Whoa.
The past few days have been annoying as fuck for so many reasons that I honestly do not know where to begin.
How about on Monday, when I called the doctor's office for refills on my prescription? How about the next three days, during which I called them multiple times asking for refills again and again? How about today when the pharmacy still had not received any such order for refills?
Yeah.
I spent way, way too long on the phone today sorting out that clusterfuck and giving someone a very polite but secretly weevil-filled piece of my mind.
I don't understand why the doctor's office does not just issue an interdepartmental memo to the effect of "DO NOT fuck with Naamah. She has Issues Enough without you crapheads contributing to them. Ignore at your peril."
This all comes at a time when my tolerance for, well, anything comes at a historically low ebb. Those of you who know me will know that Sargon and I hardly ever scrap. I started (not just participated in, but actively started) three separate tiffs today. He was good enough to understand what it was all about and forgive me -- he didn't even fight back -- but I'm simply disgusted with my own behavior. I'm saying this by way of demonstrating that I have well and truly Just About Had It, and that if I don't find what is annoying the shit out of me soon and fucking kill it I am likely to blow a gasket publicly.
This will most likely involve a geyser of blood erupting from my nose and mouth as my brain explodes the next time some toadsucking moron inadvertently triggers my Fist Of Death response.
On the bright and shiny side, I've seen friends in the past couple of days and had enjoyment, philosophy, weird smells, and neon frogs aplenty. And lots of bitching. My god. I didn't know I could bitch that much and not go mute. My apologies, guys.
I have also discovered that apparently I am capable of developing a lifethreatening crush on an 18-year-old boy in roughly 2.5 seconds from a cold start and with no warning.
Sargon and I made the mistake of watching Sky High, which is an enjoyable, silly little movie with much to recommend it. Including Steven Strait as the unfortunately-named Warren Peace, resident brooding bad-boy and sole redeeming feature of the male half of this cast. (Well, aside from Kurt Russel, who could still spank my ass like a bad daddy any time he wanted. And I mean that.)
At first, I admit, I thought Steve was way, way too pretty in a way that just isn't my type. So I was okay, honestly, until he showed up in the busboy outfit, complete with rag over shoulder. Don't ask me why that got to me so bad. Ask bat_cheva. She agrees with me, and has probably had a full night's sleep. At that point, all of the accumulated hotness hit me at once, and all I could think was "Must . . . not . . . pleasure . . . self!" And I know that I am not alone in my drooling.
He has a great voice, about twice as deep as you'd think, which is probably all that saves him from "disposable pretty brat" territory. Dear GOD, the throaty growling he is welcome to do in my ear anytime. . . . And he snarls so beautifully.
It does not hurt that in the only 2.5 seconds in the whole movie he isn't brooding for all he's worth, he proves he has a million-dollar smile. Also doesn't hurt that he looks good in a tux. Actually, I take that back. I think that scene broke something in my girly-bits. I was literally whimpering at the screen and pawing at my clothing.
And let's discuss that profile.
Yeeeah.
The hawt is so powerful I'll have to desensitize myself to it by exposing myself to it a lot.
They ("they" being the Internets) inform me that he's done modeling and I've ferreted out a few pictures, but honestly, I apparently only like him with long, straight hair. Fluffy hair does nothing for me. But with the long hair, he does things for me that I normally have to pay for in cash. In foreign countries.
In the past few days I have done more perverted thinking than I have done in the three months previous to this. And just between you and me, that is not necessarily a good thing, folks. The world's porn production may just take another spike. And I may just have cast a very tricky part in my bondage porn epic, which I haven't been able to start for lack of a decent male lead. I wonder how he feels about body piercing?
I pray this malaise passes before I make icons or something. Or, god forbid, write another fan letter, which I would only regret. He doesn't need to know what I do to snotty would-be bad boys who cross my path. No, no he does not.
Aaaand on that note, I think I'm going to bed before this retarded fucking mockingbird drives me out of my mind.
Goodnight, folks. I'll write again tomorrow unless the perverted dreams I'm likely to have tonight fuse the lobes of my brain into a single blob of unresponsive jelly.
