Beware of Redhead

I assumed my bad mood (see below) would persist throughout the day and was fully prepared to launch a ruthless assault on the 60-odd midterms I just received as well as terrifying some hapless LSAT students later tonight. Then I realized after leaving the house this morning that my boots were on the wrong feet. Sadly, this is the third time this has happened with these boots -- they're tall and high-heeled (of course) and vaguely cowboyish, which can make it confusing, but still, one should be able to tell which shoe to put on which foot after the age of 3. They're not uncomfortable when on backwards (though my roommate has told me that the words "not uncomfortable" have no meaning when coming from me in relation to footwear).

The last few times this has happened I have made it all the way to school before someone else, usually E., noticed. Since I was on the bus when I figured it out and since it requires more than one person to remove my boots (I don't want to talk about it), I couldn't exactly whip them off right there, though I'm certain everyone would have enjoyed my fuzzy red snowflake socks. So I wore my shoes on the wrong feet all over town, around the bus station and on two buses. Along the way I stepped on the dangling strap from some kid's backpack and nearly sent him flying into a group of people. I had to sit in the very back on my second bus, which meant that despite my height my feet were dangling off the ground by a good inch (do they make the back seats for GIANTS? seriously). It was at this point that I concluded that I am way too ridiculous to be copping an attitude. I am a slapstick version of myself. Now, instead of being careful of my bad mood, you should just plain be careful. Watch your step after I eat a banana! Or if there's a meringue pie nearby! Plate glass doors, beware! And as many of you know, I cannot be allowed within two feet of a sharp implement (this includes paper) without likely cutting off or otherwise maiming some part of myself and possibly others. I'm my own version of Calamity Jane, except that everything that comes out of my mouth isn't an unintelligible string of profanities (not everything). I think I might need to start wearing a safety helmet when outdoors and some sort of safety mittens in the house. They would go well with my ability to turn regular shoes into clown shoes.

On another note, after spending an hour and a half staring at a class of midterm-taking, sniffling-in-unison undergrads, attempting to intimidate them into not cheating too blatantly, I have concluded the following: the kids at this school are really weird-looking. Kind of like a bunch of little aliens with colds. I blame inbreeding.

P.S. My apologies to those of you with clown phobia or "coulrophobia." I blame my evil twin.