That would be me. You know- rladyofpunk or Emma or whatever. I drew that. In class. Because I have no attention span.
New Skool (you know, the stuff I'm writing now?)
Old Skool (archivey-goodness)
And now for some random Delerium:
Hey, guess what! I'm sporadically working on a novel! I think it's cool, but be warned- it's not spell checked (my dictonary keeps being broken) and when I transfered it from word processing to the blog a lot of the spacing got jacked up. Bear with it and read anyway... unless you're offended by sex, drugs and rock n' roll. If you are, FLEE NOW! If not here are the links:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
And this is what Matt Groening (the infallible creator of the Simpsons) recomends for getting by in college:
And since I'm just posting inane stuff at this point, here's my kitty licking her own butt.
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2005-01-02 - 9:46 a.m.
indonesian relief banshee dream
I often hear girls complain about how they look first thing in the morning, but I just woke up and I look like a rock star. Maybe it's because I didn't remove my eyeliner very thouroughly last night and now it's artisticly smudged in a way so perfect no Hollywood stylist could ever recreate it.
In other news, I was considering upgrading my Diaryland account (this thing right here) so it could have pictures and other fun stuff. Then I felt guilty (guilt is as strong an emotion as love or fear and most people don't realize that it's actually a combination of those two) and donated the money instead to the Red Cross. People in Indonesia need fresh water and food more than I need you to see a grinning, eyeliner-clad image of me when you enter my diary.
And speaking of my self image, I dreampt I was a Banshee. An ephereal, terrifying, floating, screaming, really awful creature of the night. I was a member of a band of banshees, but since being a banshee isn't very lucrative in modern America, we had to open a cafe. From there on the dream turned into one of those typical anexiety ones where I'm a waitress and there's too much to do and customers are yelling and the cook's a jerk and my manager won't let me take a break, etc. My five years in foodservice mean that these dreams are quite common- psychic sewage that my subconcious spews out when it feels overloaded. Of course, I'm not usually a banshee... and hey, why didn't I just turn the yelling customers into stone?
The last thing I wrote before this thing. The next thing I wrote after this.