Goddamn teenage boys. Fuck.
How about on Monday, when I called the doctor's office for refills on my prescription? How about the next three days, during which I called them multiple times asking for refills again and again? How about today when the pharmacy still had not received any such order for refills?
Yeah.
I spent way, way too long on the phone today sorting out that clusterfuck and giving someone a very polite but secretly weevil-filled piece of my mind.
I don't understand why the doctor's office does not just issue an interdepartmental memo to the effect of "DO NOT fuck with Naamah. She has Issues Enough without you crapheads contributing to them. Ignore at your peril."
This all comes at a time when my tolerance for, well, anything comes at a historically low ebb. Those of you who know me will know that Sargon and I hardly ever scrap. I started (not just participated in, but actively started) three separate tiffs today. He was good enough to understand what it was all about and forgive me -- he didn't even fight back -- but I'm simply disgusted with my own behavior. I'm saying this by way of demonstrating that I have well and truly Just About Had It, and that if I don't find what is annoying the shit out of me soon and fucking kill it I am likely to blow a gasket publicly.
This will most likely involve a geyser of blood erupting from my nose and mouth as my brain explodes the next time some toadsucking moron inadvertently triggers my Fist Of Death response.
On the bright and shiny side, I've seen friends in the past couple of days and had enjoyment, philosophy, weird smells, and neon frogs aplenty. And lots of bitching. My god. I didn't know I could bitch that much and not go mute. My apologies, guys.
I have also discovered that apparently I am capable of developing a lifethreatening crush on an 18-year-old boy in roughly 2.5 seconds from a cold start and with no warning.
Sargon and I made the mistake of watching Sky High, which is an enjoyable, silly little movie with much to recommend it. Including Steven Strait as the unfortunately-named Warren Peace, resident brooding bad-boy and sole redeeming feature of the male half of this cast. (Well, aside from Kurt Russel, who could still spank my ass like a bad daddy any time he wanted. And I mean that.)
At first, I admit, I thought Steve was way, way too pretty in a way that just isn't my type. So I was okay, honestly, until he showed up in the busboy outfit, complete with rag over shoulder. Don't ask me why that got to me so bad. Ask bat_cheva. She agrees with me, and has probably had a full night's sleep. At that point, all of the accumulated hotness hit me at once, and all I could think was "Must . . . not . . . pleasure . . . self!" And I know that I am not alone in my drooling.
He has a great voice, about twice as deep as you'd think, which is probably all that saves him from "disposable pretty brat" territory. Dear GOD, the throaty growling he is welcome to do in my ear anytime. . . . And he snarls so beautifully.
It does not hurt that in the only 2.5 seconds in the whole movie he isn't brooding for all he's worth, he proves he has a million-dollar smile. Also doesn't hurt that he looks good in a tux. Actually, I take that back. I think that scene broke something in my girly-bits. I was literally whimpering at the screen and pawing at my clothing.
And let's discuss that profile.
Yeeeah.
The hawt is so powerful I'll have to desensitize myself to it by exposing myself to it a lot.
They ("they" being the Internets) inform me that he's done modeling and I've ferreted out a few pictures, but honestly, I apparently only like him with long, straight hair. Fluffy hair does nothing for me. But with the long hair, he does things for me that I normally have to pay for in cash. In foreign countries.
In the past few days I have done more perverted thinking than I have done in the three months previous to this. And just between you and me, that is not necessarily a good thing, folks. The world's porn production may just take another spike. And I may just have cast a very tricky part in my bondage porn epic, which I haven't been able to start for lack of a decent male lead. I wonder how he feels about body piercing?
I pray this malaise passes before I make icons or something. Or, god forbid, write another fan letter, which I would only regret. He doesn't need to know what I do to snotty would-be bad boys who cross my path. No, no he does not.
Aaaand on that note, I think I'm going to bed before this retarded fucking mockingbird drives me out of my mind.
Goodnight, folks. I'll write again tomorrow unless the perverted dreams I'm likely to have tonight fuse the lobes of my brain into a single blob of unresponsive jelly.
Goddamn teenage boys. Fuck.