Switching between this page and CNN's is doing nothing for this entry.

Hi. Yeah. So, i'm aware that Princess Diana died 10 years ago. Tragic? Yes. She was a great humanitarian, blah blah blah, but somehow i think that even she'd be a little pissed that the coverage of her death has been taking precedence over the anniversary of Katrina, which was TWO YEARS AGO AND NOTHING'S ANY BETTER.

Ahem. Yes, America, can we get some priorities straight? No? You'd rather watch television, right? Fine. I'll wait.


Random: Eventually i'll get around to saying something about my newly-decided "self-imposed social exile until the end of the year" (there's got to be a catchier title for that), because there's reasons and whatnot, and i don't want people to think i'm just being a bitch when i don't come out and play. But considering i can only post at work, and i'm already going asfastasican so i don't get caught and berated, i'll leave that post for another time.

That, and i still have no idea how to word it all anyways.

I'll just tape the Snickers to my thighs. Ew. Gross.


It has taken 3 hours for a co-worker of mine to eat a Hot Pocket. With a fork and knife. This makes me want to do one of two things:

a) run away from this hell-hole as fast as i can.
and b) go upstairs and eat a Snickers. Because there's no reason for that girl to be eating that way. It's a Hot Pocket, for Christ's sake. Don't anorexics even bolt those down from time to time? I feel like junk food into a fat girl should counteract that somehow. But don't ask me where the logic falls into place there.

As i cannot leave, that Snickers is sounding mighty satisfying (thank you, commercials that run constantly in the background at work!). But fuck it. I'll just go smoke a cigarette instead.

Thank god i didn't quit.

Maybe i need to be taken for a walk.

It's come to my attention that i've recently become fat(ter) and boring. The ownership of a hyperactive puppy has done nothing to abate this slow descent into "jesus christ, i'm becoming my mother" territory. In fact, it just makes me long for nap times more often.

Drinking doesn't help anymore, unless you count "help" as "making me fall asleep upright on the couch". Nothing good comes of that. Just stiff necks and weird couch imprints on my legs.

The smoking of green things doesn't help either. I just get restless and even MORE bored, then proceed to either sadly eat a tub of ice cream while watching romantic comedies or i stare at a wall until i become more and more agitated...and then eat a tub of ice cream. AND a tin of Slim Jims.

Sobriety...well, i've never been a fan. And i'm pretty much the same sober as i am under the influence. Just with a little less...honesty?

I haven't written a (decent) creative word in a few months. I haven't felt inspired by anything. I'm not even sure what exactly it was that i wanted out of my life a few years ago. All i really get excited about is homicidal thoughts towards certain people in my life (maybe that'll do it! nah, blood's too messy) and when Peanut shits outside and not next to my bed.

Ugh, ugh, ugh. Fuck this getting old nonsense. Next week, i'm going to try some writing exercises in here. Let's place bets on whether or not i actually do it!

Meat, cheese, irony, and puppies. It's a well balanced diet.

So, if you make a shirt that says "BAN IRONIC T-SHIRTS", is that considered an ironic t-shirt? And how many of those could i sell to make completely unironic "big bucks"?

I'll settle for "medium bucks", by the way.

Also, i've rediscovered my passionate love for Lunchables

yes, these things.

And not the pizzatacoburgernugget ones. Those always sort of frightened me. You can take a burger to school and leave it unrefrigerated for hours and it's still safe? Ugh.

Nope, just the cracker/cheese/watery meat combo is good enough for me.

And, yes, this is pretty much everything i have to say at the moment.

Oh, and i have a . My apartment smells like piss and shit. Which i guess is what love really smells like.

Whatever. She's still awesome.

Ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn't've fallen in love with?

My mom's boyfriend passed away last Friday.

I didn't really know him that well; only spoken to him on the phone once, and hung up not very impressed or satisfied. But he made my mom happy. It's something she's never really had - luck in love - which either is tragic or average, depending on who you ask.

Yes, he was an alcoholic like my father, but he was trying to change (or pretending to try to change. Dad never even made it that far), and he, well, he loved my mother the way she needed. He said sweet things that made her feel better about herself, he called her "perfect", he told her he loved her daily and that he never wanted to lose her.

My father said nasty, evil things. My father pointed out everyone's flaws but his own. My father never said "i love you" except for on birthdays or holidays. Or during drunken stupors.

She was with my father for 30 years. She only actually felt truly loved for 4 months - the time she was with her boyfriend.

