fangirl says what

It's a thankless job...

...but I've got a lot of karma to burn off.

Leave it to a middle child.
It's not premarital sex unless you're pl
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Ooooookay, so I haven’t written hardly anything lately, as evidenced by the rejection of the only freelance piece I’ve written in six months – yes, that zippy little piece about boys and their mommies. Which is, as I’ve learned, probably for the goddamned best, because I’ve also reached a new level of clueless in the ongoing war between Kristin and things-with-testicles (completely unrelated to the piece – the piece was top-notch as far as I’m concerned, and I will post it once I’ve licked my wounds).

Anyway, I’ve made a new crop of discoveries surrounding the furrier sex, some of them being positive, most of them being about me. The most noteworthy about me, as a matter of fact. That’s right, a male creature is teaching me about me. I know. I can’t believe it either. Know thy enemy, know thyself, I guess.

Let’s start at the very beginning (a very good place to start).

There's ALWAYS a boy.Collapse )

I am perplexed, intrigued… and most of all pleasantly surprised. I do believe I’ll keep him around. At least until he starts chewing on my shoes.


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Subjects? Where we're going, we don't NEED subjects...
Other hand's on Lupin's ass.
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Has it really been since the end of July? I hadn't even noticed, to be honest.

Perhaps I'm outgrowing my LJ. I just don't know.

Regardless, please allow me to share a thought for the day:

These are the most comfortable underwear that I have ever worn. I would venture a guess that they are the most comfortable underwear on the planet. I believe that if I ever track down where they came from originally, I will buy twenty pairs. Why is it that the most comfortable/useful/loved articles of clothing in existence are the ones that seemingly have no origin? It's always the sweatshirt that got mixed up with your laundry at the laundromat, the pajama-pants that your ex-boyfriend's best friend left at his house and you stole from him, or (in this case) the underpants that your sister bought, never wore, and then left in her dresser and when she gave you her dresser the panties came with it. There are never any tags in these things to point you in the direction from whence they came, and if you do have an inkling regarding brand (in the case of the aforementioned sweatshirt, it was Champion) you can't find that particular style anywhere.

Perfect example: Eric's trusty black backpack.

Eric acquired this backpack "somewhere" - he doesn't remember specifically where - about seven years ago. He hauled it all over the world and the Potterverse with him, and the things that backpack has seen could fill a novel. Well, last year it finally breathed its last; literally came apart at the seams. I started thinking to myself, "Self, Eric is really attached to that backpack. Wouldn't it be cool if we could find him an exact replica for Christmas?" And then I examined the backpack. There is not a tag to be found. There are no markings of any kind on any of the zippers or fastenings. There are no brand names on the straps, or in the lining. It was as though this particular backpack was simply willed into existence and borne into Eric's hands by some distant alien race as a kind of social experiment in driving me completely batshit insane. I asked him several times if he - by chance - just woke up one morning and found this backpack just sitting in his room, or perhaps wedged in one of his roomier corporeal orifices. He insisted that he really didn't remember, but it was altogether possible. And where do you begin to search? I mean, google "black canvas laptop backpack" and see what happens if you'd like a taste of my frustration. I finally settled on a completely unrelated but very highly rated L.L. Bean commuter pack, which of course cannot even hope to someday grow up to be the original black backpack in Eric's eyes. And even I must admit, when compared, there are shortcomings which cannot be ignored. I blame the aliens.

Also of note:

Remember this entry?

http://narcissology.livejournal.com/88729.html

(Yes, I'm leaving the link naked on purpose. Don't judge me.)

I have met someone who - with no prompting from me - used the phrase, "crazier than a shithouse rat." No matter that he was referring to me at the time... I will marry him.


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Adult Situations
I kind of wanted to be a vampire.
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So I'm thinking about writing a pamphlet entitled, "So You Want to Be a Grown-Up". Not that I know anything about being a grown-up - in FACT, I'm quite certain that if I were to undertake such a project, it would wind up sounding very much like, So You Want To Be a Deatheater, everyone's favorite anonymously-penned guide to following He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Come to think of it, any guide to adulthood would bear a striking resemblance to that document in more ways than one.

At any rate, I've decided that my first step toward grown-up-ed-ness should be grown-up furniture. I have reached a point in my single life where I can probably afford a few nice pieces at a time, and I have reached an age where it's inappropriate to still have David Bowie in eye makeup in a metal poster frame on the living room wall. My apartment currently has what I refer to as the "refugee motif" - a mix of stuff I got in college and hand-me-down pieces from various family members that might be called "eclectic" if "eclectic" wasn't such a classy word. No, between normal furniture wear and tear exacted on furniture which was new sometime when disco was groovy, and the fact that my dog regularly eats fabric, this smacks of late-1944 French Coast. That, and now my bed is broken, and not through any entertaining means - just the aforementioned wear and tear surrounding the fact that it's probably been moved thirty times. Furniture would be good here.

