December 2002 Archives

Happy New Year's!!

Suckas.

Want to see more fan signs?

1. What was your biggest accomplishment this year?
Getting off my ass and applying to college (thanks for all the help!) and actually getting in. That and the 4.0 this semester (yes, the last grade came in). Oh, and finally quitting my whining about the snow and moving to California. These things may sound fairly trivial, but they were freaking hard.

2. What was your biggest disappointment?
Moving here and finding out that NBC is on channel 3 so you can only get it if you have cable. This means no more Days of Our Lives and Law and Order. That and realizing that there is no god.

3. Will you be making any New Year's resolutions?
Well, I'm hoping to get that Traci Lords workout tape and get my ass off the the couch and into a LEOTARD. And I want to make more arts and crafts.

4. Where will you be at midnight? Do you wish you could be somewhere else?
I don't know where I will be yet. Probably on someone's couch, and I don't mean that in a racy "I'm going to get some" sort of way. What I mean is, my friends and I rarely do anything significant, we sit on each other's couchs a lot though.

5. Aside from (possibly) staying up late, do you have any other New Year's traditions?
I generally try to end the night by curling up in a fetal position and crying softly to myself. I forecast that this year will be no different.

Now that was weird, I started writing this about an hour ago and then got lost in sorting my MP3s and started reading Pride and Prejudice. And then I saw this window up and thought "goddammit lina you didn't finish the update." I suppose, of course, the reason I didn't finish my update is that I have nothing to say. I have gotten a lot done already this week, but I can't imagine it's anything that anyone really cares about. For example, last night I started to watch The Unbearable Lightness of Being and ended up turning it off after 10 minutes because they wouldn't stop DOING IT. So we watched Clerks instead, because the only coitus in that movie is with a dead guy. In other news, I went to the food bank today, and to an art show. Good times. So you see what I mean about having nothing interesting to say? No one has tried to hurl themself through my window lately, I haven't gotten any terribly interesting email lately, and I've been doing a lot of Christmas shopping. Am I boring now? What's happening to me? Today I was talking to Danny and he told me that the reason everyone thinks I am older than my age is because I dress like a stockbroker. And I was just like, "WTF." He tried valiantly to pry his hoof out of his grill, but only suceeded in saying, "Well, in a hip New York day trader sort of way." And that's my life, folks.

So now that I am on vacation, things are good. Very good. I went to a hardcore show (When I told Fran she said, "They still have those??") and ogled 17 year olds. All in all, good times.

I figure after putting up so much T&A, words would just ruin it. L8r Sk8rs.

In case you don't remember, Franny and I were roommates in college. Not housemates, mind you, we lived in a single room together. Anyone who can put up with me like that deserves your love and support. Fran and I used to listen to the Smiths frequently--we also talked about ritual suicide frequently. At one point, we had a plan to hang giant signs out our window with one or two lines of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire." We intended to divide it perfectly so it would last an entire semester. We had big plans, Fran and I, but of course, like all things that are important to me, they never came to fruition.

We did many other amusing things together, like driving to syracuse, drawing skulls on everything we owned, buying those 4oz. cans of Budwiser, calling security on dirty hippie drum circles, and eating sushi on the floor. Now that I look back on it, I guess it wasn't so fun. Fran, correct me if I am wrong. Maybe you can supplement this somehow. Make us sound cool, or something.

Today I was talking to Fran on the phone:

Me: I'm thinking about becoming a compulsive masturbator.
Fran: That's kind of like having a weblog.
Me: Damn you.

Anyway, I miss Fran and want her to come visit me so go tell her to come here or give her money or buy her things or something.

Once this week is over I might become sane again, but no promises. Did I ever link that paper I wrote a while ago? I dunno.

"We are all horny and turning on each other."

So I still have three papers and a final to go. I'm actually wishing I had let pretty boy floyd disembowel me in his search for the cream. I actually had a pretty good day. I woke up at 6:30 am to take Bitsy to the vet because her ears fell off this weekend. How sad is that picture? So I got to spend $110 on that sad little face and then go home and put medicine on her that made her bleed. Then when I was done with the blood-letting, I decided to write a paper on the opposition between Romanticism and the dream of human perfectibility in Renaissance lit and Realism as seen in Russian literature. You know, just for fun.

This is what happens when someone says "send me a
boob pic" and you say WRITE MY NAME ON YOUR ASS.
No, they didn't get the boob pic.

In other news, some of you may have noticed that I add things to my wishlist nearly every day. This isn't just because I am a material girl living in a material world, I am just trying to help Santa out. Don't want him to have to strain his brain thinking about little ole me. So if for some reason you feel like lightening Santa's load, I'm sure he'd really appreciate it if you got me that Traci Lords workout tape or that copy of "no more wire hangers" Mommie Dearest.

And in related solicitations, if you want to write my name on your ass, please feel free to send it to me at lina @ shutitdown . net.

So when I heard a pounding on my door at 10 pm this evening, I assumed that it must be one of my little buddies.

I said, "Who is it?"

A man answered.

Now I wanted to quote the conversation verbatim, but he was too out-of-control for me to be able to accurately describe precisely what he was saying. To sum it up, he identified himself as Pretty boy Floyd with the Baby Blue Eyes, and repeated this and other things at a speed which was intelligible yet terrifying.

The other things were things that almost rhymed and had the effect of bolstering his claims of being THE Pretty boy Floyd. At this point, I still thought this was a joke from one of my retarded friends. But then I looked through the peephole and saw grey hair.

Yes, I like older men. But not like this. None of my friends look like this. And that's when I got scared. There was a freak in some sort of methamphetamine-induced psychosis pounding on my doors and windows trying to get into my apartment. I said, "Who are you looking for?" The woman who moved out of this apartment a few months ago was 93. I don't think this was one of her friends. He said, "THE CREAM. THE CREAM, MAN, THE CREAM."

Pretty boy Floyd was at my door in search of the cream.

At this point, I shat myself and then yelled to Floyd "I am calling the police!" I said it again. "Police!" I actually picked up the phone. I was watching him through the window he was trying to hurl himself through. Suddenly, he said "Oh shit!" and started running down the street. After about 30 feet he turned around and started running up the street. And then, like a woodland sprite, he was gone.

And no, this is not a figment of my (granted, active) imagination.