... but square tires don't roll...

How long has it been since I’ve had time to actually post something on here? Jesus, I hate finals. Final anything just sounds bad- I think it must just be one of those words that’ll never make people think happy thoughts. Like “underage” or “fecal.” Or “Yankee.” I also have a bunch of horrible connotations related to anything involving the Deep South, but I blame that on having to sit through a semester’s worth of graphic racial violence and incest-y Southern communities where siblings have kids who then interbreed and make a bunch of dumpy midget-children who can’t even walk or open their eyes properly. For reals. In movie format. THERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU CAN’T UNSEE, PROFESSOR McRACIAL-TORTURE-PORN.

...

That got a bit ranty there. Sorry.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Finals. They suck. Did I mention I have no time? I’ve got maybe a day and a half to learn a whole bunch of shit I should already know but hasn’t stuck because it’s boring  for some reason, and all I want to do is curl up and SLEEP and I fucking can’t until about Wednesday, because that’s probably when I’ll be home after all the packing up and cleaning that I’ve left till the last second, because apparently THAT’S JUST HOW I ROLL. LIKE A SQUARE FUCKING TIRE, THAT’S HOW I ROLL.

*ahem*

I’m not sure whether I need more caffeine or less.

Google ruined this post

Oh god, paaaaaaain.

Leg status= cramped and stiff, somewhat ruined in all joint-related areas. Whys the treadmill hates me? Whys? All I did was abuse it for roughly 28 km this week. I need to get used to this running shit. And stretch. And figure out what the hell kind of grudge my shoes have got against my feet. And stretch more. A lot more.. good lord. Why the fuck don't I stock Tylenol anywhere in this apartment?

Also, I think I'm developing an intense fear of Google. Every time I try to find a picture of something, it shows me a whole bunch of awful-looking shit that vaguely resembles people who've either fallen into a vat of acid or stepped on a land mine. Because that's really what I want to see at four in the morning. For serious. Any kind of body part, when googled, will give you about thirty pictures of said body part being mutilated in ways that hadn't even occured to me as being possible. That, or porn.

worst break-in ever

Y’know what I’m not a fan of?

*I'M A FIRE DRILL AND I'M GOING TO RING FOREVER*

Loud, piercing noises going off at thirty second intervals for no goddamn reason other than to make sure it’s loud enough to really blow out everyone’s eardrums.  For an hour and a half. I lost my liking for fire drills when it stopped being a legitimate excuse to miss a test, which was somewhere in middle school when things like that were a big deal. Now it’s just a reason to be herded out into the freezing outdoors at 4 in the morning when you’d bite the head off a small kitten to be back in your cozy nest of a bed. Not that I’ve had that thought...

And because I’m extra bitter and cranky now, I’m also just gonna throw it out there that if you think about it, fire drills could be a perfect excuse to work out whatever pyromaniac-urges you’ve been suppressing. I mean, the alarm’s already going off, right? Why not actually light something on fire? Everyone’s already worked up about it. It’s just convenient. Probably a bit of a kindness, too, since everyone will feel that their initial panic and rage over such a horrible shrieking sound was justified by things actually being on fire somewhere. It’s really just being considerate. And you thought I wasn’t a good person.

Of course, on no account should you mention any of this to the fire-maintenance people when they actually break into your apartment to check that your alarms are also capable of making shrieking noises. They really don’t have any sense of humour at all. They’re also very grumpy for people who are breaking into someone else’s apartment to stomp around in work boots for a bit. Honestly. If I was going to come in and wander around while someone was trying to do their homework, I’d at least be a bit more cheerful, or at least apologetic. “Sorry about completely destroying your sense of security. Nice bedsheets, by the way.” Something like that.

