Pinnacle

I have reached a new extreme of comfort. No longer am I sentenced to pasting in my k's, or committing grave crimes by mispelling everything that contained that letter (to sometimes hilarious results). Why? For I have a new keyboard.

But not just any keyboard. A gorgeous, quiet and smooth keyboard with absolutely no cords whatsoever. This means that even once my desk is in place, I will be able to IM, blog, etc directly from bed, as all the greats can. All I need now is a large TV to hook my computer up to, and I will be SET FOR LIFE!

Diamond encrusted

My brother has completely misconstrued the whole issue of "bling-bling." First it was the six dollar costume rings from Kohl's, and now it's his new skateboarding sneakers.

Now, if they were encrusted with precious jewels, then maybe I'd concede that they'd be bling-bling.

Step by Step

It's a gloomy and rainy outside, I'm inappropriately dressed in a bright pink tank top and I've got the New Kids on the Block's "Step by Step" in my head. It's gonna be a great day.

The people all know what we're talkin' about

Apartment: new
Roomates: one recycled, one currently m.i.a.
Room: still sans dresser and shelves (and desk) but so what?
Bed: no longer drooping (thank you boxspring!)
Sunday October 12: Josh Rouse goodness, god willing.
Computer status: Internetted. Rock.
Mood: Gleeful; cheery; bright.

Did we do this????

My mother sends me emails, increasing in urgency, fifteen minutes before I leave the house. She doesn't mention them when I come downstairs and make oatmeal. I leave the house without knowing that as I was getting dressed, she was sending me messages about the newest virus. Mail with the subject line, "DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS?" or "WHAT IS THIS??"

The bulk of it comes originally from a concientious mailing list owner who sees it as his duty to inform the list of each and every new virus. There's the concerned, "let's keep updating our virus protection, folks" part. And the part where he tells us exactly why these viruses are dangerous. And always, always, three links to news of the virus on different web sites. You know, so we know he's telling the truth.

My mom wants me to follow the email, make sure that the computer doesn't get fried. Of course, since I read the email at work, I can't fix her computer, and I tend to forget when I'm home. And beyond that, what I want to tell my mom is that I'm not that computer savvy. I'm the idiot who accidentally saved her photolog template into her regular blog, thus SCREWING EVERYTHING UP.

Your southern can belongs to me

There's things that I need to write, things half written and half formed. I was all geared up for a fabulous summer (which I had) and putting off thoughts of the semester to come. I've got plans and football and tailgating and new roomates and football to look forward to. I thought that I'd manage to slip past my August curse unnoticed.

But no; nothing is that easy. Before August passes, I'm going to have to say another goodbye of sorts, one I simply don't want to make. I don't want to get older and have everyone scattered about the country.

The sooner the better!

So, that song stayed in my head only a brief bit more. For, soon after the computer was left, my mother made the bad, bad mistake of spotting the mailman.

Of course, there was nothing else for me to do but launch into a delightfully off-key rendition of "Please Mr. Postman." I sang it all during our shopping excursion, where I got enough cleaning products to poison a small village, and spied a number of unnecessary things that I would love.

And now I've downloaded it, so that I can disrupt my mother's calming late afternoon with the Shirelles featuring ME! ME! ME! and my sick sense of hearing. Evidence is that with the following lyric:

So many days you passed me by
You see the tears standin' in my eyes
You wouldn't stop to make me feel better
By leavin' me a card or a letter

I'm convinced that Lead Shirelle is actually singing, "By leavin' me a gun or a letter." I'm also damn sure that the Shirelles are my favorite oldies group. With such classics as "My Boyfriend's Back" (threating extreme violence on a liar and/or secret lover), "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" (the premarital sex anthem of the 50s), "It's In His Kiss" (the shoop shoop song!) and "Mama Said" (quityerbitchin') how could it get better?

Wait: they could have done "Leader of the Pack," quite possibly the BEST OLDIE EVER!

