prematurely grey

This morning, I got my hair trimmed. Now, on most blogs this would not be earth-moving news, but those of you here at Prematurely Grey know better.

Obama won. Yes he did. All my buddies over there on Daily Kos and HuffPo may rue the day they voted for a pragmatic Chicago pol for president and will keep drinking the Lieberman=The Anti-Christ kool-aid. (If they were so uneducated as to believe in Christ, let alone an anti-Christ. I’ll stop before the atheists among you–and trust me, you are in the majority here–get all hot and bothered by my latent fire and brimstone.)

By the way, I hear that kool aid is so refreshing. Like getting back on cigarettes after a relationship with a triathlete. (No, not talking from experience here, Tech Support Guy.)

So, Obama won and the world is safe for democracy again and I’m just a little bit BORED OUT OF MY FUCKING MIND!!!!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH MYSELF? THIS IS JUST LIKE QUITTING SMOKING, BTW. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO WITH MY HANDS!

Obviously, hair cut time, right? New look, new color, new me.

Except there’s nothing new going on up there except the end of a really pathetic clumping of hair at the back of my neck.

NOTHING NEW IS GOING ON, PEOPLE.

I know what you’re expecting to read next. It goes something like, “Kill me now.”

But I’d like to try a little something new today. How about, “I like my nice middle aged lady hair?” Wow. You weren’t expecting that, were you? I really do. What’s more, I’m holding onto this Anne Bancroft fantasy. Yes, hot rollers will be involved. And perhaps even fake eye lashes. But so far, I’m resisting the charms of my neighbor named Benjamin. (He’s six, after all. But his hair is very Dustin Hoffman, 1967.)

It’s the end of the election that lasted two years. I hated all the time I didn’t love it. It was the worst boyfriend I ever had and the best. I’m completely destroyed without it and supremely free. This is the first day of the rest of my life.

So what to do now?

Well, at least I have a new radio guy on the side. I’m cheating on everyone. His name is Matt Riley and right now he’s sitting in for Jay Trachtenberg. (This may be meaningless to those of you beyond the airwaves of KUT, but with the internets, KUT reaches everyone, so tune in people. If we’re going to keep on having newspapers even though they won’t be printed, we’ll still have radio even though I’ll be the only person with one on top of her fridge once my mom and grandmother are gone.)

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s the return of yet another familiar stranger, one who hasn’t been seen in these parts for months if not years. It’s time to go back to the days when Prematurely Grey was young. The salad days. Let’s welcome back our old friend, SOTD.

Ten Years Gone. Led Zepplin.

Get the fucking Led out, people. That’s what we have to do in the post-election universe. Screw Joementum and angry Kossacks. Screw the Washington Establishment and private schools and tickets to the inauguration. Fuck it all.

It’s time to get the Led out. Period. Paragraph.

I applied for a job last week and I immediately went dark here at PG. How can anyone possibly give me a job if they read the crap that goes through my brain 24 hours a day? The paranoia kicks in immediately. (I’m pretty sure I would have aided the Nazis, given this level of spinelessness over a blog read by eight Dear Readers.)

Well, Morning Fucking Joe has a job, even though he doesn’t know better than to not repeat Jay Carney’s Rahn Emmanuel story word for fucking word. Rahm Emmanuel has a fucking job, even though he repeatedly stabbed a table in front of everyone he worked with. Fuck, even Sarah Palin has a job. If she has a job, there’s got to be a job out there for me.

The laptop’s back on the dining room table. (Sorry, TSG!) The sun is shining. KUT is blasting. Prematurely Grey is in the motherfucking house.