So we got the house and it has been a bitch to get moved. Tim took the weekend off. I'm still pluggin' away at work. So needless to say our lives are packed into the garage and I can't lift anything! I never want to move again!
Stabbing the headmaster before the evening dinner.unburiableFebruary 18 2003, 12:31:48 UTC
Do you happen to recall that dream you mentioned a few sour posts previous to this? I wish the devil would dream of me often; I'd probably have a funner job than the one I hold now.
Pure black heart (in God's chest).unburiableFebruary 19 2003, 23:59:17 UTC
1. Frequent dinners sound very charming. But do you actually live seven hundred miles away now?
2. James Galvis has strong arms. He took the most weight on and together we climbed the twenty flights to my penthouse apartment overlooking Lake Eola, where the machines have since been safely nestled in a special alcove set aside for laundry and the twin pentagram-shaped pool tables. If you really need them back, well then that makes me a sad and angry boy and I am disappointed in you for fucking me out of a washer/dryer.
I'm only joshing. Thank you for putting them in my care for so long. Call me at noon and leave a message with my secretary Belinda, including your new telephone code, and we will make express arrangements to transfer the machines from my hands to yours. Bring strong guys, because I am not one, and you're pregnant.
February 5: 4pm-7pm (3 hours).unburiableFebruary 18 2003, 20:08:57 UTC
I replied to Misty's journal entry first. Go find your own fucking thread to start elsewhere and let me have this to myself just this once, for crying out Christ. I'm really beginning to tire of your attitude, and I want my fucking copy of Brewster's Millions back.
If you'd like me to remove you from my friends list, please say. You just seemed like an interesting person to add to my list, that's all. I haven't even commented on your journal or any of the journals of the people mentioned by unburiable!!
I found you via your listed interest in Bradleo and the Consumers, who I have been discovering through my friend so_respectable.
Again, please excuse my dear friend Mr. Unburiable. His social skills may be slightly lacking, but he really does have the biggest heart in the world. And he's always up for a good laugh or a sock in the nose depending on his mood. I learned to love him. You should just ignore him. I don't mind being on your friends list although I must say that I'm really not very interesting at all. Actually, more swollen than anything. But it's nice to know that someone out there is tuning in. Take care.
From the poor fellow who brought you: "Shut up."unburiableFebruary 19 2003, 16:48:52 UTC
19 February, 2003, Wednesday evening at 7:59pm. Revere, Massachusetts. 02151.
Dear Sir,
I’d been dozing just a bit, admittedly, by the bay window of my small New England cottage in the hills beyond Boston when a spur from the telephone made a veritable shambles of my cozy New England nap (the kind our mothers teach us when they love us). Nearly tumbling from the rocking chair as though riddled with bullets from a tommy gun, and only grasping the receiver after two unsuccessfully haphazard tries at balance, I soon set myself right again, relieved. And while down on my knees plucking up bits and pieces of a smashed U-boat model I’d constructed from toothpicks and pop bottle caps, I took the call from Belinda with nerves so steady you’d have half-thought me a lamppost.
In any case, yes yes, I see your point. You’re all about name calling and mudslinging and rudeness and unwarranted infiltration tactics the likes of which even the German army would have found unashamedly tasteless.
But I guess that’s just a little bit of my batty
( ... )
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2. James Galvis has strong arms. He took the most weight on and together we climbed the twenty flights to my penthouse apartment overlooking Lake Eola, where the machines have since been safely nestled in a special alcove set aside for laundry and the twin pentagram-shaped pool tables. If you really need them back, well then that makes me a sad and angry boy and I am disappointed in you for fucking me out of a washer/dryer.
I'm only joshing. Thank you for putting them in my care for so long. Call me at noon and leave a message with my secretary Belinda, including your new telephone code, and we will make express arrangements to transfer the machines from my hands to yours. Bring strong guys, because I am not one, and you're pregnant.
J.
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WHAT IS THIS GUY'S PROBLEM!?!
If you'd like me to remove you from my friends list, please say. You just seemed like an interesting person to add to my list, that's all. I haven't even commented on your journal or any of the journals of the people mentioned by unburiable!!
I found you via your listed interest in Bradleo and the Consumers, who I have been discovering through my friend so_respectable.
Sorry to bother you! :)
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Revere, Massachusetts. 02151.
Dear Sir,
I’d been dozing just a bit, admittedly, by the bay window of my small New England cottage in the hills beyond Boston when a spur from the telephone made a veritable shambles of my cozy New England nap (the kind our mothers teach us when they love us). Nearly tumbling from the rocking chair as though riddled with bullets from a tommy gun, and only grasping the receiver after two unsuccessfully haphazard tries at balance, I soon set myself right again, relieved. And while down on my knees plucking up bits and pieces of a smashed U-boat model I’d constructed from toothpicks and pop bottle caps, I took the call from Belinda with nerves so steady you’d have half-thought me a lamppost.
In any case, yes yes, I see your point. You’re all about name calling and mudslinging and rudeness and unwarranted infiltration tactics the likes of which even the German army would have found unashamedly tasteless.
But I guess that’s just a little bit of my batty ( ... )
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