I will find a way

Today at lunch, I spent a fair amount of time in the bathroom. An amount of time which could be bordering on unnerving (so it's good that it was empty.) Not because of anything gross, mind you, but because upon entering the cool, tiled sancutary, I found that it was playing none other than Josh Rouse's "Feeling No Pain."

So, I stayed in to listen. Now I'm humming it. I can't wait for his new CD!

$

Sniff.

No, it's not the cats. Or the humidity, or a cold.

I am sad. And cash schemes need to be thought up PRONTO!

Farmin' it

Today I visited my grandparents, an afternoon which was ripe with photo ops, interfamily quarrels and the shocking, shocking realization that my mother looked just like me at my age. Well. Just like me, but with better eyebrows, darker hair, a larger forehead and a gap between the front top teeth. I'd noticed similarities before, of course, but never before had I glanced at a photo and thought it was me.

Also, my uncle had the indie rock white tee, indie glasses and pseudo dorky hair going on. He's only a couple of decades too early.

Closure

I am one-hundred percent officially moved out. I literally dragged the last few items into the elevator and down to the trash. (Apparently my attempts to reupholster my $5 SWAP chair culminated not in a stunning, not-lime-green seat, but instead a tangled mess of chair supports. Whatever. That chair was so last year.)

Also, if one spends time with me, they will have unflattering pictures taken of them. If you protest, then more will be taken. Usually I am nice and do not share them with others. Just a warning.

Dynamite

Alison Pipitone, "Dynamite"

You got long brown hair
And you got a fancy truck
You got a ways to go
You got a place to park
You got sex sex sex,
You got sex
Knock me out

You got pushy hands
And you got busy arms
You got a dirty mouth to turn me on
You got sex sex sex,
You got sex
Knock me out

I been running so far
And I don't know now
How to get to where you are
Been running so fast
And I don't know how
Slowin' down before I go too far

You're dynamite, you're dynamite
You're dynamite, you're dynamite
You're dynamite
And I'm gonna give you a light

You got kissy lips
You got touchy thighs
I been touch-and-go
And you've got time on your side
You've got sex sex sex,
You've got sex
On your mind

You've got cotton clothes
You've got zippy pants
You got something that says you're a sucker for romance
You got sex sex sex
You got sex
And it's coming to pass

I been running so far
And I don't know now
How to get to where you are
Been running so fast
And I don't know how
Slowin' down before I go too far

You're dynamite, you're dynamite
You're dynamite, you're dynamite
You're dynamite
And I'm gonna give you a light

You got moves that kill
You've got stories to tell
You've got sex on the brain and you know me well
You've got sex on the brain and you know me well
You've got sex on the brain and you know me well

Posted by Sarae at 10:57 AM | Comments (0)

Insomnia, faux

I'm quite rotten at getting to sleep when I ought to.

But I am not complaining. Also, I am young and therefore able to withstand minimal sleep.

Toolbelts ahoy!

I'm pretty sure that it's not a natural human reaction to have their mouth water as they look at shelving apparati online. But, damn, I want to hammer things and put things on the walls!

Give me a hell yeah! (G-lick, I know you've got my back!)

Humble

So, Ho-Chunk has spanked my ass twice and sent me scurrying home like a little girl. It is now a known fact: I am no good at slots. They see me coming and snicker. They prepare to take my money (or rather, my mother's money) and offer none in return, the whores.

My mother is thrilled beyond relief that I am not a gambler. I spent too much time sitting beside her on the five cent slots, slumped and dejected because none of my quarters netted me additional ones.

But now I am safely home in the city which bore me, where I am free to throw away my money in places that actually give me something in return. Also, the Internet and I are back together - I don't know how long it shall last, but for the time being, I am thrilled to be able to talk to Colette about the concave and convex features of genitalia. And also ponder the inherent greatness of being able to have a fully retractable clitoris. Man.

Connectivity

Dear Internet, how I missed you. Okay. I didn't really. But now that I am once again nose-to-nose with your brilliant wit and constant news, (instead of a cat) I realize that.. well. No. You're just fun. Yay fun!

