Holy shit. I'm going to be 21 in 38 hours. I'm old old old ( Read more... )

A clip from my 7th-12th grade journal, 6/13/99:

I'm tired of my image. Squeaky-clean, Little Miss Perfect, straight-As-don't-drink-don't-smoke-don't-fuck image. Maybe that's me, maybe it isn't. But I want people to look at me and not be able to see my life written across my face.

Heh.

Shit, that cracks me up every time ( Read more... )

( the I Have Never )

My last fun birthday is a week from tomorrow. I am definitely going to get embarrassingly drunk.

Oh lord, I got a lot of stuff this weekend. Four pairs of pants, three pairs of underwear (not panties, you pervert) three shirts, one skirt, some socks. Most of it was my birthday present, and some I bought myself. We don't have to pay rent for ( Read more... )

I smell like a long summer day, although it really hasn't been. I bought regular old body lotion with sunscreen in it, terrified as I am about getting old, and it smells just like the white streaky stuff you slather on at the beach. That smell always makes me tired by association, as though I have been riding on the bow of a speedboat with my ( Read more... )

First of all, we have a couch that reeks of Courtni's boss's ass. The girls got it last fall and Febrezed it all the time but it still stinks, and I soaked it in Febreze on Sunday when we got it and now there is this fetid cloying fat guy ass and Fresh Rain smell that just kind of hovers in a humid shit-cloud. Mediacom took away the $163 back ( Read more... )

I drowned in my water bottle on the way home from work, and my eyes drowned with choking, and the sky drowned my car. I am saturated in every possible way.

I really don't know why the fuck I bother with anything. Seriously. I can't even find a logical reason to be pissed. And yet it doesn't stop me.

Huh. Ted graduated this weekend, my tall handsome clever soldier valedictorian of a brother graduated this weekend. I am old, and I am scared for him ( Read more... )

It was a good weekend. It was a weekend of Erin showing me the phallic pine-orange-banana juice carton in the grocery store, of telling a friendly persistent Jamaican man I was a lesbian so he would stop asking for my phone number, a weekend of off-center pictures of grinning girls with the beige carpet as backdrop. A weekend of Tarantino movies ( Read more... )