Friday on my mind.
(Well, it's veering fast into Saturday as I type, but as I've yet to get to bed, Friday it stays in my mind. Hokay? Time, all kinds of subjective, hurrah, et cetera.)
The week just flew by me, and it seems I've got very little done, cue much hair-pulling and teeth-gnashing. It's always like this in the dregs of the week before a much-anticipated pay day - I've got all kinds of time, it just doesn't seem to be enough. Furniture hunting has been put off for next week yet again, and that really annoys me even though the reasons behind the decision are perfectly rational.
I'm mooching about in my favourite worn night shirt, marvelling how amazingly different Shiraz from South Africa can be from Shiraz from South Australia, waiting for the latest Bones episode to buffer, and listening to the neighbours' Friday night shagging with half an ear. (The reason I mention the latter is because they can't keep a fucking rhythm - yes, ha ha - and it's bugging me so much I'm sorely tempted to throw on my grey don't-call-me-Gandalf bathrobe and ring on their doorbell with a tambourine in hand. "Halloo! Zis is how ve do eet in Germany, darlinks! Now, to the tune of "Habe Sie Gehurt Das Deutsche Band?" * - show some spirit!")
... I've also had "Mr Cellophane" stuck in my head all day. Apparently that coupled with feeling like a breath away from taking a spontaneous nap standing upright (hullo Loratadine, ya bastard...) and my usual sweet disposition makes me somewhat uncharitable towards other people's sex lives. Especially when said people have a new short-haired chihuahua which hasn't yet been trained out of yapping at every single damn thing around the clock. I'm also a bit disappointed they've named the admittedly lovely and cute little thing Lola (she was a showgirl! ahem) and not Phobos or Hades like common sense and whimsy would dictate.
I'm a bit worried about the few still running TV shows I care about: Bones, for maybe continuing to drive at that Booth/Brennan angle, and Glee, because well, it's a big fucking mess well deserving a rant of its own - come to think of it, its fandom is well deserving of a wrathful dressing-down, at least those parties foaming at the mouth for a Karofsky/Kurt relationship. It is lovely, and a bit chilling, in a am-I-supposed-to-be-the-same-species-as-these-people kind of way, to watch the boiling, roiling masses of Rachel fangirls squeal on in combined indignation and adulation about the wrongs visited upon poor, misunderstood, super-special Miss Berry. "OMG she's just like me!!! So wonderful, and no-one sees that!!!!" For which miracle, I'd give much thanks. Egads.
* It's either that or The Lonely Goatherd from Sound of Music. Yes, maybe there is something wrong with me.
This was first posted here.
Talk back, or see what others have had to say... (
slips of tongue)
The week just flew by me, and it seems I've got very little done, cue much hair-pulling and teeth-gnashing. It's always like this in the dregs of the week before a much-anticipated pay day - I've got all kinds of time, it just doesn't seem to be enough. Furniture hunting has been put off for next week yet again, and that really annoys me even though the reasons behind the decision are perfectly rational.
I'm mooching about in my favourite worn night shirt, marvelling how amazingly different Shiraz from South Africa can be from Shiraz from South Australia, waiting for the latest Bones episode to buffer, and listening to the neighbours' Friday night shagging with half an ear. (The reason I mention the latter is because they can't keep a fucking rhythm - yes, ha ha - and it's bugging me so much I'm sorely tempted to throw on my grey don't-call-me-Gandalf bathrobe and ring on their doorbell with a tambourine in hand. "Halloo! Zis is how ve do eet in Germany, darlinks! Now, to the tune of "Habe Sie Gehurt Das Deutsche Band?" * - show some spirit!")
... I've also had "Mr Cellophane" stuck in my head all day. Apparently that coupled with feeling like a breath away from taking a spontaneous nap standing upright (hullo Loratadine, ya bastard...) and my usual sweet disposition makes me somewhat uncharitable towards other people's sex lives. Especially when said people have a new short-haired chihuahua which hasn't yet been trained out of yapping at every single damn thing around the clock. I'm also a bit disappointed they've named the admittedly lovely and cute little thing Lola (she was a showgirl! ahem) and not Phobos or Hades like common sense and whimsy would dictate.
I'm a bit worried about the few still running TV shows I care about: Bones, for maybe continuing to drive at that Booth/Brennan angle, and Glee, because well, it's a big fucking mess well deserving a rant of its own - come to think of it, its fandom is well deserving of a wrathful dressing-down, at least those parties foaming at the mouth for a Karofsky/Kurt relationship. It is lovely, and a bit chilling, in a am-I-supposed-to-be-the-same-species-as-these-people kind of way, to watch the boiling, roiling masses of Rachel fangirls squeal on in combined indignation and adulation about the wrongs visited upon poor, misunderstood, super-special Miss Berry. "OMG she's just like me!!! So wonderful, and no-one sees that!!!!" For which miracle, I'd give much thanks. Egads.
* It's either that or The Lonely Goatherd from Sound of Music. Yes, maybe there is something wrong with me.
This was first posted here.
Talk back, or see what others have had to say... (
slips of tongue)