Time flies

Paul Westerberg, "Time Flies Tomorrow"

Time flies tomorrow
But it ain't made a move yet
Time flies tomorrow
And tomorrow will make a day since we've met

Your heart sings a feeling
It don't ache but baby its gonna
Swing from the ceiling
Break like a pinata
Break like a whitecap
In the sand you shiver
With eyes like two hubcaps
At the bottom of the river

Time flies tomorrow
But it ain't made a move yet
Time flies tomorrow
And tomorrow will make a day since we've met

Your hands are like an ovation
An uncertain work of art
I sometimes grow impatient
Gonna tear me apart
Ain't no time for crying
As you stand and deliver
All my thoughts of dying
Are silenced by your river

Time flies tomorrow
And time flies since we met
Time flies tomorrow (and tomorrow isn't here)
Yeah, time flies since we met

It must be something that I did

The Good:
- I am newly pedicured and manicured - french manicured, no less!
- Plans for new apartment are coming in nicely. After Wednesday, I can decide upon room arrangement and decor. Hooray!
- Two drawings are completed.
- Tomorrow, I will get to gamble with two generations of my family. I will likely also drink heavily with one.

The Bad:
- It is forever until Wednesday.

The Ugly:
- That final, hair-ripping last drawing that's due tomorrow. Wherein I must decide upon one virtue/vice and draw it, instead of continually changing my mind.

No longer need to feel defenseless

One might assume that my life is supremely dull and devoid of any meaning, due to my veritable lack of posts. To such an assumption I would say, "Ah-ha! Quite the contrary!" and then laugh at you. Or, I might not laugh. Giggle, perhaps. I am fond of giggling.

But, really, I suppose I'm doing that whole thing where you can't quite decide what to place in written words. Or rather, written words that shall be read by more than one person. That, and I get home at one or three or so in the morning and I am exceedingly exhausted, and just wish to collapse in bed (as I shall, momentarily.) And that I have all these social obligations that need to be met, as well as school and family ones, and I'm positively rotten at figuring a way to juggle it so that everyone slides in nicely. Currently, I have no less than four people I need to call in the immediate, immediate future and have about two days free in the next week. Thankfully after Tuesday (or Thursday, as the case may be) I shall be finished with my class, freeing up quite a bit of time - the critiques and the endless amount of drawing eat up a lot of my mornings and evenings.

In lieu of anything interesting, I will close with an excerpt from an email I wrote to Colette earlier today. She is in California, getting her political freak on, and laughing at all the supposed leaders while speeding past them to glory faster than I can drive the Beltline.

I do not like that phrase either, mainly because I think of real wood, and I imagine the horrible, horrible splinters. Oh, ow. Ow ow ow. Thankfully, that is not really an issue.

That was the only appropriate one to share, sadly enough. But, here, shameless plug: you random people (preferably those of you searching for things like "she sneezed twice" as opposed to "dog porn" and the like) should email me and I will send you a sparkly email. It may have a lovely title like "Tales of a Pre-Teen, vol. 2" or "Ms Freakay." I just may use the phrase "onslaught of pussy" and will probably sign off with a "Keep on truckin'." I give great email.

Tonight I learned that while some things may be the best ever, (like the cat's obsession with my hair claw, and sleep-overs) I am the greatest ever. If you care to disagree, you can suck it.

Read more! "No longer need to feel defenseless"

Tonight the words upon the screen's exactly what I mean

My hair smells of stale smoke and I'm slightly convinced that there is still cat dander present on my skin somewhere. I'm not complaining. I dip my head from time to time, inhaling the faint scent of smoke and smiling; the fact that I have sneezed a total of five times in the past day and a half is something which I praise myself on. From now on, Zyrtec and new apartments are my favorite combination ever, when cats are concerned.

Tonight has already passed; now is the time to crawl into the wildly uncomfortable bed of my youth, accompanied by nothing other than my playlist of calm songs. One which I shall share. Sleep on.