This day went right in the gutter. It's almost over, and I have nothing to show.

I wish it would warm the fuck up already. If it was summertime, I wouldn't be sick and stuck in the house. I could be on a motorcycle (admittedly, it would be Justin's, and I'd have to bug him to give me rides,) or fooling around in the garage with the heavy bag, or climbing trees, or running around with no shoes, or doing walkovers on the grass, or swinging.

But no, I'm stuck here with paperwork. Dad wants it done by close of business today. I don't care. I don't know what I'm doing- I have no clue how to do accounting, and no one's told me anything about it; so far I'm just adding up things on receipts by year and writing them in a ledger. Whatever. I'm not quite cut out for this, I think.

On the upshot I get to take classes later in the spring. One on creative writing, one on marketing on what you wrote, and one on book keeping. (Dad wants me to take that last one. I wanted to take Russian, but nooooo.)

Still working on my femslash story. It's a little bit too chatty at this point- I wanted more imagery, less dialouge, but any of you who've read my stuff know that it runs to alot of dialouge. Ech. I don't know.

I thought of a really great poem lying in bed last night. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember the words by the time I decided to write it down, which is sad cause it was REALLY good. Here's what I wrote down of it. (In the dark, in bed. Which means I needed my Little Orphan Annie Ring to decode it all.)

My sheets are swimming in your memory
and yet
you haven't touched them
now, then, ever

...

The way you would
pull me down from the walls
with gentle insistence
not smotheringly
is something I love about you
that,
and the way you smile
into my pillow
(yes, the one
that your head has never touched)

...

And it was such a beautiful poem
I can't remember it all now
I will have forgotten it
by morning
except for these
words,
hastily scribbled in the dark.
(The scratching of the pen
sounds wonderful
with my eyes closed-
thank you for that)

I think I want to be a forensic pathologist.

I have more space for icons, but I don't know what icons to make. Help me out, someone. Ideas?

This day went right in the gutter. It's almost over, and I have nothing to show.

I wish it would warm the fuck up already. If it was summertime, I wouldn't be sick and stuck in the house. I could be on a motorcycle (admittedly, it would be Justin's, and I'd have to bug him to give me rides,) or fooling around in the garage with the heavy bag, or climbing trees, or running around with no shoes, or doing walkovers on the grass, or swinging.

But no, I'm stuck here with paperwork. Dad wants it done by close of business today. I don't care. I don't know what I'm doing- I have no clue how to do accounting, and no one's told me anything about it; so far I'm just adding up things on receipts by year and writing them in a ledger. Whatever. I'm not quite cut out for this, I think.

On the upshot I get to take classes later in the spring. One on creative writing, one on marketing on what you wrote, and one on book keeping. (Dad wants me to take that last one. I wanted to take Russian, but nooooo.)

Still working on my femslash story. It's a little bit too chatty at this point- I wanted more imagery, less dialouge, but any of you who've read my stuff know that it runs to alot of dialouge. Ech. I don't know.

I thought of a really great poem lying in bed last night. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember the words by the time I decided to write it down, which is sad cause it was REALLY good. Here's what I wrote down of it. (In the dark, in bed. Which means I needed my Little Orphan Annie Ring to decode it all.)

My sheets are swimming in your memory
and yet
you haven't touched them
now, then, ever

...

The way you would
pull me down from the walls
with gentle insistence
not smotheringly
is something I love about you
that,
and the way you smile
into my pillow
(yes, the one
that your head has never touched)

...

And it was such a beautiful poem
I can't remember it all now
I will have forgotten it
by morning
except for these
words,
hastily scribbled in the dark.
(The scratching of the pen
sounds wonderful
with my eyes closed-
thank you for that)

I think I want to be a forensic pathologist.

I have more space for icons, but I don't know what icons to make. Help me out, someone. Ideas?

Kate, come and play your violin for me!

Angel of Dispair- you look upon the death of the
world and only hope that what once was, will be
again.


~Dark Angel Quiz~
brought to you by Quizilla


Whoa. Okay.

Besleeve yourself, strumpet.

Imagine this, if you will: a kitchen.

I was standing there, minding my own business, washing the dishes, and my dad says to me, “Shut up!” So I told him I didn’t have to take any of his cheek, and he turned around and complained to Mater.

“Five points from Slytherin for your cheek,” she said.

That is SO unfair. So I called her an old Ravenclaw bat. Whose side is she on, anyway? And then Dad gets in on it again and is all, “What did you just call your mother?”

Says I: “An old Ravenclaw bat. Cause she is.”

“Don’t be such a little hussy,” he tells me. And then he stops, turns around, and said, “Wait. Don’t be a dork. You’re too young to be a hussy.”

They’re mean. I don’t like them anymore, and I told them so.

Too young.

Ha.

Look, it's the movie survey I stole from jacklemmon!
( Read more... )

Besleeve yourself, strumpet.

Imagine this, if you will: a kitchen.

I was standing there, minding my own business, washing the dishes, and my dad says to me, “Shut up!” So I told him I didn’t have to take any of his cheek, and he turned around and complained to Mater.

“Five points from Slytherin for your cheek,” she said.

That is SO unfair. So I called her an old Ravenclaw bat. Whose side is she on, anyway? And then Dad gets in on it again and is all, “What did you just call your mother?”

Says I: “An old Ravenclaw bat. Cause she is.”

“Don’t be such a little hussy,” he tells me. And then he stops, turns around, and said, “Wait. Don’t be a dork. You’re too young to be a hussy.”

They’re mean. I don’t like them anymore, and I told them so.

Too young.

Ha.

Look, it's the movie survey I stole from jacklemmon!
( Read more... )

Little gems.

Lookit!

http://www.lordofthepeeps.com

Also:

http://lotr.fistfulayen.com/

Tolkien hip-hop. Straight outta Hobbiton, yo. Fo shizzle.

Little gems.

Lookit!

http://www.lordofthepeeps.com

Also:

http://lotr.fistfulayen.com/

Tolkien hip-hop. Straight outta Hobbiton, yo. Fo shizzle.