(no subject)
matthatter8 (8:28:22 PM): Do you ever get your food stuck behind your head while doing yoga?
KissMyAsana (8:28:39 PM): My foot?
matthatter8 (8:28:50 PM): Yes, your foot.
matthatter8 (8:28:52 PM): My mistake.
KissMyAsana (8:28:55 PM): Haha.
KissMyAsana (8:29:09 PM): No, not as of late.
KissMyAsana (8:29:23 PM): (Haven't gotten my food stuck behind my head, either.)
Sometimes, typographical errors provide comic relief. Relief from what, you ask? Falling barometric pressure. I hurt. It's no big deal this time. It's just interfering with my plans to do absolutely nothing. Instead of stagnating, I must entertain the pain, a bane ingrained within the rain. Why do I suddenly want to read Pygmalion?
I've felt like such a Scrooge recently, but that doesn't give me license to be a bitch (not more than usual, anyway). Christmas depresses me, but Mom lives for this shit. So Adam and I went out to buy stocking stuffers for her. I don't understand why she loves her poinsettias and her wrapping paper and the advent calendar Adam threw and broke at least twice (years ago, this baby's got fortitude). But I can respect it, honor it, and pretend it hurts less than I know it will. Maybe this is just my experience; holidays suck monkey balls once your relatives start dying. I'll pretend and then help clean up and sneer at the Christmas tree, though I do appreciate its aromatic contributions. Eww. Sometimes I write phrases that let me know it's time to stop writing.
KissMyAsana (8:28:39 PM): My foot?
matthatter8 (8:28:50 PM): Yes, your foot.
matthatter8 (8:28:52 PM): My mistake.
KissMyAsana (8:28:55 PM): Haha.
KissMyAsana (8:29:09 PM): No, not as of late.
KissMyAsana (8:29:23 PM): (Haven't gotten my food stuck behind my head, either.)
Sometimes, typographical errors provide comic relief. Relief from what, you ask? Falling barometric pressure. I hurt. It's no big deal this time. It's just interfering with my plans to do absolutely nothing. Instead of stagnating, I must entertain the pain, a bane ingrained within the rain. Why do I suddenly want to read Pygmalion?
I've felt like such a Scrooge recently, but that doesn't give me license to be a bitch (not more than usual, anyway). Christmas depresses me, but Mom lives for this shit. So Adam and I went out to buy stocking stuffers for her. I don't understand why she loves her poinsettias and her wrapping paper and the advent calendar Adam threw and broke at least twice (years ago, this baby's got fortitude). But I can respect it, honor it, and pretend it hurts less than I know it will. Maybe this is just my experience; holidays suck monkey balls once your relatives start dying. I'll pretend and then help clean up and sneer at the Christmas tree, though I do appreciate its aromatic contributions. Eww. Sometimes I write phrases that let me know it's time to stop writing.