Daisukidayo.
[mood|
sore]
[music|Baghdad Sky - Aya]
So you wake up, and stare at the ceiling. You feel horrible because you have a sake hangover. And you were pretty sure that wasn't possible. But then you remember it really is, and decide to cure yourself by... getting drunk. Drunker. Something. You went to sleep late. So you wander downstairs and open up a bottle of wine to make some lovely mixed drink. It has foil on it and you slash your index finger something nasty. And you swear at yourself and kind of drift around the kitchen looking like this:
It's all very depressing. So, in your rage, you amble over to make pot stickers. You don't know why you have an urge to make pot stickers, since you don't have an urge to eat them, but you do so nevertheless. And so they look very nice and pale and folded neatly, and you dump the water out in the sink. And it splashes up and hits you in the face. You go "OMFGWTFAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!" and spasm around until you finally shove your head under the faucet.
You then proceed to sob like Tarou. Actually, you sob more like Gackt, since you're clutching your head and moaning the phrase "My face... my beautiful, beautiful faaaace..." over and over. You have a nasty hole the size of a quarter across your cheek. It looks sort of like if you took a piece of pizza and scraped all of the cheese and toppings off. It makes you queasy. And there's a little slice through your right eyebrow, and your entire left eyelid is blistering and, as if it weren't thin and bruised enough from the previous night's exploits, you can almost see through it.
You mooch about your day in a drunken, Vicoden-happy state of euphoria, only crying when your face starts stinging like Miyavi getting maced after sneaking into the girls' locker room. It's not a nice feeling.
At least you get yourself a Big Mac. But the Big Mac is, indeed, quite big, and your face is, likewise, childishly small. So the special sauce, which proves itself to be not-as-special-as-previously-thought, smears itself all over your burned cheek and you go "D'AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!" for a few moments, and you grab your soda and stalk off to the kitchen. And drop your soda all over the rug.
This series of unfortunate events can only be cured by the soft, physical love of a warm and manically depressive panda.
pandacam, anyone?
sore]
[music|Baghdad Sky - Aya]
So you wake up, and stare at the ceiling. You feel horrible because you have a sake hangover. And you were pretty sure that wasn't possible. But then you remember it really is, and decide to cure yourself by... getting drunk. Drunker. Something. You went to sleep late. So you wander downstairs and open up a bottle of wine to make some lovely mixed drink. It has foil on it and you slash your index finger something nasty. And you swear at yourself and kind of drift around the kitchen looking like this:
It's all very depressing. So, in your rage, you amble over to make pot stickers. You don't know why you have an urge to make pot stickers, since you don't have an urge to eat them, but you do so nevertheless. And so they look very nice and pale and folded neatly, and you dump the water out in the sink. And it splashes up and hits you in the face. You go "OMFGWTFAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!" and spasm around until you finally shove your head under the faucet.
You then proceed to sob like Tarou. Actually, you sob more like Gackt, since you're clutching your head and moaning the phrase "My face... my beautiful, beautiful faaaace..." over and over. You have a nasty hole the size of a quarter across your cheek. It looks sort of like if you took a piece of pizza and scraped all of the cheese and toppings off. It makes you queasy. And there's a little slice through your right eyebrow, and your entire left eyelid is blistering and, as if it weren't thin and bruised enough from the previous night's exploits, you can almost see through it.
You mooch about your day in a drunken, Vicoden-happy state of euphoria, only crying when your face starts stinging like Miyavi getting maced after sneaking into the girls' locker room. It's not a nice feeling.
At least you get yourself a Big Mac. But the Big Mac is, indeed, quite big, and your face is, likewise, childishly small. So the special sauce, which proves itself to be not-as-special-as-previously-thought, smears itself all over your burned cheek and you go "D'AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!" for a few moments, and you grab your soda and stalk off to the kitchen. And drop your soda all over the rug.
This series of unfortunate events can only be cured by the soft, physical love of a warm and manically depressive panda.
pandacam, anyone?