So I wraps my false sense of confidence arounds my premature optimism and off I goes to look for "grown-up furniture," armed with a plethora of advice like, "If you buy sets, you'll look like a gramma - it doesn't have to MATCH, it just has to GO." Whatever that means. It sounds very adult. I vow to recite it to a salesperson somewhere. And I quickly discover something that I probably should have known about myself before I started, namely that I don't really like furniture. Sure, there are some really posh groupings of pretty slick stuff in the furniture stores - but I immediately develop an irrational fear that if I try to put that much elegance into my moss-green, slightly dingy but charming (and cheap - it's called "shabby chic," I believe) apartment, my apartment will simply vomit it back out onto the patio like a three-year-old that drinks a whole large Goodrich Dairy strawberry shake because it SOUNDS like a good idea but is unaware that the typical three-year-old body is not equipped to handle that onslaught of confectionary goodness. Which means that my initial reaction is that I should probably just take up residence in the furniture store, where all of those pieces look perfectly at home. That not being a reasonable option by virtue of vagrancy laws, I have taken to shopping online, with no intimidating room groupings to jam up my fung shui. I initially assumed - incorrectly - that this way would be a little easier. It is, in fact, much more difficult to commit to purchasing a couch upon which you have never actually test-flopped. That, and I still don't like furniture. I mean, the intimidation factor is certainly less, but the insecurity factor is increased exponentially, as I still have moss-green walls, and the silence is unbearable when you call the online furniture people to ask if you might send them a swatch of your wall color with the instructions, "Just toss it on the couch and step back and then squint a little and tell me what it looks like." Especially when you tell them that it doesn't have to match - it just has to "go."


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Bank of America can suck it.
Fuck you would be unprofessional.
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This was the worst decision ever made.

Please - make with the clicky HERE and learn the TRUTH about the "Humane Society of the U.S." - an animal RIGHTS group, as opposed to the American Humane Society, which has been protecting animals from abuse and neglect for 130 years... making it an animal WELFARE group.

Fill out the form on the Cattlemen's site asking BoA to reconsider, if you're of the mind. But even if you're not... bask in the truth for a minute. There is nothing "humane" about what these people do - they are hell-bent on crippling an industry that supports the entire middle of this country.

A tiny plea, in the grand scheme of things, really.
In the beginning...
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Dear Divine Metaphysical Powers-that-Be,

Hey there.  Yeah, me.  Down here.  No, the other one.  Yeah.  That's me.  The loud snowdrift wearing purple socks.  *ahem*  Sorry.  Little bit of a joke there.  I'll bet your sense of humor is way better than mine...

ANYWAY...

Okay, so I stopped asking for big stuff to happen in exchange for promises like faith and stuff about 23 years ago.  In fact, that's the time that I stopped asking for small stuff, too, and for the most part this has been a good balance.  I'm pretty low-maintenance, as far as that stuff goes, I'd be willing to venture a bet.

I mean, if that's allowed.  Otherwise, I'd totally frown upon that.

Oh, who am I kidding?  We both know that's not true.  Gambling just doesn't really interest me.

But I digress again.

So here's the deal.  I'm not going to make ridiculous promises and stuff that we both know that I'm not going to keep, and we both know that I'm just a tiny, tiny part of a much bigger plan for much bigger things to happen, really pretty insignificant when it comes right down to it... but that being said, since it's not a secret that in the grand scheme of things my one little life is just a speck of dust in the metaphorical sands of time...

Is it too much to ask for this one little, equally insignificant thing to go right?  I mean, not like other things haven't gone right, but I assume that's part of the plan... and maybe this is, too, I don't know, but really... if it's not too much to ask, and honestly, even if it is... I'm not asking to rearrange the cosmic alignment.  I just want this to go the right way.  And by "right" I mean that I'd like it to turn out in the way that benefits me, and not in that wishy-washy loosely-interpreted "this is for the best in the grand scheme of things" way, but in the way I WANT it to turn out, wherein I get what I want.

I guess that's it - that's the bottom line.  I really, really want this to happen.  Badly enough to swallow my pride and have this one-sided conversation in which I feel ridiculous.  I've been good, really, for the most part.  I'm good to other people, mostly.  I'd really like to have this for me.  Would that really disrupt the rest of the universe so very badly?  Just give it some thought, okay?

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Your Pal,

Cheers,

Best Regards,
Me

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Cannes Day Six: Blood-Curdling.
Rock On
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Apparently, 'Antichrist' offended certain sensibilities. Sexual violence is not for the squeamish. Or the British.

I don't think anyone is probably too shocked that the Brits have a harsh view on female self-castration... if the queen is just 'lying back and thinking of England,' then the rest of you are gonna damn well suffer through it with all sensation intact as well.

I'd still rather be there than about to schedule another WebEx on smackdown. Well, perhaps not the castration bit. But certainly England, while frowning upon the castration bit sternly.

In other Cannes twatwafflery (but not mutilation, mind you), withnailusa, could you please answer a question for me? How does 'Inglourious Basterds' have a release date when it is, technically, still homeless? Who's going to distribute it? Quentin himself? In a big truck?


