I want a dog.
I get no dog though.
It's been a while, you droves of folks who don't actually read my journal. In my head there are droves, I assure you.
I had amazing dreadlocks for 13 weeks.
I had some issues and combed them out. A control problem where everything was going wrong in my life and I needed to take control of something. Apparently combing my hair = taking control. Really it just = watching a fuckton of old anime and drinking like 3 large slurpee's in one night. I'm sure you can imagine the pee fest that came after that little shindig.
1 min until M is due to call and we can hang out and eat Chinese food and watch the IT crowd. I want to do wrong things with what'shisface. The not irish guy. Yeah. I must deflower him. MUST. Oh yes.
Just used a 'greenlight" match to light my ciggarette. Dunno. Not much to say there.
MOSS! That's his name. The character's name. The character on IT crowd that I would do nasty things with/to.
The dreadlocks have returned. They're now at the point they were at 4 weeks last time I started. If you can suss out wtf I was trying to say there, then yay.
Speaking of dreadlocks. HEY another community I ditched.
I spent some money on amazing boots. They are... fucking amazing. Immediately after I ordered my boots, manbeast came home with a flat tire. Now I need to buy some unamazing tires.
I'm using the sleeve of a t-shirt as a headband to hold back the little catterpillar dreadling babies.
Banshee is a little traumatized and lives in the computer room now. The trauma came from rolling around in some glue traps and having half of her fur sheared off as a result. Of course it was about 4 am. Maybe half an hour after I got to sleep? Two hours before manbeast needed to wake up? Yeah. Crankiness. We held her down under a blanket and snipped gluey fluff for a good hour.
The flea wars continue, but I've won most of the battles so far.
That legless boy that I mentioned a few entries ago. He has his metal leg. I'm happy. The lady across the way is dead now though, so I hear. She apparently was not the one who was wailing either. I'll need a new person with superb false limbs to be inspired by now. Maybe I'll just have to stop letting the boys in my stories lose limbs.
The new neighbor is the midwestern equivalent of a chav.
If you were to look at the tabs I have open in my browser you would find google searches for IT crowd, chav, equivalent, and intersex.
M needs to get his ass over here NOW before I gorge myself on lemon cookies.
I keep glancing to my side where there is a sketch for a coat I want to make. Every time I glance, I see a penis first. It must be the hood. Penis coat. Dani will be happy. I'll be going to her show this month. It's called "Dicks on the Dancefloor." Dancefloor is because the gallery is also one of our studios on the other side of the river. She asked my advice a few days ago. She wanted to know how I would feel looking at a painting of a plate of spaghetti with a penis sliced up and tossed with red sauce. I told her that I would feel sad. It's honest enough. Sad, and a queasy. I can make spaghetti, but the thought of it really grosses me out for some reason. And now this poor diembodied penis is swimming in the crap? What a waste. Poor weenie.
I think I'm done talking now. Mizmar music is on and it's driving me away. I could change the song, but then there goes my excuse.
Got through my first full night of classes without my ankle freaking out.
When your friend's husband is a complete fucking moron and you're not allowed to say anything about it!
So today is my birthday. I'm thirty now. Time to write numbers with letters. Bah, fuckit. 30. Nyah.
To celebrate I got the buffalo lookin' hat from hot topic. Yes, I feel dirty, but hey... dirty 30's. I'm now to old to be a "poser" I'm just a person who wanted a silly hat from a store with loud/shitty music, black clothes, and wtf Justin Beiber t-shirts?
I also took a dynamic, grown up, delicious... nap. Fuckin' yeah!
I have no idea where my manbeast is. He left at like 11:30 to go get a haircut. Maybe he's shopping for me. Maybe he was impaled with a pair of scissors and is sitting in the ER somewhere with a disgruntled stylist.
I'm trying to be nice to the new kitty and nod mutter "I hate you" lowly every time I see her. I have to realize she had a shitty upbringing and lived in a tiny cage with her two brothers and no litter box for the first several months of her life. So she sits in my lap, happily clawing the shit out of my thigh whilst purring up a storm.
So I feel this weird attachment to my birthday. Like it belongs to me and nobody else in the history of EVER is allowed to have the same birthday as me. When I see someone "shares" my birthday, some tiny/unevolved part of my brain goes into a jealous rage and I hate them for a good week before and after the dreaded day.
In highschool there was this super popular, pretty hot, lesbian chick that looked like Marsha Brady only more wholesome and adorable. Fuck... I'm super gay and I would still probably have done her if given the chance. Turns out she had the same birthday as me. So out went my admiration of her prettiness and charisma. Bring in the devildoomevil rage from hell. For a week or so I glared and seethed and fumed and other words that mean wrathful anger. Nothing rational about it. She was encroaching on MY MOTHERFUCKING DAY and I had to protect it from outsiders at any cost.
Well... the day came. My fucking day. I stood out on the quad like a fucking champion. In my mind there should have been parades, big gold confeti, and hot oiled muscle hunks to carry me around on their meaty awesome shoulders. Instead, like always, it was a dreary, bitter fucking cold, December day like every other...day in December. I don't really know where I was going with this. Anyway. I was determined not to see this chick.
OH I should also mention that she had my birth name. So... yeah. She stole my name AND my day. She was also the French teacher's daughter. No reason to mention that aside from the fact that she could speak French and had a lovely, smooth voice. It was like she was the successful, beautiful me that was happy with her vagina, so happy in fact that she liked other vaginas as well. She always wore long dresses and mules. Whatever. She was perfect. That was the problem. I was determined to avoid miss perfect at all costs.
By lunch I was pretty convinced I had succeeded. Every time we WOULD HAVE passed eachother on the way to classes, I took an alternate route, so I thought I was home free until a friend said she was looking for me. FUCK!!! Any normal person would nod/not give a shit. To me this was proof that she was seriously a more awesome version of me that not only was pissed about me having her name and day, but could fight like some sort of wizard/ninja hybrid.
I was convinced that I would be beaten to a bloody pulp before the day was out so I faked illness, went to the nurse, and got a ride home.
The next day the same friend comes up to me and gives me a big fat envelope. Perfect girl had actually gone out and gotten me a fucking birthday card.
Now. You might think there's a lesson in this. Maybe one that says I shouldn't be a jealous little prick. A paranoid, jealous prick. No. Fuck that. Goddamned perfect bitch.
My sister in law's cousin shares my birthday now. She's not perfect. She's loud, annoying, and full of herself. I still want to harpoon her in the face though. I always do. I hate her too. Goddamned nutbag.
Okay. Should be done ranting now.
I fucking hate my friends. (Not you Cheryl)
I burned my mouth from this pineapple, but I just can't stop eating the damned thing.
I hate my friends.
Leave me alone.
The house that I THOUGHT had the wailing woman has new people in it. The woman still wails. I don't know where it's coming from. I swear it's not all in my head.
The new people have the cutest puppy I've ever seen.
It craps in my yard though.
Forgot to re-wrap my foot today.
Should go take a shower while manbeast is home. Safer that way.
I just sprained my fucking ankle. I can't remember the last time something hurt that much. I seriously was on the verge of fainting from it. WTF I'm not a person who passes out lightly. Then I had to sit there in agony for a good 45 min while my manbeast ran out and got me an ace bandage. Hurts less now that I'm doped up, but I still look like I have a tennis ball growing from my ankle.
I'm a fucking dancer. How can I hurt myself like this when I'm just taking the trash out. Take one step down to exit the apartment, and BOOM I'm on the ground and screaming. My other ankle is a little twistyfucked but in okay shape. My palms are both scraped to shit too. Woo! Fun night.