I have started to type this several times, but they all wanted to be variations on "GodDAMN, I'm bored," so I gave it up. I have been home for a very, very, very long time and am going back to Columbia in three and a half weeks. Then I will be there for a very, very, very long time, and then, in late May, I will graduate and move into a cardboard box.
My inspiration is hiding at the bottom of a painfully deep hole. I have several evil thoughts for Sailorkitty M, but I excel at thinking them and never writing them out. The wretched new set of Moon dubs wasn't quite motivation enough.
Caitlin's threat to write them for me was almost motivation enough.
Maybe I will finally get a job this year and can rip off Billsplut's SHAWT. Columbia has a less than one percent unemployment rate, which makes me think I must have the world's most defective personality. My darling father is convinced I'm neurotic past tolerance and need to be medicated into submission. Personally, I think the rest of the family would be in much better mental condition if we sent HIM to therapy. I have started a list of adjectives he uses in reference to me. So far, I have "stupid," "good kid," "high-strung," "oversensitive," and "willowy."
I am not good with conflicting messages.
It reminds me of an article from a late nineteenth-century newspaper about a girl whose family decided she was insane and had her committed. The cause of her disorder was determined to be "overindulgence in dancing." Perhaps I should dance around the house less.
He tends to work me up into worse fits than I could manage on my own, so I put my hair up Usagi-style and took a nice five-mile detox walk with a Simon and Garfunkel tape. Now my feet are upset, and I reallllly want to eat something, but I'm not going to. I'm trying to forget the three peach tarts in the freezer. I made them. Someone else has to eat them.
I watched five hours of Battlestar Galactica last night. I adore that show for some perverse reason. I tried to convince Brat to start calling me Imperious Leader, but she didn't think it was a good idea.
Damn uppity kids today.
Mama thinks Galactica is gross, but she also thinks ABBA is gross, so I just nod and smile. She listens to Rod Stewart.
AAAH I just accidentally made the Paperclip of the Apocalypse appear somehow DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE God. That's worse than the spider in my bed the other night.
No one is home this summer but Punkin, and we are avoiding each other after last year's overexposure. I wish someone would come play with me. Hector is supposed to be back for a week or so pretty soon, I think. Everyone wants me to go see them, but that's too much trouble. Actually, I'd really like to go see Biskit in K-ville so we could eat at Pancake City again, but I only have three more weekends home and too much to do. Maybe I can go in September. Caitlin is prly going to try to make me play with them a lot next semester though. Hopefully that will seem like more of a good idea later. I'm such an anti-social nugget; I don't know why anyone bothers with me.
Mom got a new Pyramid Collection catalog today for some reason, and one kind of necklace was labeled "Power Nuggets." That struck me as wonderful for some reason. "Pyramid Nugget Power, Maaaaake UP!"
It is now ten o'clock. I can't go to bed without feeling sad and pathetic until at least midnight. So I have to think of some way to kill the next two hours. I finished my damn stupid programming assignment Thursday night and don't really feel like working the input bug out of my pet project right now. I could watch hours of Slayers, but it's dubbed and might make me violent.
Mama got me a peach-colored stuffed sheep with a bell in it. The saleslady asked if she was buying it for a baby. She said yes. A nineteen-year-old baby.
I had another baby dream last night. I have recurring dreams that I have a baby, but there is never a father, and it doesn't seem to worry anyone much. Perhaps I spontaneously generate. VEGETATIVE PROPAGATION. They bud off my arm. Babies are gross. I'd rather have gerbils. I found out that they are on the approved pet list, which is bad, because now I will obsess about getting one or three. Peaches, Cujo, and Torg. They can be my babies, and I can get one of the cages with all the tubes and watch them run around at night, keeping me awake.
Unfortunately for you all, I was distracted and digging through Pookie's convoluted directories and found these little (power) nuggets. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then maybe I don't have to write anymore on this one.
The pictures will open in another window. Some are kind of large, and some are snapshots from the evil webcam (which, by the way, is down until I can get someone to tell me why my school account persists in thinking me over my limit).
We must always be well prepared for our country excursions.
This place hasn't been open since my dad was in his twenties. (Think forty years ago.) We are fascinated by it, mainly because it is way out in the country, surrounded by cornfields for five miles in any direction. Lime Girls will debut here someday.
This was rather unfortunate.
Typical Punkie shot of Mistress 23's back, just before Christmas.
I have this inexplicable love of faux leopard anything.
This is actually recent (half an hour ago). Sailormoon hair, rather the worse for a day's wear.
Why Punkie got kicked out of the beauty academy. That was a JOY to take out.
I'm not really stoned. They had to shoot me full of tranquilizers so I wouldn't brutally slaughter my graduating class.
I have absolutely no memory of this. I think it was a present for my grandmother. Apparently I was amused by it at the time.
I will make new graphics for this hole soon. I have acquired Photoshop (blame Bill for this danger to humanity) and should do something about it.