Tempus Fuckit
I'm taking a break from my mad scrambling to update you on the State of the Naamah. I'm also killing time 'cause if I don't take a break, I'll probably implode.
The convention (Conestoga 10) is this weekend. I'll be helping run the art room. Any of you in driving range are welcome to come by and see us.
That said, my sanity is slipping. I have nine million things to do, not much time to do it in, and of course I'm stressing all out of proportion to the actual event.
I have about thirteen GIANT boxes of mail-in artwork in my living room, which has created a space and storage crisis of epic enough proportions to prompt me to rearrange so I can still walk through it without tripping over prints of scantily-clad fairies. I spent two hours erecting and then filling a new set of shelves with supplies, so I could pile the artwork on the tables that had previously been festooned with art crap.
In case you can't tell, I'm busy, and will likely be busy well into next week.
What's bothering me most about all this is, typically, a stupid detail. You see, by focusing on silly crap, I keep from worrying about major shit going wrong - it's a workable coping mechanism. This time, I am fussing over the fact that I want to go in full pirate regalia on Saturday, but I have no boots. And I can't order any online - over and above the fact that I don't have the money right now, I'm a very hard size to fit for leg boots, since my feet are small but my ankles and calves are very thick.
I may be stuck wearing my pointy witch boots and painting a skull and crossbones on them. Which is not a good idea, exactly, since they have giant long pointy heels, and I'm not a fucking retard. (Translation: I'm not going to try to run an art show in high-heeled boots, thanks.)
Arr.
Oh, hey. Speaking of things piratical, Dead Man's Chest kicks incredible amounts of ass. stupid? Check. Over-the-top? Check. Loads of fun? CHECK. And yes, the whipping scene was too a fun scene, grody pirates notwithstanding. It had the two things I wanted: reaction shots of him grimacing and wincing manfully (just two, but hey, he looked great) and a nice shot of his bloody back with his shirt hanging all ragtaggle around his ribs. Okay, I would have preferred if it had been delivered by Catherine Zeta Jones, but you can't have everything.
In related pervy ramblings, I don't find it at all alarming to lay down for a nap only to dream about getting a first-rate blowjob from a girl who looked suspiciously like Kristin Kreuk. I do find it a little disturbing to wake up with my pants undone.
Oh, and this is just a PSA: People who can't follow instructions piss me off. People who cannot keep their mouths shut when they are told piss me off even more. Is it just me or has Fate suddenly disgorged the contents of a flotilla of short buses onto the information superhighway? I have run into more backbirths this past week than I have in the three months previous. Christ. And every single one of them has an opinion they wish to share with the world in some dazzlingly inappropriate and insulting way. Furthermore, they believe we should thank them for their insight.
Assholes like that are clearly not created by God (who does too create lots of human garbage, despite what the "God don't make trash" bumper stickers and infants' tee shirts would have you believe). Therefore I must conclude they are descended from apes. Y'all can be related to monkeys if you want to be. Me? I'm secretly from Mars or something. 'Cause I refuse to share a species with those dog-prongers.
The convention (Conestoga 10) is this weekend. I'll be helping run the art room. Any of you in driving range are welcome to come by and see us.
That said, my sanity is slipping. I have nine million things to do, not much time to do it in, and of course I'm stressing all out of proportion to the actual event.
I have about thirteen GIANT boxes of mail-in artwork in my living room, which has created a space and storage crisis of epic enough proportions to prompt me to rearrange so I can still walk through it without tripping over prints of scantily-clad fairies. I spent two hours erecting and then filling a new set of shelves with supplies, so I could pile the artwork on the tables that had previously been festooned with art crap.
In case you can't tell, I'm busy, and will likely be busy well into next week.
What's bothering me most about all this is, typically, a stupid detail. You see, by focusing on silly crap, I keep from worrying about major shit going wrong - it's a workable coping mechanism. This time, I am fussing over the fact that I want to go in full pirate regalia on Saturday, but I have no boots. And I can't order any online - over and above the fact that I don't have the money right now, I'm a very hard size to fit for leg boots, since my feet are small but my ankles and calves are very thick.
I may be stuck wearing my pointy witch boots and painting a skull and crossbones on them. Which is not a good idea, exactly, since they have giant long pointy heels, and I'm not a fucking retard. (Translation: I'm not going to try to run an art show in high-heeled boots, thanks.)
Arr.
Oh, hey. Speaking of things piratical, Dead Man's Chest kicks incredible amounts of ass. stupid? Check. Over-the-top? Check. Loads of fun? CHECK. And yes, the whipping scene was too a fun scene, grody pirates notwithstanding. It had the two things I wanted: reaction shots of him grimacing and wincing manfully (just two, but hey, he looked great) and a nice shot of his bloody back with his shirt hanging all ragtaggle around his ribs. Okay, I would have preferred if it had been delivered by Catherine Zeta Jones, but you can't have everything.
In related pervy ramblings, I don't find it at all alarming to lay down for a nap only to dream about getting a first-rate blowjob from a girl who looked suspiciously like Kristin Kreuk. I do find it a little disturbing to wake up with my pants undone.
Oh, and this is just a PSA: People who can't follow instructions piss me off. People who cannot keep their mouths shut when they are told piss me off even more. Is it just me or has Fate suddenly disgorged the contents of a flotilla of short buses onto the information superhighway? I have run into more backbirths this past week than I have in the three months previous. Christ. And every single one of them has an opinion they wish to share with the world in some dazzlingly inappropriate and insulting way. Furthermore, they believe we should thank them for their insight.
Assholes like that are clearly not created by God (who does too create lots of human garbage, despite what the "God don't make trash" bumper stickers and infants' tee shirts would have you believe). Therefore I must conclude they are descended from apes. Y'all can be related to monkeys if you want to be. Me? I'm secretly from Mars or something. 'Cause I refuse to share a species with those dog-prongers.