I am an oyster

It is way-too-fucking-late o’clock, and I am still writing *shit* for a class that I hate. It’s the same paper I’ve been writing for ages, and it’s going to be late anyway because apparently no one gives half an ass about Zulu beer pots. Except for some woman named Juliet Armstrong, who has an amazing talent for hiding every single piece of actual research she’s ever done (but does a great job of bragging about it on her spiffy little website). I only found a few actual sources a day or so ago, so I get maybe half a day to research, write, and hand in a research paper. I am not a homework ninja, okay? I am not even a homework karate kid. I’m a homework guy-who-gets-into-slapping-fights-with-other-guys. I am the homework equivalent of an oyster. IT TAKES ME A LONG TIME TO ACCOMPLISH SOMETHING, OKAY?!

ACID FACE OF DOOM

So I’m apparently allergic to something that’s making my face all red ‘n stuff. It’s gross and itchy but it doesn’t really show unless I ravage the hell out of my skin with my nails at four in the morning when I’m half asleep and don’t know any better, which happened about a week ago and left me with crater-forehead of doom. So I went to the doctor at a walk in clinic, and after arguing with him for ten minutes about whether or not my face was dry or not (at one point I got pissed and threatened to shower him in skin flakes to prove it) he wrote me a prescription for some kind of cortico-steroid-ish sounding cream. Which is kind of good (I guess) but also makes me hella nervous. Because when I went and picked it up, the pharmacist warned me that it has a tendency to “thin the skin” so I should only use a really tiny amount.

What. The. FUCK?!

That’s pretty much just saying “here, put some of this on your face. It’s really just acid in paste form, so don’t use too much unless you want to wake up with your bones showing. But it’ll burn the hell out of that rash!”

I hate doctors.

Me: “I think I have a mild allergic reaction on my face.”

Doctor Crazy McPsychopants: “Really? Let’s BURN  it off!”

Yeah, that can only end in good things. WHERE DID YOU GET YOUR FRIGGING CERTIFICATE, OFFICE DEPOT? YOU’RE MEANT TO THROW THE SAMPLES AWAY WHEN YOU BUY THE FRAMES, NOT LAMINATE YOUR NAME ONTO IT AND PUT IT UP ON YOUR WALL.

What the hell does “thin the skin” MEAN?! Should I be looking forward to putting on eyeshadow some day and accidentally tearing a hole in my forehead? Am I going to go out in the sun and crisp up like a bag of Lays?

I’m feeling concerned about this.

edit* I wanted a picture to go with this post, but I wasn't really thinking about it and googled "acid face." DON'T EVER DO THAT. Seriously. Unless you want to throw up everywhere and then maybe cry a bit. Then totally go ahead.

So instead I'm putting up a picture of a bunny because now I'm freaked out and bunnies are way cuter than melted faces.

bunny is not acid

And then I woke up.

It’s always something you think will happen to something else. Or in a dream, because no one would be that stupid in real life. Or not at all, even in a dream, because even dream people aren’t that stupid, usually. For serious. I feel like someone who got saved drowning while they were trying to save their own reflection.

*headdesk*

I worked today, at the writing center. At 2 pm, exactly. I got there about 2:10 pm. Why?

Simple. I forgot to wear pants.

... take a minute for that to sink in. Forgot pants. As in, completely. Shirt. Boots. Leggings. No pants.

I was heading out into the parking lot, actually, when I realized, oh, my ass is completely out in the open, isn’t it?

I kind of had thought (is what I’m telling myself) that my shirt was long enough that’d it would kind of be a shirt-dress, where it would theoretically be about knee-length and thus save me from having to throw on jeans, a skirt, or something else that would make leggings unnecessary in the first place.

I’ve just started wearing leggings. I resisted them for ages, because me and my legs aren’t really the best of friends (If I could avoid it, I wouldn’t invite them to my birthday party is all I’m saying). I’d thought I was doing quite well. I picked ones that were decently opaque, I hadn’t chosen something in a stupid colour that really only matches that one shirt that never gets worn anyway, and the length was short enough that I can hike them up and pretend I’d bought an entirely new pair in a Capri-style. I’m so elite.

