(no subject)
I'm addicted to livejournal. And I think I've figured out why. When I'm at school, and I have any thought that's even SLIGHTLY interesting, I run right into a roommate's room and tell them. Here I have . . . a blog. I mean, Phil calls every night and I usually tell him the big stuff, but mostly I forget. Livejournal is a little mid-point where I can pour out some of the oddities of my life.
For instance--today, a man with TWO PERFECTLY ABLE POCKETS decided to put his deposit slip down his pants instead and fish it out when he got to the head of the line. Why? If for some reason, his pockets did not work and he HAD to carry his slip inside his pants, why could he not pause before he got in the bank and take it out in our little ante-chamber? Was it perfectly necessary that the teller had to see that?
Was he wearing underwear? The world will never know. But when he left, we scrubbed the counter down anyway.
And Mr. Bling, who was aptly nick-named for his gold tooth right in front. He's in love with a teller at the other brank, and walks by her drive-up window and mouths his phone number and makes phone-fingers at her. *Uhhhhhhh* Nothin' says class like a 'call me' mime.
This makes me so glad that I have Boyface over in CT. He is only very rarely skeezy, and hardly ever hits on bank tellers.
No, in all actuality, El Phillipe is pretty awesome. I keep waiting for him to pull the rug out from under me, because I'm having a hard time believing that there is a guy out there who is genuinely THAT nice, with no hidden agenda, with a great family, and who's funny as hell. And who has flopsy dark hair. That helps. Oooo.
There. There's my sappy livejournal blog. That's as mushy as I'm gettin', folks.
I'm going to go do the newspaper crossword puzzle before my pops gets home. We wage war over it. Seriously. I'll show you my scars sometime.
For instance--today, a man with TWO PERFECTLY ABLE POCKETS decided to put his deposit slip down his pants instead and fish it out when he got to the head of the line. Why? If for some reason, his pockets did not work and he HAD to carry his slip inside his pants, why could he not pause before he got in the bank and take it out in our little ante-chamber? Was it perfectly necessary that the teller had to see that?
Was he wearing underwear? The world will never know. But when he left, we scrubbed the counter down anyway.
And Mr. Bling, who was aptly nick-named for his gold tooth right in front. He's in love with a teller at the other brank, and walks by her drive-up window and mouths his phone number and makes phone-fingers at her. *Uhhhhhhh* Nothin' says class like a 'call me' mime.
This makes me so glad that I have Boyface over in CT. He is only very rarely skeezy, and hardly ever hits on bank tellers.
No, in all actuality, El Phillipe is pretty awesome. I keep waiting for him to pull the rug out from under me, because I'm having a hard time believing that there is a guy out there who is genuinely THAT nice, with no hidden agenda, with a great family, and who's funny as hell. And who has flopsy dark hair. That helps. Oooo.
There. There's my sappy livejournal blog. That's as mushy as I'm gettin', folks.
I'm going to go do the newspaper crossword puzzle before my pops gets home. We wage war over it. Seriously. I'll show you my scars sometime.