brain of the dead
Well. Shit.
I was dead, but thank goodness for that groovy toxic chemical spill out back. *roars, shambles*
Scratch-and-sniff: I ask for a few days off from work. Naturally, I'm scheduled for nine days straight. What's that smell? The bitter musk of death someone being taken advantage of. In the least satisfactory way.
I would get Vincent Gallo to campaign on my behalf, but he's probably busy with his penis and the sucking.
Melodrama: Every day in the Photo Lab, I have these heart-numbing fits that fuzz my eyes and my throat and bring the walls down hard, which is earnest evidence of my dislike for ringing up people's twin-pack enemas and bagged candies and Clorox Bleach and Osteo-Flex "the double strength, not the triple strength" and Marlboro Ultra Lights and Garcia y Vegas Cigarillos which are *not* the same as the Panarillos you fucking grizzled fuck, while they bark at me, surely rolling in their elderly superiority. I just want to making the pictures. Cry.
There's something so breaking and sad about the everyday shopping people do. It's so tedious, dully necessary. Boring. Um, but not you. *g*
Ppphhh. I miss this place and all its various drama-ry. Yet I cannot find the "unmute" option on my commenting. I'm a silly, sorry thing -- notice the appropriately somber colors of the layout. Heeyah.
I have reoccuring nightmares involving zombie hordes and death-by-mastication. Last night, the normal chaos segued into post-apocalyptic L.A.-type chaos that found the Angel cast fleeing for their (un)lives through a forest of suburbs, all teeming with zombies. I mean. Teeming. Shaki-cams followed the crusaders, crusading their retreat through front lawns and backyards, over hedges and streams -- L.A. suburban streams? -- dodging the undead crowding in from the streets.
And at some point, Spike looked like James Marsters hosting "Say What? Karaoke" on MTV, all pale beef-jerky in a tank-top, which made me dream-cry hard in an earnest way. And Wesley, Gunn and Fred tried to crawl under a thicket for cover -- thickets in L.A.? -- but crawled into other crawling zombies crawling for food. Which was shocking.
I think they were all eaten. I woke up sobbing, though that might've been because I wanted more sleep.
Terror.
Continuing with this post's theme, I'm doing pre-release recs for both Shaun of the Dead and Saw. And possibly Cube Zero, though it will suck. Eh.
When is it too late to respond to comments? I don't want to be creepy and surprise!I'm-still-dwelling-over-this-casual-thing-you-said-to-me, but I hate looking ungrateful. Because I love, oh how I love.
Carry on.
I was dead, but thank goodness for that groovy toxic chemical spill out back. *roars, shambles*
Scratch-and-sniff: I ask for a few days off from work. Naturally, I'm scheduled for nine days straight. What's that smell? The bitter musk of death someone being taken advantage of. In the least satisfactory way.
I would get Vincent Gallo to campaign on my behalf, but he's probably busy with his penis and the sucking.
Melodrama: Every day in the Photo Lab, I have these heart-numbing fits that fuzz my eyes and my throat and bring the walls down hard, which is earnest evidence of my dislike for ringing up people's twin-pack enemas and bagged candies and Clorox Bleach and Osteo-Flex "the double strength, not the triple strength" and Marlboro Ultra Lights and Garcia y Vegas Cigarillos which are *not* the same as the Panarillos you fucking grizzled fuck, while they bark at me, surely rolling in their elderly superiority. I just want to making the pictures. Cry.
There's something so breaking and sad about the everyday shopping people do. It's so tedious, dully necessary. Boring. Um, but not you. *g*
Ppphhh. I miss this place and all its various drama-ry. Yet I cannot find the "unmute" option on my commenting. I'm a silly, sorry thing -- notice the appropriately somber colors of the layout. Heeyah.
I have reoccuring nightmares involving zombie hordes and death-by-mastication. Last night, the normal chaos segued into post-apocalyptic L.A.-type chaos that found the Angel cast fleeing for their (un)lives through a forest of suburbs, all teeming with zombies. I mean. Teeming. Shaki-cams followed the crusaders, crusading their retreat through front lawns and backyards, over hedges and streams -- L.A. suburban streams? -- dodging the undead crowding in from the streets.
And at some point, Spike looked like James Marsters hosting "Say What? Karaoke" on MTV, all pale beef-jerky in a tank-top, which made me dream-cry hard in an earnest way. And Wesley, Gunn and Fred tried to crawl under a thicket for cover -- thickets in L.A.? -- but crawled into other crawling zombies crawling for food. Which was shocking.
I think they were all eaten. I woke up sobbing, though that might've been because I wanted more sleep.
Terror.
Continuing with this post's theme, I'm doing pre-release recs for both Shaun of the Dead and Saw. And possibly Cube Zero, though it will suck. Eh.
When is it too late to respond to comments? I don't want to be creepy and surprise!I'm-still-dwelling-over-this-casual-thing-you-said-to-me, but I hate looking ungrateful. Because I love, oh how I love.
Carry on.