And then I do something like this.

To be fair, I don’t have a full length mirror and the one in the bathroom cuts me off somewhere around the midriff. So I kind of maybe didn’t notice that the shirt, which might’ve been knee-length on the sides, was artfully cut at the front and back in a perfect ass-framing curve. Nice. Also, I’d kind of somehow fooled myself into thinking I’m an adult and don’t need to check very very basic things like that.

(Phone? Check. Wallet? Check. Pants? MOTHERFUCKER.)

So, yeah. Apparently I haven’t learned to dress myself properly yet. ‘Cause, y’know, it’s not like that’d be a helpful skill to have in the real world or anything.

Also: It’s a bit breezy out today, for anyone wondering.

*hiccup* WHOO.

Dear Alcohol Tolerance,

Seriously? What the hell are you playing at? I realize I am a relatively small (ish) person who doesn’t drink a whole lot compared to most people. I’ve been working on that lately, but we’ll talk about that later. I’ve long understood that yes, I’m going to get tanked much faster on much less alcohol, especially if I drink it all before the waitress has time to even clear anyone’s plate or ask about dessert. Fine. That’s my own fault- I kind of even knew that at the time. I blame delicious martinis.

A minimal level of tanked is all I’m asking. Maybe an inability to walk properly along a straight line, a general sense of loving everyone in a ten foot radius, and some garbled ideas for random books that in a just and fair universe would never see the light of day. That’s all fine- I pretty much cover that in a normal day anyway. And to be fair, you did get that me that level of tanked. It was absolutely perfect for a bit. If I had been at a party or something, I would’ve been having a *time,* with drunken shenanigans aplenty. Hopefully wholesome, clean shenanigans, which wouldn’t at any point deteriorate into drunken-slutnanigans. Still, any shenanigans at all probably would’ve gotten me thrown out of the restaurant, and so I was curbed by a whole lot of willpower (which was a miracle in itself because how much willpower can a drunk person have, anyway?) and the fact that I was hanging out with a bunch of people who can keep up awesome conversations by themselves, letting me sit there in silence thinking about things like “I wonder what a daiquiri would be like if it were a person,” and whether or not a ninja could take out Spiderman.*

I did well- the two martinis I sucked down were great, and I was having a fantastic time just hanging out with my friends, who I feel I should mention were apparently not the slightest bit intoxicated. I also feel I should mention that I`m pretty sure we’d each ordered two drinks, if only to prove that I`m not just a mess who can`t be trusted in public. Minimal tanked-ness, yes?

And then you decided to go and be a bitch-cunt.   

Tripping up a set of stairs into a wall? Falling asleep an hour and a bit later like a frigging two year old going down for a nap?  That is not “minimally tanked.” That is “shitfaced,” and it is FUCKING UNACCEPTABLE. Especially after two drinks. ESPECIALLY ALL AT ONCE, WHEN I SHOULD BE EITHER STILL HAPPY-DRUNK OR SOBERING UP LIKE A NORMAL PERSON. And especially when I'd been purposely trying to drink only a small amount, like most people generally do when they're out "social-drinking" in public with their friends.

I`m not asking much. I don`t care if I`m the only one getting pathetically wasted off two drinks, which is my limit anyway. I can deal with that. I actually prefer it that way- it`s cheaper, quicker, it`s a built-in insurance policy against the funny looks ordering, say, about 4-6 drinks with a single meal, and it means I save enough money to be able to order actual good alcohol when I do drink. Seriously, don`t strain yourself.

But don`t get me `happy-drunk` off of two pansy-assed drinks and let me wallow in it for about half an hour in a false sense of security, and then defy logic and physiology by fucking me sideways and deciding that I get to skip straight to `passing out on the floor` drunk  and oh-by-the-way-here`s-your-hangover-8-hours-early. NOT COOL, ALCOHOL TOLERANCE. NOT COOL AT ALL.  

