I am really in the mood for a glass of wine.
My grandmother and I don’t usually keep alcohol in the house, so that’s not happening. (Unless I suck it up and drink from the opened bottle of blush that’s been sitting around for a month—yuck.) But somehow a glass of wine seems appropriate with this “single girl on the brink of… something” I’ve got going on.
The mood is otherwise set. My “Changing of the Garnet” painted toe nails rest atop the quilt I’ve been reading under all day. My hair is up in a messy bun, and a pile of books is growing beside my bed. If I were writing on my laptop instead of in a spiral notebook, I’d feel vaguely Carrie Bradshaw-esque. (Yeah, I’ve caught a few episodes of Sex & the City since it’s been on TBS.)
I’ve even got an appropriate TV-movie-ish vibe coming from my stereo—Coldplay seems all the soundtrack rage. Despite the fact that I’m not really doing anything, save for the crossword I’m about to begin, I could be in my own little movie-television-book world, just me and my inner monologue.
Well, if only I had that glass of wine.