Monday, October 31, 2011

So hold it in cover up, pull up your sheets, your sheets.

Overall, I'm a top gal. In real life, I'm polite, respectful, I pause to give your opinions a thought + I make garlic toast that kicks killer ass. If you only ever had a look through my blog and hadn't met me in person, chances are that you think of me as obnoxious, slightly poisonous and at loggerheads with most people in the world and with a knife carefully hidden in my sock. Just in case. Hate to break it to you, but nothing could be further from the truth. The only reason most of my writing includes me throwing bombs at people is because I'm a total sloth. No, wait, let me explain it; I promise to make it make sense. 

My indolence achieves unparalleled heights every day. I don't buy shoes with laces on them. The one pair that has laces was untied maybe back in the times of tyrannosaurus rex. (Also, I just spelled tyrannosaurus right in one go. If this isn't the total win people keep talking about, I don't know what is.) I've slept for 18 hours at a stretch. On multiple occasions. I can do that at will. I've never been an Apple person, but have been seriously considering getting a 4S in hopes of having Siri make my decisions for me.

I'm lazy not just physically, but also in my thoughts. Mostly, because the conversations I'm having in my head with myself are truly more exciting than the ones I could have with, you know, real people. Also, I just can't make the effort to get excited by much, ugly or not. My laziness also gives me rhino hide so it's pretty much impossible for stuff to break through even the initial barriers. Don't let that fool into thinking that my judgment is complacent, too, though, because I'm judging you alright; I'm judging you and everything about you eight ways to Sunday, yes, but that doesn't mean I'll share it every time. Basically, my 'writing-trigger' is me telling myself, "dude, if you don't write at least a hundred words somewhere, you might as well give up on that whole becoming-a-writer-thing altogether." Which I'd be okay with, except that I'd like to be able to publicly announce one day that I write for a living.

"So, what do you do?"

"I'm a writer."

Things automatically became exponentially cooler, right? Getting back to the point, I'm lazy and it's for me to just bitch, because come ON. I could just find about 37 things to complain about with just one cursory sweep of my surroundings right now.

All this by the way of saying that I, umm, don't have much to report, so you're gonna have to do with last week's tweets. It wasn't me, I swear, it was Lazy Me. That bitch sucks.

(I know you're thinking that's a lot to write as an introduction for a handful of tweets for a lazy person, because if you're not, well, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?)

- Heiter gonna heite. (You better believe I saw The Human Centipede. Will watch the sequel. And then watch both again.)

-Subs for lunch, 5 days in a row. "It's not something I'd recommend, but it IS one way to live."

-I do not appreciate that my favorite funny blogger has morphed into a self-help-style moron. Enlightenment sucks.

-Just so you know, dressing up as Jobs for Halloween is not the most innovative idea. Blue jeans & black sweater doth not a costume make.

-Here's how many fucks I give about the Formula One race:

-I hate walking past hair/skin care kiosks anywhere. Those ladies look at me like I'm raw meat.


-Would really like to go home, lay in bed and make mental movies of perfect life scenarios right about now.

-Watching videos of penguins do nothing but WALK is a perfectly good thing to do when you have a bazillion years' worth of work to do.

-Oct 31st is 7 billion day. Way to go, world population. Multiply, because I'm not squished NEAR ENOUGH in the metro.

-Someone should sneak up a cow in my office. Just 'cause. Cows can't walk down stairs, you know.

-EVERY TIME I read a Dilbert comic, the voiceover in my head, for some reason, is by Jason Alexander

-For the amount of time it takes me to actually wake up, I might just call it recovering from a grievous wound and be done with it.

-I think there's a cleverly shrouded pervert in my timeline. A classy pervert is still a pervert, mister.

-Pain au Chocolat, French for little pillows of air that you can't have, because the bakeries in your area never graduated beyond rum balls.

-That awkward moment when you're contemplating tweeting with a French accent (just because, okay?) & someone on your timeline does it first.

-I now know of a song composed (almost) entirely about whales (I think). I WIN.

In case, you guys were wondering what I was for Halloween, here's a bonus picture. HH was  an ironic Edward Cullen. I was supposed to be Lady Ligeia from the Poe story, but the dress bored the hell out of me so I decided to go as a zombie, but I was still looking pretty good to be a zombie, so I decided I was a Narcissistic Zombie, and that's when HH pointed out that I looked nothing like ANY kind of zombie so I ended up going as a Six Non Textures artwork, because that's the name of HH's design firm and he did the make up.

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