(no subject)
I have fantasies. I consider myself a practical person, fairly well-grounded in reality (or my perception thereof). But occasionally even I allow my mind to wander, and to imagine "What if?" And you know the way some people have fantasies about fucking? I have fantasies like that too, only they're about QUITTING MY GODDAMN JOB! I shall not rest until I conquer this last interview and am entirely shut of this place.
Also, I feel like I've swallowed steel wool. I have yet to determine if this is indicative of another crushing bout of illness, or a sign that I should not have smoked a hundred million cigarettes in the last 24 hours.
I'm currently enamored of Umberto Eco's On Ugliness. It’s been a real struggle not to cut all the pretty, “ugly” pictures out and slather them all over my walls like high school. The grown up in me insists that I paid an enormous amount of money for this, and that to do such a thing would be unforgivable.
This weekend was the birthday bash of the delectable Miss Peach, with an after party of epic proportions at Casa Malone. Bottles were thrown, faces slapped, drinks spilt, advances rebuffed, possessions lost. All in all, a lovely time…until the next day. After breakfast at The Diner with Stan, Jeremy, and Jaysie, I returned and actually smelt the house, which reeked of pure alcohol from where a bottle of rum had been smashed in the living room. I then promptly struggled not to toss up my chicken friend steak.
I want soup and some new underwear. I’ma make it happen now.
Also, I feel like I've swallowed steel wool. I have yet to determine if this is indicative of another crushing bout of illness, or a sign that I should not have smoked a hundred million cigarettes in the last 24 hours.
I'm currently enamored of Umberto Eco's On Ugliness. It’s been a real struggle not to cut all the pretty, “ugly” pictures out and slather them all over my walls like high school. The grown up in me insists that I paid an enormous amount of money for this, and that to do such a thing would be unforgivable.
This weekend was the birthday bash of the delectable Miss Peach, with an after party of epic proportions at Casa Malone. Bottles were thrown, faces slapped, drinks spilt, advances rebuffed, possessions lost. All in all, a lovely time…until the next day. After breakfast at The Diner with Stan, Jeremy, and Jaysie, I returned and actually smelt the house, which reeked of pure alcohol from where a bottle of rum had been smashed in the living room. I then promptly struggled not to toss up my chicken friend steak.
I want soup and some new underwear. I’ma make it happen now.