![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Man, dude, WTF. My flist has completely exploded! I leave you alone for, what, like, two days and I'm skip=100. I need to stop friending newsletters as they are clearly the source of this problem. Dude. Seriously, skip=100. Fuck.
In other news: guys, I completely made an ass of myself this morning. It was great. I was running to get the phone because I thought it was probably someone important (and, oh wait, it wasn't, it was just my sister) and I managed to not only trip over my ridiculously long pajama pants, but catch my foot on the edge of the door and ended up skidding a full six inches over the kitchen floor on my boobs and knees. If it hadn't hurt so fucking much, I would have died laughing at myself. My dad came storming up the basement steps, thinking I had probably gutted myself with a kitchen knife or something else incredible like that. Good. Times.
Hey, that's another thing! I've noticed my potty-mouth has certainly made a firm stand lately. Every other word out of my mouth is most likely something dirty or a curse. I think I probably blame the Winchester boys and their badass-ity. Well, at least Dean's badass-ity. Who didn't call that I would fall for the one with a leather jacket and a gun? Really...if you didn't figure me for it, you don't know me at all, do you? I am so hopeless it borders on pathetic.
Oh, that reminds me. Ha ha ha. Um, yeah, so, I had to go out to dinner with my mother the other day, right? And so I wore a skirt and a tight shirt just to piss her off and fuck with her mind a little, 'cause I swear to God she doesn't believe I'm a woman any more than she believes in home-cooked meals. And you know there had to be the one guy who would leer, because there is always one, no matter how unattractive you yourself think you look, and so I hiked my skirt up a bit--just to fix it of course, 'cause it was definitely falling down--and my mother went off. It was great.
I don't think she believes I've actually grown up or that I even know what the word sex means; God only knows what she would do if she ever found out I'd spent time in a sex shop, talking with the clerks about which version of the slimline would be best as a gift and in what color. I've possibly just alienated about four people on my flist right now, but oh dearie me how I don't really care. I'm sick of being thought of as innocent or subdued when, really, I'm neither of those, and I'm sick of being coddled and protected and told I'm too young when, really, I probably know more about my own body and what it likes than most people do at thirty. There's also the fact that I'm just sick. Really, that doesn't bother me as much as it should.
And, damnit, what the hell is with all the angsty SPN, people? I understand it's a sort of angsty plot to deal with, but fuck that. Give me some goddamned fluff or I'll mess you up.
Thus endeth the lesson. Bitches.
In other news: guys, I completely made an ass of myself this morning. It was great. I was running to get the phone because I thought it was probably someone important (and, oh wait, it wasn't, it was just my sister) and I managed to not only trip over my ridiculously long pajama pants, but catch my foot on the edge of the door and ended up skidding a full six inches over the kitchen floor on my boobs and knees. If it hadn't hurt so fucking much, I would have died laughing at myself. My dad came storming up the basement steps, thinking I had probably gutted myself with a kitchen knife or something else incredible like that. Good. Times.
Hey, that's another thing! I've noticed my potty-mouth has certainly made a firm stand lately. Every other word out of my mouth is most likely something dirty or a curse. I think I probably blame the Winchester boys and their badass-ity. Well, at least Dean's badass-ity. Who didn't call that I would fall for the one with a leather jacket and a gun? Really...if you didn't figure me for it, you don't know me at all, do you? I am so hopeless it borders on pathetic.
Oh, that reminds me. Ha ha ha. Um, yeah, so, I had to go out to dinner with my mother the other day, right? And so I wore a skirt and a tight shirt just to piss her off and fuck with her mind a little, 'cause I swear to God she doesn't believe I'm a woman any more than she believes in home-cooked meals. And you know there had to be the one guy who would leer, because there is always one, no matter how unattractive you yourself think you look, and so I hiked my skirt up a bit--just to fix it of course, 'cause it was definitely falling down--and my mother went off. It was great.
I don't think she believes I've actually grown up or that I even know what the word sex means; God only knows what she would do if she ever found out I'd spent time in a sex shop, talking with the clerks about which version of the slimline would be best as a gift and in what color. I've possibly just alienated about four people on my flist right now, but oh dearie me how I don't really care. I'm sick of being thought of as innocent or subdued when, really, I'm neither of those, and I'm sick of being coddled and protected and told I'm too young when, really, I probably know more about my own body and what it likes than most people do at thirty. There's also the fact that I'm just sick. Really, that doesn't bother me as much as it should.
And, damnit, what the hell is with all the angsty SPN, people? I understand it's a sort of angsty plot to deal with, but fuck that. Give me some goddamned fluff or I'll mess you up.
Thus endeth the lesson. Bitches.