You always do this, too- any level of drunk at all makes me either tired or fucking plastered. You really need to work on this. If you`re going to make me look like a lush off of two pathetic drinks, keep it fun. Happy-drunk, not sleepy-drunk, m`kay? Also, it`d be nice if you butched up just a little so that I can pretend like stairs don`t make me want to cut things. It`s two drinks- please, for the sake of any lingering shred of dignity I might have left stuck to the bottom of one of my shoes, don`t pretend like I`m going to be fine and then hit me with the ridiculousness of passing out in the middle of doing a puzzle with some friends later, after everyone else has sobered completely up (having ingested the same amount of alcohol, mind) so that I look like even more like an asshole. Again, NOT COOL.

So please- for the sake of me ever wanting to drink any amount of alcohol at all in public ever again- just *try* to be less of a wuss. Please.

Thanks.

*I'm pretty sure a Spiderman would be able to use his "spider-sense" to figure out if there's a ninja nearby. The big advantage ninjas have is that they're stealthy as fuck and can either kill people from the closet they're hiding in, or can sneak up behind them and cut their heads off without even squeaking a floorboard, so I'm pretty sure Spiderman could use his super-powers to tell if they're there. At which point they'd have to rely on being able to Crouching-Tiger-Hidden-Dragon their way to victory via karate-punches and twitchy reflexes. And if Spiderman can take out other super-villains with super-powers of their own, I'm pretty sure he could take out a guy in black who can just fight really well. So I think Spiderman would win that one.

Because I'm not bitter and neurotic enough, apparently...

Talkative older people make me nervous.

It’s true. They just... talk. And ask questions. Stupid ones, things like “What are you studying?” and “Oh, this line is long, isn’t it?” and “Boy, you sure do like reading, don’t you?”

THIS MAKES ME UNCOMFORTABLE. YOU ARE INVADING MY SPACE. STOP IT.

Just because I’m standing in the same line-up you are and holding a magazine doesn’t mean we have words in common. It means I have a magazine that I’m using to AVOID CONVERSATIONS WITH PEOPLE AROUND ME. And that I’m already annoyed because I’ve been standing in a line for longer than thirty seconds, which is how long it takes for me to want to be other places. Your chances are not good, sir. You’re also 50, which means everything you say hinges on whether or not you have the “charming grandpa” thing down well enough that you’re not just being fucking annoying.

That was a bit of a fail too, I’m afraid.   Just... stop. Not everyone likes forced conversations with people they don’t know (as much fun as that sounds). It would probably help if you stopped making judgemental-sounding observations about everything around you. WHY DO PEOPLE DO THINGS LIKE THIS? YES, IT IS CROWDED IN HERE. YES, THIS LINE IS LONG, AND CLEARLY I AM BORED. YES, I AM ALSO HOLDING A MAGAZINE, BUT NO, I DO NOT CARE ABOUT ANYONE WHO MIGHT BE ON THE COVER. Also, the fact that I’m holding a magazine probably says more about my illiteracy than it does for any actual love of reading I might have. Do you really equate someone like Lindsay Lohan with any intellectual capacity?

Please say no.

Also, I always feel so uncomfortable in grocery lines anyway- like everyone behind me is staring at the things I want to buy and making judgements about what sort of person I must be like. 2 bags of mushrooms and a squashed cantaloupe? Coloured markers? A bag of pea flour? Medical tape and black eyeliner? What does that all say about me? Probably nothing, but if enough strangers stare at it for long enough I feel like I might as well be buying crystal meth and adult diapers- which might not have gotten that many stares back home, to be honest (no one who lives there can be offended at this, since it’s true), but in Kelowna, I feel like something like that might stand out a little.

Actually, this seems to happen a lot- random people commenting on whatever shit I’m doing/buying, like I won’t hate you forever for making it seem like I’m the only person in the line-up who would ever have a use for toilet paper, or how strange it is that I’m just going for a walk for fun. Like what I’m really going to do is much more sinister, and “taking a walk” is actually code for “meeting a hooker” or “hiding in people’s bushes and watching them watch tv.”

