most sticks got lost with luggage and the like. Many were stomped on, and, instead of the head popping off, just crushed to white, sweet-scented smithereens. A few just smelled bad and got thrown out. But this--this stick LASTED. But I suppose the worse problem is the weakest.

The fact that I need to get out of the house to buy a new stick.

Have a nice night...