From Last Thursday! A bus adventure, tagged, but not locked. THERE IS ALSO BOOKSTUFF UNDER THE CUT.

( Bookery. On Julie E. Czerneda and Herman Hesse. )

The King is dead; long live the King.

And Farrah. Be fabulous in better places than this, angel. You will be missed.

(Damn it people from when stuff was cool, pls to stop leaving, it really fucking sucks.)

Let's recap.

( My fail, let me show you it. )

My laptop appears to be bricked. I do in fact suspect brickification.

As I know more, so shall you.

Thank god I backed my thesis up yesterday.

I think I have a version of the disaster, also, though it's a few months old, and some lolcats.

I am too frightened to pitch any sort of fit.

I ride public transit. For six hours a day. Twice a week; down from thrice a week. I hate it. I hate absolutely everything about it.

THERE IS NO FUCKING BRIGHT SIDE. IT DOES NOT EXIST.It is very easy for people with cars to tell me how grateful I should be. Sneering wheatgrass cyclists who live eight minutes from their cushy overpaid office job ( Read more... )

They've sold Midway, and it looks like it's going to come apart in little bloody pieces.

Woe. Most dolorous and lachrymose woe.

( Love is not a victory march, or: fannish-yet-true hyperbole. )

Sweetness, if you're not here for the overshare, you're reading the wrong journal. XD

( EWW, SHUT UP JHETI, GOD. (Oh, gee, maybe that's tmi.) )

Here. Here's all the random ass updating crap I could think of:

Awesome dream.

I haven't been this sick in about seven years. I got pity soup out of it. *Shrug.*

My Marie Palin has gone back to her beloved France Alaska, in exile. I'll miss you, ice princess! =(

No word yet on whether we get to eat cake.

( Fandom TL;DR: my own personal review rant. )

It's happened.

Twilight icon posts ON MY FLIST.

...Hold me; I'm frightened. *sob sob.*

...Okay.

Sarah Palin.

Is.

REALLY HOT.

Like, yes, no, REALLY.

And, and she can, like, shoot and kill things! And gut fish!

*Inarticulate.*

WHY.

WHY MUST YOU BE PRO LIFE. WHY.

I bet the way of a man with a maid is the only way, too. Or I would, if I was the betting type.

ALAS OUR LOVE CAN NEVER BE.

Woe.