I was at Wal-Mart a few days ago buying random shit (what else is there to do at Wal-Mart) and I ended up with 4 squashes in my cart, because they were on sale and I fucking love baked squash.

I told this to the cashier, actually.

Her: “Wow, that’s a lot of squash.”

Me: “Mmhmm.” *bored*

Her: “.... so, do you... eat it?”

Me: No, I draw fucking faces on them and pretend I’m having conversations with my dead relatives. “Yeah. They’re pretty good roasted.”

Her: “Is that why you’re buying so many?”

Me: ...

Her: ...

Me: “... yes.”

Really? Really? I need to explain this? It’s squash. Food. I don’t know what kind of vacuum-sealed, chemically-preserved shit you ingest on a daily basis, but some of us still eat things that have seen dirt at one point. Besides, asking me why I’m doing whatever-the-hell I’m doing makes my brain die a little. I don’t like having to explain myself- it makes me feel icky. And awkward. And eventually bitter and mean when I start hating you for putting me on the spot like an idiot, like I’M the one who’s weird. I AM WEIRD. EVERYONE WHO KNOWS ME KNOWS THIS. But give me some credit. Buying 12 cans of tomato paste and a hairclip at 9 pm is a little fucking strange, but it isn’t why I’m “weird.” Find a damn hobby and stop judging me. My reasons for everything are usually either morally awful, stupid, or bat-shit illogical. Please don’t make me tell you why I have 3 boxes of Gravol in my cart, or a child’s nightgown and a lacy black bra 2 sizes too large. Don’t make me explain the massive bag of gum I threw in at the last second, or the fact that I have an artificially-flavoured 8 pack of some aggressive-sounding energy drink right next to a packet of sleep-aids or some kind of calming herbal tea. Also, I realize there are a lot of unhealthy-seeming people around and that for most people, reheating something is the extent of their kitchen-related knowledge. I also am fairly aware that most people don’t know what the hell quinoa is, and that “nutritional yeast” sounds a bit horrifying. Fine. I don’t care. But unless you know me personally, don’t ask me to explain every single fucking purchase I make that you can’t recognize. Especially if you work in the goddamned store. KNOW YOUR SHIT, PEOPLE. It’s not like you’re going to rush off to try it yourself- you’re just curious. And curious is annoying when I have other things to be doing and I have to stand there for an extra ten minutes explaining that no, I’m not making banana bread, I just like ripe bananas, and I’ll probably freeze the extra ones anyway. Again, you’re now in my space and you’re making me uncomfortable. STOP THAT.

I should just never go out in public, should I?

vegan zombie says what?

Well, I`m officially dying. I`m having some kind of horrible allergic reaction to something, I don`t know what it is, and I`m getting bumpier, redder, and more freaked out by the second. I think my heart will probably explode soon.

No, you can`t have my stuff. If I know you, chances are you`ve already come over and robbed my shit anyway. If I know you, you probably know that I`d approve. You better also know that if you don`t throw the most epic fucking party ever for my funeral, I`ll come back and haunt you all forever.

And I`ll know. I`ll be looking up and WATCHING that shit. Entertain me, you lively bastards, you.

Someone better crack a bottle of vodka over my casket. Also, if there`s not a symbolic martini sitting on top of my casket throughout the entire thing, and if no one drinks, smokes or otherwise engages in some kind of shifty behaviour, and if a certain friend who-shall-remain-nameless-but-everyone-better-know-who-I-mean doesn`t show up and either break or piss on something I love (not my coffin- I`m not nearly enough of a fan of that for it to really count), and if my funeral isn`t used as a massive excuse to just sit around and blaspheme about things, I`ll have died in vain. Seriously.

Also, if someone could put an axe, an oxygen tank, and a mini-shovel in my coffin right before I get dirt thrown down on me, that`d be great. I don`t want any fuck-ups. I saw Kill Bill 2- I couldn`t punch my way out of a soggy paper bag, let alone a wooden casket.

