(no subject)
I did not just go "EEE!" upon realising that both Matsumoto Jun and Oguri Shun are in Hana Yori Dango. (But ... Shin and Uchi! :x ) Ahaha. Damn.
I'm not actually downloading any of it yet, though, because I watched the first episode of Nobuta wo Produce (... I ... always assumed it had something to do with fruit. SHOWS MY GRASP OF PARTICLES. Or whatever the hell "を" is.) and fell in luuurve. Kusano makes me giddy~ with the giggle-y-ness, whee. Uh, anyway, the point is, I'm running out of hard drive space. (What the almighty blue HELL. I have 300 gigabytes total. How did I manage that?) We needs to be burning things, precious....
Mum brought home burritos from who-knows-where for dinner this evening, which she is normally morally opposed to on the grounds that "IT'S NOT REAL MEXICAN FOOD, AND IT EXPLOITS MY PEOPLE!", (it wasn't Taco Bell. No argument from me that Taco Bell isn't real Mexican food, but to her, everything below Tacos Uruapan, the small homestyle cocina run by a first-generation chicano that serves Jarritos, is not "real" Mexican food--maybe she did drive all the way across town for Tacos Uruapan burritos, I don't know), but HOMG it was good stuff. RIDICULOUSLY unhealthy, but drenched in salsa verde and yummy, yummy spicy things.
Randomly, I would kill to find mango Jarritos in the States. Mmmm. And this, unsurprisingly, is making me thirsty.
ETA: I just walked past the living room where my brother is watching House. It's "Hunting". May I remind the audience at home just exactly how much I hate Cameron? I HATE CAMERON. Yes, dear, it's Mr Drug-Addled's fault that you're too bloody insecure and easily influenced to know that, no, drugs will not solve your problems. CONGRATULATIONS. Shut UP, Cameron.
ETA THE SECOND: I ... uh. Holy. Motherfuckin. I. I. I. Yes. Just logged onto the Gateway. And. Uh. I. Think, mind you, and this is all very bureaucratical and confusing, but I think they have, in addition to the $3000 scholarship, THINK. I have been offered loans to cover the entire cost of EVERYTHING for the first year. MOTHER. FUCKIN'. YEAH.
ETA THE THIRD: Dear Mr Laurie, Please smile again some day. House < Prince George < Bertie. Love, Me.
ETA GOES FORTH: (Occasionally, I think I should just make a bloody new entry.) I just checked the messages on my mobile for the first time in like two weeks. One message, from the 12th, at 5:30 AM, from a ver demanding person who could have been twelve years old, or Gary Coleman. Transcript: "Yo! Where mah drug money at? [unintelligable noise that sounds like "nit"] Call me back ... niggaFREEEEEK!"
That is just fuckin' weird. Especially since my voicemail message features my very geeky, un-ghetto sounding voice saying "I don't care enough to answer the phone right now, leave a message, and if you're lucky, I'll call you back.". How high do you have to be to not pick up on that as a cue that you've got the wrong number? Okay, maybe I'm stereotyping. Maybe there is a secret ring of geeky drug lords with dangerous Pacific Northwest accents.
I'm not actually downloading any of it yet, though, because I watched the first episode of Nobuta wo Produce (... I ... always assumed it had something to do with fruit. SHOWS MY GRASP OF PARTICLES. Or whatever the hell "を" is.) and fell in luuurve. Kusano makes me giddy~ with the giggle-y-ness, whee. Uh, anyway, the point is, I'm running out of hard drive space. (What the almighty blue HELL. I have 300 gigabytes total. How did I manage that?) We needs to be burning things, precious....
Mum brought home burritos from who-knows-where for dinner this evening, which she is normally morally opposed to on the grounds that "IT'S NOT REAL MEXICAN FOOD, AND IT EXPLOITS MY PEOPLE!", (it wasn't Taco Bell. No argument from me that Taco Bell isn't real Mexican food, but to her, everything below Tacos Uruapan, the small homestyle cocina run by a first-generation chicano that serves Jarritos, is not "real" Mexican food--maybe she did drive all the way across town for Tacos Uruapan burritos, I don't know), but HOMG it was good stuff. RIDICULOUSLY unhealthy, but drenched in salsa verde and yummy, yummy spicy things.
Randomly, I would kill to find mango Jarritos in the States. Mmmm. And this, unsurprisingly, is making me thirsty.
ETA: I just walked past the living room where my brother is watching House. It's "Hunting". May I remind the audience at home just exactly how much I hate Cameron? I HATE CAMERON. Yes, dear, it's Mr Drug-Addled's fault that you're too bloody insecure and easily influenced to know that, no, drugs will not solve your problems. CONGRATULATIONS. Shut UP, Cameron.
ETA THE SECOND: I ... uh. Holy. Motherfuckin. I. I. I. Yes. Just logged onto the Gateway. And. Uh. I. Think, mind you, and this is all very bureaucratical and confusing, but I think they have, in addition to the $3000 scholarship, THINK. I have been offered loans to cover the entire cost of EVERYTHING for the first year. MOTHER. FUCKIN'. YEAH.
ETA THE THIRD: Dear Mr Laurie, Please smile again some day. House < Prince George < Bertie. Love, Me.
ETA GOES FORTH: (Occasionally, I think I should just make a bloody new entry.) I just checked the messages on my mobile for the first time in like two weeks. One message, from the 12th, at 5:30 AM, from a ver demanding person who could have been twelve years old, or Gary Coleman. Transcript: "Yo! Where mah drug money at? [unintelligable noise that sounds like "nit"] Call me back ... niggaFREEEEEK!"
That is just fuckin' weird. Especially since my voicemail message features my very geeky, un-ghetto sounding voice saying "I don't care enough to answer the phone right now, leave a message, and if you're lucky, I'll call you back.". How high do you have to be to not pick up on that as a cue that you've got the wrong number? Okay, maybe I'm stereotyping. Maybe there is a secret ring of geeky drug lords with dangerous Pacific Northwest accents.