Absolutely nothing of any interest happened to me today. We didn't have a geography lecture, which is always a plus. I didn't have any coconuts dropped on my heads by African pigeons, which is good too. I didn't get beaten up, shot at, my pockets picked, I wasn't forced to be tattooed, to eat five gallons of rancid frozen yogurt, or to listen to Pooh's inane chatter or bad CDs. So I suppose today was actually pretty decent.
I have a happy coloring book full of nice kittens that are going to be green and blue. When I finally crack and go nuts, they won't let me HAVE crayons. I can hurt myself on my own fingers; I could kill myself with a crayon. I'll be down to boxes of watercolor paints, but they won't let me use brushes so I'll have to paint with my toes. That could be amusing. I would be an idiot savant only I haven't yet shown any great talent at anything. I'm probably really good at mountain climbing or something and just don't know it. Maybe I'm an Olympic level hang-glider.
I am starting to lift an awful lot of these from outgoing e-mail. Redundancy abounds in my life at the moment.
We’re down to two weeks! Then I hit the road to Hellville, and the squirrel girl and I can resume destruction of northwest Missouri….Actually, no. I am going into hiding all summer. When I’m not working out of town, I will be in a Splut house or a Splut car. If I see anyone I know, and they have the sheer audacity and tactlessness to speak to me, they either get ignored or slapped. I am becoming less tolerant in my old age, and nine months of exile didn’t help.
Of course, with Pookie, my record player, all my Sailormoon tapes, and an adjoining bathroom, there is really very little motivation for me to leave my bedroom at all.
Fun Things to Do At Home:
1. Help Sailorendor destroy her Pookie. (Not that she needs much help.)
2. Put those little seahorse decals on the bottom of my bathtub.
3. Paint a mural of the Swiss Alps on my wall with nail polish.
4. Do a Happy Dance barefoot in the shower, just because I can.
5. Climb the sycamore tree and drop things on the roof over my mom’s room.
6. Eat an ungodly amount of foods that are not pasta.
7. Drive around and gloat because I have a nicer car now than I did in high school.
8. Pluck my legs in front of my mom to make her flinch.
9. Make five pounds of fudge and torment myself by mailing it to other people.
10. Sleep until two o’clock in the afternoon, and/or for the entire month of May.
My parents are always so glad to see me. So is my sister. I went home for a weekend, giving Daddydear last-minute notice, and he didn’t mention it to her. She opened the door with the most horrified expression. "I didn’t know you were coming home today!"
Surprise! Here, do me a favor and hold this thirty-pound bag of laundry.
That is a definite advantage of home. The washing machine doesn’t eat quarters.
There was more junk mail from the university in my inbox today that says they're having a Free Thing With Food on Saturday. They always emphasize the free food. Do they think we're empty pits just screaming to be filled up with hot dogs and orange soda? It's never nice free food. If they would phrase it in a more appealing manner..."Hors d'oeuvres and assorted citrus juices will be served at six," for example, as opposed to "CHOW! SNACKS!! COME AND GET IT BEFORE THE HYENAS CHEW IT UP!!!!" I would be infinitely more likely to attend. Have they no respect for me as a consumer? I must be tempted and lured...
My parents are coming down next Friday to take a load home. (The Bitchmobile is not meant for moving; Pookie and its various pieces take up the whole back seat.) Unfortunately, this means that I not only have to pack up, but clean up before my mother gets here. The glitter on the floor is nearing ankle-deep again, and I am positive that the dust under my bed is spawning a new civilization. There are empty Coke cans stacked up for a two-foot radius around this chair. I am afraid to move anything, but I must. Biskit and/or Sailorstartwirler are coming the same night as my parents, and I cannot in good conscience let my friends be devoured by giant mold demons while they sleep on my floor.
the Pookie gurgles. WHAT. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME. I dump all your caches, give you beautiful directories like C:\splut\pics\misc\bad\, pay no end of attention to you, decorate you with little shiny stars and stickers, make sure all your breathing holes are uncovered, let you wear the rabbit pelt, and still you do this to me. You want more RAM? a CD burner? a sticker for your casing that says MY MOMMY LOVES ME?
Kids. Honestly.
Last week was Greek Week. Going by the noise level around here, it extended into most of this week, too. There were thronging hordes of chanting alcoholics milling about across the street, keeping me awake and giving me visions of immense vats of boiling oil. (There has to be some way to open the windows just that little bit wider.) I happened to be out on the balcony when the fireworks went off, which was a nice surprise. I had a beautiful fantasy involving Kappa Delta all putting their eyes out on bottle rockets. It made a lovely storm later that night; I think they invoked the wrath of Zeus for dishonoring the Greek nationality.
It threatens to storm again tonight. I should do up my hair, find a black dress, go outside, and pretend to be summoning it. It would amuse me much more if the girls ignored me from fear rather than from apathy. It’s a pity I left my light saber home; that would have been a nice touch.
We are trying to come up with a list of alternate career options for when I flunk out of school. (<bitter> Why the FUCK do they expect us to have careers anyway? I am NEVER going to be fulfilled by any job, so I might as well be unfulfilled with a minimum amount of pressure. </btr>) I could be the girl who fills up the cream puffs at the bakery. I could breed goldfish. People could pay me to blow up inflatable furniture. I still think they should give me my own TV show. Punkin wondered if Columbia has a public access cable channel. If they do now, they won’t for long.
I notice another hit from tranquility.net on Linux. Ken, are you really this bored?