I want to live in this new hoody of mine. It is so very cozy warm. I want another one. Give me more give me. More. And I want more of these Modrobes pants. I have never owned such comfortable clothes. Oh baby. I do believe these are the perfect pair of pants. I need not look further, I have found The Pants. Send me boxes and boxes of these very pants, in every colour of the rainbow. Give me more, give me.
Whoah. Listening to Tupac's "My Girlfriend". Pretty fucking harsh. I like the Bonnie and Clyde romance scene suggesting, but this "run nigger run! Yeah! Die nigga die! Uh!" interlude is not cool by me at all. Plus the "I love finger fuckin' you" line is, um... No comment. Still, sounds fun. Albiet life risking. Dangerous. What with all the gunfire... (I'm so white. Middle class. Canadian.) All I need in this life... is me and my girlfriend. "Much love to my one and only girlfriend."
Ugh. Some 40 year old guy is icqing me right now. Through the 'random chat' feature no doubt. "Hey, a chick! And she's, like, twenty. I'm on it." Great. I'm a total ageist, pal. Go away.
The Christmas tree I got us is not decorated yet. "Let's decorate it together," we say. But I get so fucking petulant and the idea of some cozy little domestic scene like decorating a Christmas tree with my mother makes me retreat to my room and not come out again till she has gone to bed. Then I add little bits of decoration to the tree myself.
Y Kant Tori Read, "Cool On Your Island".
"If you don't treat me better, baby, I'll just run away."
This album that made Tori a joke, is actually pretty good. I like it. It's shameless. It's honest. It's naked. It makes me cringe and blush at times. And sing along in pure conviction at others... It's so stupid and dated that it's good again. Perfect Tori Amos.
Fuck fuck fuck I want something to get seriously passionate about right here right fucking now. I'm bored with not having anything new to be pissed off or ecstatic about.