(no subject)
Is it weird to get excited about plucking my eyebrows? I don't mean, like, in my pants excited (you sick freaks) but just...I like...the smooth arch. And I feel I have, in some small, obscure way, triumphed. Then again, it's sort of a case of winning the battle but not the war - there are a million other hairs I could be plucking! Not just my own either - there are far too many women (and men, but like anyone cares) out there with erroneous back hair. I don't mean soft, downy, baby-chick stuff, of course that's totally fine. I'm talking thick, dark, luxurious locks, as should usually be restrained to the head, pubic and, if you are revolutionary or just plain lazy, underarm area. So, yeah. This all reminds me of a dream I had where in Mat plaited all his chest and leg hair, and everyone thought it was really cool - except me.
But in other news, as usual, I am ill. I'm such a fucking weakling! But not as bad as the dumbfuck emo kid I had to sit next to on the train yesterday. With his frickin' converse sneakers, uber-trendy death-cab-for-cutie filled ipod and stupid dyed-black fringe to cover his hideous face...gawd. I feel nauseated just thinking about it. But anyway, of course there was no where to rest my tired, aching, weak-like-a-woman body except next to his feculence. THERE WAS NO ESCAPE! And when I sat down he kinda glanced at me too long like he was interested (and yes, this time I do mean in his pants) but a few minutes into the ride I started sneezing and coughing and sniffling - into a tissue, by the way, not ON him, or even into the air. But you know what he does anyway? He INCHES AWAY! INCHES! On one hand I'm like "Yeah, well, that's what you get for being SUPERFICIAL, dick!" and was perversely pleased, but on the other it's like "Fuck, man, it's not like I have the plague! And even if I did, moving your ass cheek half a centimeter away from mine isn't going to help much, is it? No. No, it's not."
And that's not all. Would you like to know what he does next? I will tell you what he does next. He reaches into his canvas knapsack (yes, I said knapsack) and pulls out a teeny tiny plastic package about a quarter of the size of his huge, gangly man-boy hand at the end of his gross, gangly, mole-covered, man-boy arm. In case you are wondering - no, the package was not filled with something cool and fun and glamourous, like heroin. It was filled with sultanas. Fucking. Sultanas. As in, dried fruit. Filled with fibre and nutrients, to keep you healthy and regular. What is a 20-something-year-old man doing eating sultanas, on a train, from a tiny plastic package?! What's next, he's going to whip out a carton of crayons to design his new, lame tattoo involving nautical stars? Maybe start sobbing because I "stole his seat"?
Geez Louise! Kids these days.
But in other news, as usual, I am ill. I'm such a fucking weakling! But not as bad as the dumbfuck emo kid I had to sit next to on the train yesterday. With his frickin' converse sneakers, uber-trendy death-cab-for-cutie filled ipod and stupid dyed-black fringe to cover his hideous face...gawd. I feel nauseated just thinking about it. But anyway, of course there was no where to rest my tired, aching, weak-like-a-woman body except next to his feculence. THERE WAS NO ESCAPE! And when I sat down he kinda glanced at me too long like he was interested (and yes, this time I do mean in his pants) but a few minutes into the ride I started sneezing and coughing and sniffling - into a tissue, by the way, not ON him, or even into the air. But you know what he does anyway? He INCHES AWAY! INCHES! On one hand I'm like "Yeah, well, that's what you get for being SUPERFICIAL, dick!" and was perversely pleased, but on the other it's like "Fuck, man, it's not like I have the plague! And even if I did, moving your ass cheek half a centimeter away from mine isn't going to help much, is it? No. No, it's not."
And that's not all. Would you like to know what he does next? I will tell you what he does next. He reaches into his canvas knapsack (yes, I said knapsack) and pulls out a teeny tiny plastic package about a quarter of the size of his huge, gangly man-boy hand at the end of his gross, gangly, mole-covered, man-boy arm. In case you are wondering - no, the package was not filled with something cool and fun and glamourous, like heroin. It was filled with sultanas. Fucking. Sultanas. As in, dried fruit. Filled with fibre and nutrients, to keep you healthy and regular. What is a 20-something-year-old man doing eating sultanas, on a train, from a tiny plastic package?! What's next, he's going to whip out a carton of crayons to design his new, lame tattoo involving nautical stars? Maybe start sobbing because I "stole his seat"?
Geez Louise! Kids these days.