Like a grounded teenager, through a window in the darkest part of night--
should be called morning, but isn't
because it's too night-like.
Mr. Doctor Dude called--
hurray for low thyroid counts.
fucking inability to focus
and now I'm back, mid-reply
to the email
from the woman
who's hosting the Super Bowl party.
orange's owl makes me laugh.
She said I could bring "whatever" for food.
Oh, she doesn't know what kind of Pandorishly purple box she's opening...
I think I’ll bring a box of wheat flour and some ham lollipops for dipping--
Only waaaaaaaaay less fun.
this paper I'm semi-attempting to write
really fucking strange.
because I am looking and moving like a fairly normal humanoid.
My thoughts are somewhat more psychedelically inclined.
Which is cool.
I think I'm going to France for my spring break in March.
Don't get too excited, I'm taking my (super fabulous angelic wonderful) Mother with me.
I can't wait!!!
Ok, shit fuck piss--
I think I just jinxed myself.
Something's going to stop us now.
(which was released right after that Mannequin soundtrack hit, "Nothing's gonna stop us now" but didn't make the charts. Not even the flow charts.)
This is fucking weird.
Maybe I should rink more coffee.
"DRINK more coffee" was what my brain told my fingers, but sometimes these little
sized hands of mine don't reach quite far enough or press quite hard enough.
This is TRULY the main reason for my non-capitalizationism at this point.
I used to have a dreadfully lazy habit of not even reaching for the shift key.
Neither the left, nor the right.
I wonder if you're reading this quickly?
My fingers are moving in a fast-ish manner,
but my brain feels sludgey.
The point of all this was to tell you the doct-o-rama called and it is my thyroid.
Wait, did I already finish that thought?
I did, but now you know it double.
I will feel better shortly.
Poor bloke, really is plenty long.
I should mention that I'm getting a contact high from the music currently playing.
that's probably the root of the problem with the fuzzy
I really love you, man.
And I'm not just saying that because I'm pretending to be stoned.
I had a friend reach a pinnacle of success this week.
Something he has worked hard for,
and has the talent for,
and he's finally on the very
of making it.
He deserves it to the 412th power.
(no, smartass, the 413th wouldn't work.)
I will tell you when to toon--ha..."tune"...your radios.
Radio is funny-looking, pluralized.
Just like marriage.
When pluralized, it goes all sorts of skee-wompus.
Fucking Utah is poisoning my thoughts.
Oh, the Mormon couple we had dinner with the other night was actually very cool.
Dammit, WHEN am I going to learn???
I like everyone.
End of goddamn
Well, except Hitler and PETA.
It's a good lesson in bigotry, though, I suppose...
I rant about mormons cuz it's fun and I am/have been/might be bitter about my inability to extricate myself from it more entirely, longer ago, further away, or goings awry of goings on and now I'm just degenerating into mindless dribble....
better go hit that fucking 5 page argument for what's so interesting about a poem I find rather boring. Shit. At least she could have let us pick our own poem!! Blurgh.
I love kissing.
but don't forget the hands.
on backs, in hair, up shirts, in waistbands.
Poker before the Big Bowl
the Most Bowl
the Largest Bowl.
No, not THAT one, ya damn hippie.
Cards and chips and poor bluffing skills--
but mostly beer and smiles.
Now that I've stopped wondering...I must wonder again.
Damn I love Phish.
It's been a really long time.
Day 4 of uber diet, check.
Fuck you, Body--you're going to be in MY control again.
Also...elevating thryoid levels will feel good in my head and my limbs.
someone click "publish post"...hurry, before I run out of letters...
I'm glad my mind isn't like those signs in front of new england gas stations, with the letters you put on...or the church signs. They have a limited number of letters...
[publish, lisa, do it.
homework will not do itself, no matter how often you shout "Go fuck yourself!" at it, so get busy, girl.
move hands from keyboard to mouse...come on...
they're sick of your looney bin for a head, tripping over your consanants your vowels--your bowels! jeez.