I'm really trying to think of my loss as your gain (3 posts in one day? I can't even recall the last time that happened), but since my spin control skills kinda suck, I'm failing miserably. Aren't I selfish, though?
So, after 3 blessed hours of nearly painless (for me) Sleepytime this a.m. I was awoken by full daylight, damn near whiteout conditions (there's a heavy snowfall warning in effect apparently), streaming through my bedroom window, which I completely fucking HATE; being nocturnal and despising daylight (daylight bad, girl pretty) and all. This made it difficult enough to attempt to set sail yet again from the shores of Awake, when, as an added bonus: some loudmouthed fucking piece of shit (bear with me, whenever I'm sleep-deprived, my vocabularic (yeah, like I care whether or not that's even a, you know, word) aspirations kinda tend to exit stage left on me) kid was running up and down the hallway outside the Manor yipping and kiyiing at the top of its worthless little lungs. I thought we were being invaded or something and was about to break out my trusty firearm (oh yeah, I was Naked, wearing Only a cock ring), throw on my battered combat helmet and army boots and wade into the fray when I realized it was merely someone's unattended little waste of a perfectly good load of come that really should've been swallowed. Somehow, I managed to put away my sidearm anyway. Naturally, I called Social Services (after I called my sponsor) ; what with the way the little cocksucker was screaming, he was either abused or, like, seriously needed to be. Don't they have sweatshops where otherwise pointless and useless children can learn a trade making Nike gear and shit? To add insult to injury, this little fucking nitwit kept loudly opening and closing the mail slot on my door. I nearly kicked its stupid ass down the fucking hallway, but managed to restrain myself. You've NO idea how difficult it was, though. And now I find myself with a bitch of a headache and a REALLY long dark night of the soul looms over me on the Sword of Damocles tip. Yay. Whitney Houston needs to be severely punished for that whole I believe the children are our future nonsense. No more crack for her.
Now, don't get me wrong, I like kids...if they're cooked properly. On a bed of sticky rice. With an insouciant (I've been meaning to use this word for a while now), piquant (this one, too) sauce. And a 40 of malt liquor to cleanse the palate. Maybe a Lithium sorbet for dessert. Some petits-fours, perhaps.
Anyway, since I'm fuelling up on coffee and nicotine and a lid (cocaine is for doing, crack is for selling) and wondering how I'm ever going to get rid of the Louis Vuittons under my peepers in the next couple of hours, I figured I might as well make with the incoherent ranting and raving for a spell. I'm hoping my recent losing streak of insomnia is merely the result of being forced into going to Sleepytime earlier than usual and the side effects of actually taking a risk for oncet. If I'd known sooner that taking risks sometimes has non-negative results, I might've done it sooner. Or not. Whatever. Again, I really don't want anyone to think that I've stabbed them in the back or that I'm gloating about this, I'm simply shocked and amazed that something I've attempted hasn't resulted in complete fucking disaster. Total chaos, even. Yet. Yay, me!
Okay, I'm kinda new to this sort of thing, being all Honesty Boy and completely sans guile and all; is now the time when I'm supposed to start trying to play silly little games and pretending I don't think she's kinda neat and such? Oddly enough, she still hasn't told me that I am, in fact, a Creep. But it's inevitable, as I, in fact, AM a Creep.
The brakes are out, the cliffs are waiting. The overanalysis has begun, and it's all straight downhill on the slippery slope of my own stupidity/insecurity from here on out. Good Times.
It seems that my boy Kim has made it back safe and sound from his lengthy excursion to the D.R. and Daytona. I'm glad that he has, he's good people; don't go thinking I'm going all Brokeback Mountain on y'all. I'm straight, even if my approach is more than a little crooked. And yet, apparently not quite crooked enough. I'm a man of contradictions, me. Which is odd, considering what a simple creature I really am. Which would be yet another contradiction, n'est pas?
Although...if it'll increase traffic and, much much MUCH more importantly, Google AdSense numbers; I'll feign homosexuality. I'm constantly striving to be a chameleon, Everything to Everyone. To drop some Everclear on y'all.
I just hope for his sake that he doesn't rub his new tan (assuming that he makes it out to volleyball this eve) in all our pale faces. Shit could get ugly-like then. But I'll still have his back, that's just how I roll. Anything for a friend. I tend to like my friends more than I like myself. But y'all know that.
Some days I genuinely Wish I could simply be one of the mindless sheep I see so often in my travels. I like to think that my life would be a great deal simpler if I didn't, you know, 'think' quite so much. Maybe if I started watching reality shows and/or Dr. Phil? Got a lobotomy? Took better and stronger drugs? Rented Titanic? Stopped reading the things with the words? Damn, I don't even know where to begin. Story of my life. Sigh.
I'm really beginning to like Fall Out Boy's song Champagne For My Real Friends, Real Pain For My Sham Friends and not merely for the Cool title anymore. If the rest of the disc is anywhere near as goodly, I doth believe that my next purchase looms near. It's a pretty kickass tune, I highly recommend y'all check it out if you've the opportunity.
Mayhap this is where my current nonsensical obsession, SparkleCandy Girl originated. Yes, I'm still working on developing more than the weak chorus I've come up with. It deserves so much better.
All right, I'm off to fire up some psych up-type tunes and see if I can devise a means of injecting caffeine directly into my veins, despite my deathly fear of needles. Although I suppose that, should worse lead to worst, I can always go and knock on K's door and see if I might borrow her mortar and pestle (being a scientist, she does, in fact, possess these items; don't ask how it came up in polite conversation, although it was likely in regard to something similar) ; sos I can grind up a mess of Pretty in Pink caffeine pills into an easily snorted powder. Now wherefore did I put that mirror? Take care, y'all, Happy Mardi Gras. Wish this hapless chump good luck (I thought I'd best specify, I've plenty of The Other Kind) this evening, as he'll more than certainly require it.