I'm still not sure bf gets how pleased I am over this.

You know how my period was late right, because I cannot shut you guys up about my period! I will tell you, calm down! Anyways, I have this app on my phone to keep track of it all, symtoms, temper, etc, and I've been staring at it while it counted the days my period was late.
8 days.
16 days
17 days
19 days
22 days

For a while there, in the feverish dark hole this unemployed, friendless winter is, I thought to myself that if I'm pregnant I might as well keep it because that would at least have me doing SOMETHING in the future, unlike everything else I try. Of course I knew I wasn't pregnant (thank you Clearblue, I love you) because then my sour, laying around staring into the ceiling kind of thoughts would had been replaced by full on panic and "Oh fuck not again" and other powerful, but even less ladylike expressions.

Now, my cycle is around 28 days, so my little app does this approx estimation of when it's time, so when we got closer and closer to 28 days late, I started getting antsy. Was it time for my next period? Could it ever be that reliable when having skipped an entire months worth of egg and hormones? When is it coming? It's getting old having to bring the boring kind of protection everywhere (ie, neither condoms nor guns) just in case. Could it skip another month? Ahh just DO IT and lemme be normal.

So, one day (sch, building up the drama here) I limped out to the bathroom (having hurt myself on some invisible object like usual) and took a wee. I wiped myself, caringly of course, and lo and behold!

I stretched, for the first time, but surely not the last, the piece of TP victoriously high in the air and yelled (said out loud) "YES! I am bleeding!"
Bf, that was standing in the shower at that time, just looked at me through the plastic, see through shower drape (do you know how GOOD those are for decreasing your paranoid feelings in the shower because you can actually see what's going on?*) and said ".. And how does that feel?"
"Like I'm bleeding! I answered, full of glee. "And, on day 28 too! It's perfect!**"

So, it's here, everything's fine, nothing to see here people. Oh, and cramps, I still fucking hate you. But for this once, I can oversee our history.






*They're AWESOME!
** Because tonight I'll be eligible for eating chocolate and not feeling ashamed!***
*** I will anyways, but never mess with crampy girls around chocolate.

May 2011 be the year of work, friends and making some MONEY!

In two days it's New Years Eve. You know, the day where you "should" (while it's fashionable to refuse just for that very reason) have stuff planned with a lot of people and a lot of alcohol and overall just make glittery promises of getting thin and brave and steer everything up in life.

Do you know what I'm doing for new years?

Neither do I.
We'll probably hang around the seriously, seriously pregnant chick and her bf and pray that her water won't break just before midnight because I want to go up the mountain and look at the fireworks over St Aldus (which could be really cool, I've always wanted to do that), with a few other of bf's friends and then go to bed. Like retired people that have already lost their will to live.

I mean, I'm not opposing this, for this year, because I have a fever and feel just meh about it, but still. It's the climax of what's become my life (I'm not gonna say since I moved here, because it started way before that) and I don't like it. I'm supposed to have hundreds of friends and party like there's no tomorrow and mingle and hang at fashionable (rocker) cafes and shop and watch movies and be a girl and post happy frilly posts on facebook on how much I love my friends.

Well, that I do, the two times a year when I get to see them. Seriously, having all your seven or so best friends living spread out over the country sucks blue donkey balls. Yesterday I realised that during my three years of studies in my hometown, I found exactly not one person that I want to continue to hang out with on the close-friend-basis.

During ten years, I've found eight friends that I keep close, and not a single one of them lives in the same town as the other. That means that during the last four years, I've found no one. It's silly. Am I that difficult around people, that I'm actually not interested in getting to know 100% of the people that I've hung out with the last FOUR YEARS?

Well, apart from DJ, but I only see him when we're getting drunk, so that doesn't really count. And Mug, and he's an enigma for reals. I would actually like to hang out more with him. Thank god. It feels better now.

But just GIMME A FRIGGIN JOB so I can get out and actually meet people that isn't bf's friends. Fuck, the next to last job I applied for had NINE HUNDRED applicants. Nine hundred. Which I'm sure consists of 450 people that have a cashier-background and of course gets that job instead of me.

