Royal Ramble.
If you were wondering, I chose the T.V dinner, which tasted like a cross between the cheap stinky paper we had in elementary school and hospital food. Yes, I ate paper in 8th grade. Graduation anxiety.
Look! I was bitching about men AGAIN! I've got it all figured out now, why pretty much all the guys who like me are of Epsilon quality. I couldn't help but re-post and re-hash this, I think it was ingenious of me to finally figure it out. Gloated and bloated, that would be correct.
I'm not going to date anyone who's uneloquent. The next boyfriend I have is going to have to be able to write me poems with beautiful words in them. And
NONE of the poems will contain the word "baby". If I tell you that I don't mind being called "baby", I'm lying to you. But yes, he'll be a writer. Like me. This is why I don't think I'll ever be married. That and my wings are too big. I'm very selective, even at this tender age. I want someone who's really smart, someone who'll understand me when I use big words, yet someone who's not TOO smart, because then I'll feel stupid.
What the hell is with me and commas? I feel like jamming everything into one sentence all the time. It's very hard on the reader. But eh. I digress. I don't suppose anyone's really reading this anyway.
What was I saying again? Oh yes. I was describing my perfect man. Again. Every time I do this, the description changes. I should get a chameleon.
He'll have strong hands. He'll be able to speak French. He'll be into art and music too. Maybe he'll be able to play something as well. He won't be into sports whatsoever, but he won't be uncoordinated and weak either. He'll be shy but brave when the occasion calls for bravado. He'll have beautiful eyes, eyes that won't look at me predatorily as if I were a sex toy that he owned, but eyes that would look at me sweetly in a stare that conveys the message "I adore thee". Someone who'll make me feel warm, but won't suffocate me.
But let's face it. There are no males of my age that are like this. They're all men. Over 18. Illegal. Contraband. When they finally become legal to me, they're all probably going to be married and all the bachelors will probably be gay. That's the kind of luck I have. All delicious, wonderful things are out of my reach: chocolate, pizza, city life, glamour, and quality male specimen. Perhaps I just have to work to get to that point. After all I still have years ahead of me. I hope.
Somebody talk to me! Somebody say something SPECTACULAR! Light up my winter night sky!
No one besides my mother has seen me REALLY, REALLY angry. Is that a good or bad thing? I think it would be good thing. It's got more shock value to be really pissed only once in awhile than being pissed every single day. People don't normally expect me to be full of wrath and rage, and when I am, they take a precautionary 10 paces back. It's very fun to watch.
I've been listening to the "Amelie" soundtrack for far too long tonight!!!
I wonder if I've got any homework to do.
Oh my God, and my family loves the Tiger Lillies. Everytime I put on "Banging In The Nails", somebody starts singing. I don't think they know what the song's about though. And goddamn (literally!) if they do. Even my ghetto brother sings the song. Gads. Truly mad.
Look! I was bitching about men AGAIN! I've got it all figured out now, why pretty much all the guys who like me are of Epsilon quality. I couldn't help but re-post and re-hash this, I think it was ingenious of me to finally figure it out. Gloated and bloated, that would be correct.
I'm not going to date anyone who's uneloquent. The next boyfriend I have is going to have to be able to write me poems with beautiful words in them. And
NONE of the poems will contain the word "baby". If I tell you that I don't mind being called "baby", I'm lying to you. But yes, he'll be a writer. Like me. This is why I don't think I'll ever be married. That and my wings are too big. I'm very selective, even at this tender age. I want someone who's really smart, someone who'll understand me when I use big words, yet someone who's not TOO smart, because then I'll feel stupid.
What the hell is with me and commas? I feel like jamming everything into one sentence all the time. It's very hard on the reader. But eh. I digress. I don't suppose anyone's really reading this anyway.
What was I saying again? Oh yes. I was describing my perfect man. Again. Every time I do this, the description changes. I should get a chameleon.
He'll have strong hands. He'll be able to speak French. He'll be into art and music too. Maybe he'll be able to play something as well. He won't be into sports whatsoever, but he won't be uncoordinated and weak either. He'll be shy but brave when the occasion calls for bravado. He'll have beautiful eyes, eyes that won't look at me predatorily as if I were a sex toy that he owned, but eyes that would look at me sweetly in a stare that conveys the message "I adore thee". Someone who'll make me feel warm, but won't suffocate me.
But let's face it. There are no males of my age that are like this. They're all men. Over 18. Illegal. Contraband. When they finally become legal to me, they're all probably going to be married and all the bachelors will probably be gay. That's the kind of luck I have. All delicious, wonderful things are out of my reach: chocolate, pizza, city life, glamour, and quality male specimen. Perhaps I just have to work to get to that point. After all I still have years ahead of me. I hope.
Somebody talk to me! Somebody say something SPECTACULAR! Light up my winter night sky!
No one besides my mother has seen me REALLY, REALLY angry. Is that a good or bad thing? I think it would be good thing. It's got more shock value to be really pissed only once in awhile than being pissed every single day. People don't normally expect me to be full of wrath and rage, and when I am, they take a precautionary 10 paces back. It's very fun to watch.
I've been listening to the "Amelie" soundtrack for far too long tonight!!!
I wonder if I've got any homework to do.
Oh my God, and my family loves the Tiger Lillies. Everytime I put on "Banging In The Nails", somebody starts singing. I don't think they know what the song's about though. And goddamn (literally!) if they do. Even my ghetto brother sings the song. Gads. Truly mad.