Colour me bad

In my never ending quest to find the perfect identity signifier — one that will tell me what the hell to do with my life (because, you know, sometimes you just get bored of looking out for your own best interest), I have uncovered this hip, new thing called color astrology.

I am peridot green.

Unless found on a tree, fern, or mossy underlay, I've never really been fond of the colour green, but I am digging the peridot. Peridot. It feels nice on the tongue. Peridot.

I suddenly feel like I should be a part of the sequence that introduces the film Amelie: Violet loves cracking ice between her teeth and echoing the word peridot off lonely precipices. She finds pillows on her belly soothing. Likes the smell of asphalt after the first summer rain. But abhors white tube socks with teevas. She puts in ear plugs whenever the nasty brutes upstairs are embroiled in one of their hideous and unsexy fuck fests. Wildebeasts sound sweeter.

Based on my peridot, I'm supposed to move physically toward my dreams and not get stuck in fear or confusion. Peridot is supposed to ease any worry that I might be carrying. It eases my financial pressures and connects me to the spiritual side of my nature and true calling.

(As I was typing I realized that my peridot is my ideal boyfriend. Now, where to find my Peridot. Peridot: where are youuuu?)