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LIVE, FARADAY! LIVE, DAMN YOU!
LOST: WTHAIGLTT
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YOU'RE JUST GOING TO ALLOW YOURSELF TO BE GUNNED DOWN BY ROSE CAFFEE?!?! HOW ARE WE GOING TO LEARN THE SECRETS OF THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM IF YOU DIE?!?!?

In honor of tonight's continuation of maternal child murder run amok,

Television Without Pity's Lost Characters We Want Dead


I can't argue with anyone on their list - I mean, if you set aside that a few of those characters are technically already dead... or were dead before we wound up in the fucking disco era... or assumed dead... or really on their way out... well, that and my list would include Sawyer. Because if he flies off the handle one more time (punching people and locking them in closets comes to mind) I'm going to beat him to death myself.


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Tags:

Tim Gunn would be so disappointed in all of you.
No excuses - play like a champion. (Wedd
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Today’s bitch-and-moan:

I am deathly tired of people who cannot dress themselves. And I don’t mean to be giant-air-quotes-sexist but most of these people are men. There is nothing that ruins my mood faster than discovering that a gentleman whom I find to be attractive only looked striking upon first encounter by some happy accident, and actually has taste comparable to that of a dead raccoon and when left to his own devices chooses to dress himself like a homeless person, or (only slightly better) a prison inmate. This is not acceptable. It’s also the reason that I prefer to see any given man only once. Please, let me help.

Rule 1: There is not a universal color that matches everything. No, not even (insert whichever drab color is giving you this misconception – black, brown, navy blue). Outfits are chosen on a case-by-case basis, and there is no mathematical formula for making the “staring blankly into the closet wondering what to wear” process disappear.

Rule 2: If the shoes don’t have toes, it probably indicates that the toes are meant to be seen. Please do not wear socks.

Rule 3: In fact, let’s talk about shoes for a moment. Lace-up lug-soled Doc Martens were the hottest thing happening in 1991. They are not now, nor will they ever be, appropriate for the office. I don’t care if you’re wearing your nifty company-logo-polo and you’ve managed to somewhere along the line purchase jeans that don’t make you look like a complete goober… when you pair them with those shoes… you look like a complete goober. Also, please apply Rule 1 to athletic shoes.

Rule 4: Never wear a tie with anything that doesn’t have cuffs. Ever. This is not negotiable.

Rule 5: You probably don’t still fit into the pants you wore your freshman year of college. And you probably look like a microwaved hot dog if you try. Please spare us by buying pants (and oxfords) that fit you properly.

Rule 6: I don’t want to see your nipples. Neither does anyone else. Wear an undershirt.

Rule 7: The only visible part of you that should have hair growing out of it is your head. If you look in the mirror and can see any other hair, please cut it off. Look closely, for everyone's sake.

Rule 8: If you want to get the same woman to take your pants off on more than one occasion, please wear underpants. Preferably clean, and not emblazoned with cartoon characters.

Rule 9: Cologne does not make up for the fact that you didn’t shower this morning, or the fact that you wore that shirt to the bar last night. The world isn’t going to end – no matter how late you’re running – if you take fifteen minutes to shower, and Calvin Klein would be very disappointed if he knew you were violating Obsession to cover up the scent of stale cigarette smoke and regret.


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Miscellany.
Growing Up Cullen - Strong-arming Hos
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1. Let's get the random relationship linkspam out of the freakin' way right now. This really doesn't need my commentary at all - pick any one of ten reasons that this is true.

It takes a hell of a good man to be better than no man at all.

The pseudo-rebuttal is a bit less gilded and a lot more honest.

And Frisky brings the two together by reminding us that we're not perfect...


...much like the jackhole commenter the other day who suggested that chubby hit the gym and deal with the lunch-lady arms so she could catch her a (shallow) man.

The first two are excellent points of view. The third is a holy wreck, but it brought me to the first two and so I must give props where props are due. Please enjoy.

2. Eric is right now at the apartment sorting his Redbox movies by spreading them out all over my (was-clean-this-morning) living room and then putting them in piles. He is kind enough to let the dog participate when he does this. He has not, to this point, however, heeded the warning, 'If you can't SEE the Min Pin, the Min Pin is probably up to no good.'

Instead, I get an email with the subject, 'I am not amused.'Collapse )

3. Star Trek tickets... I has them. I am also seeing 'Jesus Christ Superstar' (with Ted-freakin'-Neeley in it!) tomorrow night, but that is merely a distraction while I'm waiting for Star Trek. My only regret is that I have to see it in the loop instead of in my comfy-jammies theatre with the kick-ass popcorn, so there will be no celebratory mini-bottles of sparkling wine in my purse.


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Bad dog.
Sometimes alcohol is the answer.
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Puppy Mills: Exposed, tonight on Animal Planet


Watch the horribleness. Do not buy dogs from pet stores. Rinse. Repeat.

And that's all the energy I have today. Am currently up to my knees in issues which are forcing themselves to be dealt with, several of which have nothing to do with Dickmouth. Please, feel free to jump in and save me from myself at any time, really.

Cheers.


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