(no subject)
A sign by the hospital cafeteria:
"BBQ Baby Ribs"
I wonder if they just get them from the nursery...or if they outsource them.
Perhaps I shouldn't have gloated over my victory so quickly, it seems that ghosts from the past can still strike like vipers when you least expect it. I hate when irony jumps into real life, it should stay in books where it belongs. Still...
I'm sure I'll be able to conjure up some sort of help, should I require it.
I've been morose for the entire year. At first, it was acceptable enough because, well, who isn't morose when the days bring a razor sharp chill, perversely pleasurable, harshly bright with light from an unfeeling sun, and the nights are heralded by the maddeningly dull and stifling warmth that comes from burrowing under bedcovers?
But no more of that. Moroseness is bad enough in itself; coupled with bad and angsty writing, it becomes an offense punishable numerous papercuts on one's eyelids and genitalia.
For some reason it just... seems so quiet here to me. It's kind of driving me up a wall in a sense, but not so much that I'm going to snap or something as ridiculous as that.
I'm not used to calm, calm isn't something that's typically... viable.
Someone better come answer this damned bell soon.
"BBQ Baby Ribs"
I wonder if they just get them from the nursery...or if they outsource them.
Perhaps I shouldn't have gloated over my victory so quickly, it seems that ghosts from the past can still strike like vipers when you least expect it. I hate when irony jumps into real life, it should stay in books where it belongs. Still...
I'm sure I'll be able to conjure up some sort of help, should I require it.
I've been morose for the entire year. At first, it was acceptable enough because, well, who isn't morose when the days bring a razor sharp chill, perversely pleasurable, harshly bright with light from an unfeeling sun, and the nights are heralded by the maddeningly dull and stifling warmth that comes from burrowing under bedcovers?
But no more of that. Moroseness is bad enough in itself; coupled with bad and angsty writing, it becomes an offense punishable numerous papercuts on one's eyelids and genitalia.
For some reason it just... seems so quiet here to me. It's kind of driving me up a wall in a sense, but not so much that I'm going to snap or something as ridiculous as that.
I'm not used to calm, calm isn't something that's typically... viable.
Someone better come answer this damned bell soon.