Death by cocoa powder. And insanity.

Mwuaha. Chocolate.

Lately I`ve been putting cocoa powder in everything. It`s getting ridiculous. I just figured out how to make chocolate dumplings, for Christ`s sake.

They`re goooood.

It`s probably not the healthiest thing in the world- I`m a frigging vegan, though, so I figure that should offset it a bit, right? I mean, I don`t eat refined sugar, and a doctor once told me I actually didn`t have ENOUGH cholesterol, so I`m doing pretty good on the whole trans-saturated-death-filled fats thing. Plus, generally chocolate`s unhealthy because it`s basically poor quality sugar and fat, with a bit of cocoa powder. So adding the straight, unsweetened powder to stuff shouldn`t send me to hell. Right?

...

Whatever. Don`t care. It`s my new current obsession, and until I bankrupt myself buying stevia (cocoa powder is bitter as fuck on its own, in case anyone was wondering) I`m going to enjoy my daily 8 or so cups of hot cocoa, and my chocolate dumplings, and the chocolate-bean-cookies I figured out how to make because apparently beans can do that (why I can`t just leave them alone, I have no idea) and chocolate applesauce, and chocolate popcorn... oy. This is fucking gross. Seriously. I have a problem.

Ha.

Chocolate rehab, anyone?

No? Just me?

FINE.

PS. If anyone has any ideas for a chilli recipe with cocoa powder, send them my way. I can`t find a decent one on my own.

Yeah, that's pretty much every news story ever.

http://www.theonion.com/video/breaking-news-some-bullshit-happening-somewhere,16928/

Halloween and a bit of unhealthy behavior

*I wrote this over the last day and a half*

Whoah, television is graphic at 1 AM.

On a side note- Happy Halloween! I hope everyone had a great time. I did, for the most part. I got drunk. A lot drunker than I usually do. Which still wasn’t that drunk by most people’s standards, but I’ve got about a 1:4 ratio for drinks, and most people usually think I’m taking it easy when I’m actually just trying to remember how my feet work. So it can get interesting if you’re hanging out with one or two of those “C’MON, have a DRINK with MEEEE” people. People like that occasionally make me want to get alcohol poisoning out of spite, but I’m pretty good about resisting.  I want to be able to enjoy my victories, and vomiting alcoholic bile out your nose for four hours while you try and convince yourself that killing yourself with the toilet-paper holder will be more trouble than it’s worth and will ultimately make it even harder to clean the bathroom tomorrow doesn’t seem like a proper way to say “fuck you” to someone who probably won’t even remember they met you.

Although, to be honest, that’s usually something that happens when you’re already out, and no one came close to that last night. I actually love some of that in “social drink” format, because otherwise I’ve been known to shift into “Christian-Grandma” mode and eschew anything more alcoholic than vanilla extract. So when someone who’s actually a friend shoves a bottle of *fantastic* vodka at me, I’m going to drink that shit straight and enjoy it. By the way, if anyone wants to get on my good side this Christmas, a bottle of Grey Goose will guarantee you any one of my organs, depending on which illness you decide to get.  Actually, decent bourbon will get the same results.

So will anything from LUSH. Or beads.

Not that I’m being a greedy asshole or anything. It’s still Halloween in my head. I’m in fucking pumpkin-carving mode. TIS THE SEASON.

Anyways, back to the Halloween outing... I’ve had better nights, to be honest. Me and some friends were meant to go to a club, but then that turned into “hanging out in a hallway in a massive line-up,” which then turned into “walking around town in stupid shoes for ages” and “getting hit on by angry nerds in casinos,” which got old so fast we ended up standing on the curb like the most creative hookers in history at 2 in the morning playing “whose cab is it?” with about 8 other drunk people. Tip for anyone trying to catch a cab- they have to stop if you leap out in front of them. Don’t do this unless you’re REALLY desperate/drunk.