The last job I applied for, I want so much that it hurts. Of course, it's at the factory, so all I really need is opposable thumbs and an IQ over 30 to be fit for it. Problem is that it's a very GOOD job, very finely PAID job, and if the cashier-job had 900 applicants, this will have 2000 applicants. At least. The people that called me after recieving my resume sounded very positive and would ring me back if I was to be called to an interview. That was almost two weeks ago. Losing faith here people.

I never thought I would be unemployed this long really. Go figure.

*stalks work ads*

I never learn to just shut the hell up

You know what. One thing I always say (one should never say anything, about anything! second rule of Murphy's Law), every year, is that I will not participate in this thing called "Clearance" at electronics or clothing stores. Shit, it's like the law of the djungle, elbows and people filled with sale-adrenaline acting like animals over shirts or monitors still expensive, but just less expensive.

Then my computer monitor broke last night. VERY convienient. Very. I'm disappointed in you, whoever you are who caused this. So because I am a child of my generation, I cannot live without my dear computer for even one day, we set out to find bf a new computer monitor. What? Oh, yes, that's right. In order to.. stroke bf's wallet the right way, he got the new monitor and I took the bigger of the ones that he had. He has two. Because he's a total nerd and HAS to watch movies at the same time as he's playing Nerd of Dorkcraft.

Anyways, we got home and installed the new screens, and everything's fine and dandy.
Until I started RSS Bandit.
"Something something .xml corrupt something something"

Well Merry Christmas to you too, RSS Bandit!

And no, I haven't saved a backup lately (I know!), so now I'm free to re-add my 300 or so RSS-feeds into the reader. Some of you may remember that this happened just about exactly a year ago too, at which time things were much more complicated. Let the hunt for a new RSS-reader begin!

Merry christmas, bitches!

And happy holidays for you guys who celebrate other stuff too!

I'm finished with wrapping the gifts for all my nieces and nephews, my mom is already at my sisters where we're gonna celebrate this holiday, sticky fudgey muffins are packed for my other sister (we sure didn't inherit mom's ability to stop eating candy at 12 years of age), my brother/wife/kid is making a pit stop at the last mentioned sister because it's a long drive, and tomorrow we all head north!

I mean, not like.. very north. But to Pennyville. We haven't celebrated christmas together all four siblings and mom in like seven years, so it's gonna be pretty rad.

So that's about it for me for this time! Merry christmas and happy holidays all! I hope you have A GREAT ONE! I will (try)!

And because I can't post these pictures after christmas, that'd be just wrong, I'll post these here now.

 

 

 

Yeah, I'm a lame-o!

So, to answer Miss Pie's comment, which contained a brutally shortened truth about Valentines day two years ago, I'm gonna retort.. that's right, in limerick form.*


A drunken saturday Wynn got wetter
Ravage him, a drunk man let her
By her friends deemed a creep
She let him in deep
Afterwards she felt so much better


This man set her girly bits afire
Their rumblings made her perspire
Only horny?
Or getting corny?
Either way, she sang him a choir


Since the first night was kind of a blurry
She cleared things out in a hurry
Dressed to the nines
They sit down and dines
The roommate joins in a scurry


This was the night before Valen of Tines
To dance he invites but Wynn declines
To spite with "romance"
He force her to dance
While Wynn shrieks, claws and whines


From his manly hot grip herself she frees
He's begging to slow dance, come on baby please!
She ran right home
For rhymes to roam
At least she liked the feel of the squeeze


Behind her she carefully locked the door
And started to try and settle the score
She washed off the grime
And started to rhyme
She went back and read with a roar


Threats of death the poem contained
If such behaviour wasn't abstained
Wynn looked mad
At this silly lad
But of course, the anger was feigned


Wynn read on, looked mad as a hatter
While dude listened to the eager chatter
By genius dazed
The poem he praised
He just took is as intricate flatter

Look! what the unlawful spreading of lie
Makes me do, thanks to missus of Pie
Your rumours fail!
You better just bail!
It tooks me hours to this rectify!




