A conversation between one person.
Citing americanbaby.com, common traits for the name Ashley include the following: "Ashley is described as a very beautiful professional woman who is shy but friendly with good values and taste. Ashley may play the piano, enjoy the company of an exquisite cat or schnauzer, and wear long, flowing dresses designed by Laura Ashley." I generally don't enjoy dresses--especially those of the long, flowing nature, but some of the characteristics were eerily right-on. I play the piano--eight years of lessons, I have a cat and the second schnauzer of my life--Gretchen, and I obviously am professional with amazing taste. That is, I am a professional slacker with an amazing taste for all things chocolate. I know you're interested. Here: http://www.americanbaby.com/babynames/searchResults.jsp?_requestid=369948
Let me tell you something: frosted animal crackers (which aren't really crackers, but more like cookies anyway, because would anyone really eat a frosted cracker? I would.) are delicious and very deceiving. They really are not that good for one's body per se, which is disappointing because they taste like heaven. With pastel-colored frosting, sprinkles and animal shapes with smooth contours, how can one go and make frosted animal crackers bad for you? Hell was made for people like them and George W. and that's it. Bastards!
Lexapro. Fluoxetine. Lunesta. Mirtazapine. Amitriptyline. Lorazepam. I'm sick of drugs. I just want to sleep and laugh, preferably in the same 24-hour period. I hope my doc appointment Friday fixes this. Mirtazepam makes me want to eat my hand. I told Ma I'd rather be depressed and generally happy about my physical appearance than an obese girl who sleeps pretty well. I was joking, but seriously. I don't need the extra 50 lbs.
Tomorrow is only Thursday. I need for it to be Friday for several reasons. It still won't be.
My parents' place sees me more than my own. I consume their food more often than not.
I plan on having several celebratory adult beverages with my family Saturday night.
Where will we be in five years? In 10? 100? Will there even be life on this planet in 250? I highly doubt it. We will have killed each other by then, probably with guns.
My cat is attention-starved. It's rather obnoxious. I don't even need to pet her, for she pets herself with my relaxed, outstretched hand. And I wish she'd stop shedding. And while we're at it, clean up her shit. And I mean this in the most literal sense possible.
There is laundry in the washer and the dryer, dishes in the sink and the dishwasher, and I need desperately to clean my room from top to bottom. Being responsible is really not all it's cracked up to be. You can't say *fuck* without looking around to see if anyone will hear you. Well, you're supposed to do that, anyway. Not at work. But I do, and Meredith Corporation wouldn't dare fire me. I do their bitch work for hardly any compensation and absolutely no benefits.
Lost made me bite all my nails off, and it wasn't even that good. Grey's will make me eat my elbow, I'm sure. Have you ever tried touching your elbow to your face? If not, try it now... if you succeeded, I will buy you a Dairy Queen sundae, because I've found it to be impossible. And don't act all uppity like a Valley girl on her 21st at Crush like you didn't just try to do it. Either you have tried it before or you just tried it now. You're still lame. And we're still friends.
Sanjaya went home tonight on Idol. I loathe the fact that I watch the show and I loathe the fact that I thrive on controversy, but we had a love/hate relationship. He really needed to be on a stage where he didn't have to curl his hair and smile for half-hour segments and try to sing songs that weren't even sung well by the original artist, let alone some kid trying to sing through a asinine smirk and serenading young girls in the audience who can't stop bawling as if they just saw the Beatles or Elvis incarnate. I'm glad he's gone, but why the shit will I watch now?
Do you know that I really don't believe in hell? Well, I don't.
I'm thinking a crossword endeavor is in the stars for me.
You read the subject line correctly.
Adios, beeetches!
Let me tell you something: frosted animal crackers (which aren't really crackers, but more like cookies anyway, because would anyone really eat a frosted cracker? I would.) are delicious and very deceiving. They really are not that good for one's body per se, which is disappointing because they taste like heaven. With pastel-colored frosting, sprinkles and animal shapes with smooth contours, how can one go and make frosted animal crackers bad for you? Hell was made for people like them and George W. and that's it. Bastards!
Lexapro. Fluoxetine. Lunesta. Mirtazapine. Amitriptyline. Lorazepam. I'm sick of drugs. I just want to sleep and laugh, preferably in the same 24-hour period. I hope my doc appointment Friday fixes this. Mirtazepam makes me want to eat my hand. I told Ma I'd rather be depressed and generally happy about my physical appearance than an obese girl who sleeps pretty well. I was joking, but seriously. I don't need the extra 50 lbs.
Tomorrow is only Thursday. I need for it to be Friday for several reasons. It still won't be.
My parents' place sees me more than my own. I consume their food more often than not.
I plan on having several celebratory adult beverages with my family Saturday night.
Where will we be in five years? In 10? 100? Will there even be life on this planet in 250? I highly doubt it. We will have killed each other by then, probably with guns.
My cat is attention-starved. It's rather obnoxious. I don't even need to pet her, for she pets herself with my relaxed, outstretched hand. And I wish she'd stop shedding. And while we're at it, clean up her shit. And I mean this in the most literal sense possible.
There is laundry in the washer and the dryer, dishes in the sink and the dishwasher, and I need desperately to clean my room from top to bottom. Being responsible is really not all it's cracked up to be. You can't say *fuck* without looking around to see if anyone will hear you. Well, you're supposed to do that, anyway. Not at work. But I do, and Meredith Corporation wouldn't dare fire me. I do their bitch work for hardly any compensation and absolutely no benefits.
Lost made me bite all my nails off, and it wasn't even that good. Grey's will make me eat my elbow, I'm sure. Have you ever tried touching your elbow to your face? If not, try it now... if you succeeded, I will buy you a Dairy Queen sundae, because I've found it to be impossible. And don't act all uppity like a Valley girl on her 21st at Crush like you didn't just try to do it. Either you have tried it before or you just tried it now. You're still lame. And we're still friends.
Sanjaya went home tonight on Idol. I loathe the fact that I watch the show and I loathe the fact that I thrive on controversy, but we had a love/hate relationship. He really needed to be on a stage where he didn't have to curl his hair and smile for half-hour segments and try to sing songs that weren't even sung well by the original artist, let alone some kid trying to sing through a asinine smirk and serenading young girls in the audience who can't stop bawling as if they just saw the Beatles or Elvis incarnate. I'm glad he's gone, but why the shit will I watch now?
Do you know that I really don't believe in hell? Well, I don't.
I'm thinking a crossword endeavor is in the stars for me.
You read the subject line correctly.
Adios, beeetches!