don't use the word rape, bobby. it's not polite.

tuna fish and king of the hill and tuna fish and king of the hill and tuna fish.



working for greenpeace seems like the worst possible thing to do at this point! not that i was actually considering it or anything.


i had this moment this weekend where i felt like i was in eternal sunshine. there was a weird green light and my head was ringing and everything was blurry blurry blurred. and it was being deleted while it happened, or that's what it seemed like.

how do you ask someone (politely) to reenter your life?


i don't have my meal plan card, my phone is in another state, i have no clean clothes, and when i say no clean clothes i mean absolutely no clean clothes (unless i want to wear my slutty yellow shirt to class. right, that's what i'll do.) i haven't showered since sunday at 6 in the morning, i look a hot mess.

like yesterday, i wore a wrap around skirt and a large sweater and a loud argentinian scarf and a russian-ish hat and some nightmare before christmas 3-d glasses. i've found the more ridiculously i dress the more confident i am. who gives a fuck if my outfit was mistaken for a haloween costume?
it's like "yeah, i look fucking absurd. and i'm eating a chocolate bar. and i'm high and i'm walking in the middle of city on a fucking freezing night and the wind is blowing my skirt all over the place and my thigh is exposed and this isn't even my hat and these sunglasses are not meant to be worn seriously, especially at night, and i'm getting fat, i look like a bag lady, yeah, FUCK ALL YA'LL."

my humor is poop oriented, aka, "hey, i'll pay you five dollars if you just take a dump on that chick right now."
try to think of something funnier than a cleveland steamer. go ahead. try.

i've been entirely too nostalgic entirely too often.