I think i almost took it harder than she did. She was happy to have felt SOMETHING after all those years of NOTHING, even if it didn't last. It didn't last to the point of them getting tired of each other, of constantly bickering, of getting sick of all the things that are at first Endearing, but then just tumble into Annoying. However, i can't help but think that maybe those things might not have happened, that maybe, just maybe, he could have just kept keeping her happy.

Well, at least, i hoped as much for her. God knows she deserves it.

Fuck God, at any rate. Yeah, you heard me, you damn vindictive bastard.

The thing that really gets me, i think, is that a fifty year old man who thought my mother was his angel dies in his sleep while a nearly seventy year old man who treated us both like dirt is still allowed to breathe.

Life isn't fair, we all know that, but sometimes i wish it would take a break. Let a sixty-five year old woman be happy.

At least it was four months and not zero, right? Right.


Because i need an "in" somewhere else in the government.

Ladies and gents, if any of you know someone who lives in Wyoming, is a former resident of Wyoming, or can accurately locate Wyoming on a map of the US, please (oh please) convince them to apply for US senator.

The application (yes, application) is due June 14th. Okay, fine, they only want potential candidates for a Republican runner and Wyoming citizens, but still. It's a two-page app in nice large writing, in case you are blind or old. Or high.

I'd fill it out for shits and giggles, but i'm lazy. And can't remember the state capitol of Wyoming.

(no subject)

When someone says "stop", whether you finish the statement with "hammertime!", "collaborate and listen!", or "in the name of love!", it speaks volumes about you by which one you choose.

Someone gave me sugar.

I can't stop saying the phrase "i'm a chunky monkey from funky town" to everyone today, for some reason.

Also, my boss recently told me, "every time you change your hair color, i can't remember your name". Makes me feel like such a valued employee.

Blah blah, whee!

Would you say this is a blog? I don't really blog in a blog style, per say. Somehow over the years, this has become less of a journal or blog as it is the place i kind of just throw brain farts or phrases or thoughts i just can't get out of my head. Whatever, i do it for me, not you. Suckers.

So, i've re-picked-up (huh?) some steam on scripting out the zombie projects - i've pretty much given up on it being a collaboration for the time being. Not saying anything against anyone (since, obviously, i'd have to be insulting myself first), but maybe once there's something solid to handle, then it'll be easier bringing others into the process. I've also started a rough draft on a sort of (ugh, i'm going to use this word...) romantic movie, although the word "romantic" is kind of misleading. It's kind of a comedy, too, fine, i'm working on a ROMANTIC COMEDY. Christsakes. Yes, i'm not normally a fan of them (except for when i'm home alone and the blinds are over the windows and this little midget girl comes out and takes over my body and i giggle and okay, fine, i always cry at the end, because, really, i am a girl, but that is why you will neverever get to see me watching a romantic comedy. unless you're Steph.), but i started messing around with some ideas, and *poof*, there it was. Unfortunately, it's somehow become semi-auto-biographical, so no one i know will ever get to read it. EVER. Unless i'm drunk.

Speaking of media, i'm leaving television. I realized that i don't have it in me to deal with a job that can be as testing and emotional and frustrating as this one. Virginia Tech week kind of was the last bit of trauma that i could handle, but the seeds were planted way back with Katrina. Plus, i work in a place where no one seems to know or care who Kurt Vonnegut was, but APPLAUDED when Anna Nicole Smith's baby-daddy was announced. NO. No more. I'd like to keep my soul, thank you.

Learning to censor myself is an on-going task, one that i don't think i'm up for. I will tell co-workers when i need to poop. I will tell strangers that i'm a little gassy. I will complain audibly in mixed company about my foot funk, and i will ruminate aloud on my horniness levels. Someday, i will build a machine that will give me a shock anytime those thoughts start their seemingly automatic path directly to my vocal cords...ah, who am i kidding. I'll never be a lady, and i'm more than okay with that.

These wists.com and cribcandy.com sites have me addicted. It's social shopping, like del.icio.us and digg and all of their ilk. Weird, though, the addiction, because i'm not a fan of material possessions. I don't care about decorating spaces (and probably won't until i'm done with renting, or know that the place i live, i, you know, really LIVE in). But man, do i like making wishlists. Between the wists thing and my almost 300 item long Amazon wishlist, i don't have a problem with BUYING things. I just have a problem with listing them.

It's my birthday soon, by the way. Just sayin'.