"Freaking Fair-girls and their Tan-club."

God, sweetness. I adore you, but I swear I wasn't capable of getting this hysterical before I met you. And I wasn't aware that my voice could hit that pitch, either.

Which makes everything sound a lot more sexual than it actually is. But I always had a gift for that.

Poor journal! It has been neglected since I came back from Yuurop, mostly because I can now complain to people over MSN about the daily workings of my life (which are uttely uninteresting, in any case).

( in which nothing of interest to anyone except exo is discussed )

Burn fat, that is. I am meant to be on holiday, why am I exercising so much?

( In which exo wonders about the copious symbolism of Barcelona's skyline )

As I write this we are tearing down the highway. Time: before sunrise (not that impressive when you consider we are getting to the deep of winter). Temperature: -9 degres C. Boots: waterproof. Moon: red. We are on our way to Spain, chicas (and/or chicos).

( If France were a guy I would be too scared to do him. You don´t know where he´s been or what sort of really scary kinks he might have. My only consolation is that I´m the wrong gender to be his type. )

We crossed two borders, three countries, and the only time we had to get out our passports was when checking into the hotel.

( Sex and drugs, hold the rock n'roll )

Jean-Yves has one of those apartments where everything is electronic. One of these things is the front door. So we get to the front door, and there is a button next to it. Mum presses it and pulls on the door. Nothing happens.

She presses it again and pulls on the door again. Nothing happens.

Jean-Yves pushes the door open.

"Foiled," I mutter, "by ( Read more... )

I want my results and I want them NOW.

poutpoutpout.

(so what if it's my fault, I'm allowed to sulk on my own LJ)

The wait is killing me. Not really. It treats me the same way life, my characters, and my stomach treat me: a sort of amused discontent, accompanied by a healthy helping of, "Don't say we don't deserve each other, you crazy bitch." I ( Read more... )

My response to that would have been pithy, vulgar and contain such theories as, 'they followed their crotch'. Needless to say, I bit my tongue.

( All food descriptions omitted from this entry by request. )

31st December
11:30pm -
where the hell is my brain, why does my head hurt. what is wjtih wall the ampty fglasses

( At least I know how to say 'shut up' )

French road signs are so polite. 'You [polite form] do not have priority.' Damn Australia just has, 'GIVE WAY'.

( Do not use iPod with unauthorised accessories. Do not use iPod with chocolate. )