It totally worked when I did it, though.

Anyways, it was an alright night. I had the most fucking awesome costume I’ve ever seen, though- I’m not kidding. At least, I saw a whole bunch of people in a whole bunch of awesome, I-spent-a-lot-of-money-on-the-internet type costumes, and mine was still my favourite. If anyone is a fan of the batman comics- I went as Harley Quinn, in a kind of adapted costume because I’m creative and don’t have a lot of money to spend on things that don’t fit right anyway because I’m a fucking Smurf with no boobs bit shorter than most people.

The general look was the same- I just had a dress and leggings/sleeves instead of a full bodysuit. I’m keeping it for next year, because it didn’t get a proper outing this time.

ANYWAY.

I have a nice night ahead of me. Relaxing, like. Homework and more homework and then an essay and some studying to mix it up, and then maybe sleep. IF I HAVE TIME, Y’KNOW. MAYBE.

WHAT I WANT TO DO: pass out with a mug of hot cocoa and a shitty television movie.

WHAT I WOULD DO IN A CONSEQUENCE-FREE ENVIRONMENT (just for fun): drink the rest of the tequila and watch Jersey Shore online until 2 in the morning, and then fall asleep on the balcony.

WHAT I WILL END UP DOING: Ugh. Go running, write a draft of my paper, drink 3 more mugs of hot cocoa, read a few articles and some shit for tomorrow, email my parents, and then fall asleep for a few hours somewhere around 3 in the morning.

Frowny-face.

L

Part Deux, if you please. And some hot cocoa.

Woot blog revamping!

I've decided to start a whole new one, partly because I abandoned the old one for so long it seems ridiculous to go back to it and partly because I just want a new one, that I can start from scratch- also I like this name better, I have new shit I want to write about, and I feel much different from when I had the older one. I've left the library, in a sense- is that cheesy? Don't care. Either way, I still have school to worry about, I still have a horrible problem with caffeine and getting things done on time, and I'm still probably more likely to be awake at 3 in the morning than at 6 in the evening. I've moved back to the Okanagan, I'll probably always have issues getting myself out in public, and I WILL be a runner someday, damnit. So some things are the same.

But I'm also a work in progress, and I feel like... boots. Boots instead of books, if that makes the tiniest bit of sense to anyone. Birdcages also kind of mean a bit more to me right now than trying to be witty or clever at random moments, and seeing as how I haven't actually been in the UBCO library this entire semester (except for that one class that was mandatory), I don't feel as though I can properly claim to be "in" the library any longer. I'm also going to try and be more honest- am I off to a good enough start yet?

I missed having something to write in when I neglected my other blog, but at the same time I didn't like the feeling of needing to be posting regularly. So instead, I'm going to say that it's my goal to post at least 3 or 4 times per week, but that if I don't then screw it, and I'm going to make myself some hot cocoa and try again later instead of agonizing over the picture of all my imaginary readers tearing their hair out in frustration at my lack of regularity.

Poor, imaginary readers. Have some cocoa. Heals all ills, I promise.

So yeah- my new blog. All new and not shiny at all.

... did I mention I hate *hate* how this blog looks? I've gone with this template as a temporary necessity because I have no time at all to fuck around on the internet looking for something better- I have a bunch of ideas and links saved, but that'll have to wait. Hopefully by the time anyone comes around looking for this thing it'll be less awful on the eyes.

*edit*

Just so no one's confused, I had a previous blog called "Snark in the Library" that I wrote in during my first few years of university and abandoned frequently for long periods of time. There was nothing in particular wrong with it- it was whiny, inspirational, creative, depressing, and gave me something to do at 2 in the morning when I should've been sleeping- all the things a good blog should be. Still, I outgrew it; I used to be a lot more school-oriented, I might as well have been a hermit, and my sense of humor was much less bitter than it is now. So now I have this instead, which is better. I think.