*All you defenders of english; this is totally where I pull the "english is my second language"-card. See! It's friggin HARD to rhyme in a foreign language.

It's gettin' girly here! So take off all your clothes!

Today I have pondered a little about romance (I feel like a real Carrie Bradshaw, laying on my tummy in the couch writing on my little laptop. Don't worry, I'll incorporate cussing later on). I've always considered myself as a non-romantic, but as I stood in the kitchen today and carefully packaged bf's favorite chocolate bar, a can of Cherry Coke and a little note telling him that I'm stupid for him still, in a cute gift bag and put it in the fridge for when he comes home. I did this because I know he's having a crabby day at work, and it got me thinking.

I mean, I knew I was a closet romantic (Bridget Jones, here I come) but never really considered my notes or small everyday gifts as romantic. Maybe they are? Bf gets all "aww" when I do it, so.. When I think about it, I sure do miss being the recipient of the smaller, romantic things. I'm not gonna say that bf is bad at it (he is), I would just like to experience romance a little more often (like.. three times a year?).

And, of course when dealing with romance in this modern age, I think about Valentines Day, also named "Single Awareness Day", "Good lord, not again-day" and "Girls torture boys-day". Last week I told bf that we will not be celebrating Valentines day (which I don't generally do, but for arguments sake) because of this little, newly born, behemoth called "Steak and Blowjob Day". This day is born to make up for the horrible, soul wrenching day in february where a dude does something nice for his girlfriend/boyfriend*.

I mean, I'm all for blowjobs and steak, and I appreciate this whole equality-thinking, but you know what? Girls like Valentines day because it gives them the opportunity to get a little somethin' somethin' they don't get often enough, and dudes, I bet there are more blowjobs passed out than random surprises consisting of a cooked dinner, spontaneous gift, surprise massage or just about anything a girl would want to feel that tad special.

Valentines Day is ONE day.
Un-romantic, sucky "Honey, I want your mouth" everyday-day is as it sounds; EVERY day.

I really don't know what my point with this post it. Dudes, suck it the fuck up? Anti-climactic, I know. But I'm for diversity, I know everyone's different and I can puke on stereotypes. But sometimes, I just want to. Mmmmkay



Oh and, yeah. Fuck! There, a little cussing.

Disclaimer:
*I generalize for arguments sake, as you gotta when talking about Single Awareness Day and men and women. But I do think it's true, and at the same time knowing that everyone's different. Boring disclaimer, but I'm enough of a neurotic to get nervous about people misunderstanding me.

Yeah, this post it about sex. In a very silly way.

I know this may not sound like a real.. well problem for most couples. Just about two years into their relationship with understanding and communication. Without children. In our twenties. With normally functioning pseudo-reproduction drives.

But dudes, I totally got laid last night. Twice.

This whole getting rid of that damn IUD and begets with the condoms has totally rocked my world. Not being in pain means getting LAID man!

So, here goes, my heartfelt anthem:
Baby, let's use this for our sexstacy! Let's sexecute this lovelife!
Let's not sexaggerate the importance of love, darlin'! You sexalt me!
Doll, sexcite me like no one else. Oh please Mr teacher, let me take the oral sexam!
Doctor doctor, I'm feeling a little feverish, I need a sexamination.
May the future's lovin' sexceed moderation! Sexcel in your skills, honey, let's work it all to sexellence!
Make me feel sexclusive, lover. I'm looking forward to be sexchanging sexperiences with ya, sweet-ay.
Press me up against a window like the sexhibitionists we are!
That's some sexquisite heart printed banana hamocks, lemme take'm off!
It's gonna me a sexplosion of brow chicken brow COW!

Sexcorise my deemoons!  (high pitch power metal mothereffer!)

Indiana Bone-s, bring that whip and let's start this sexcavation.. no wait that sounded kind of dirty in the wrong way..

Anyway, you get it. I'm finished. No wait, one more!

Rock out with your cock out, literally!

So, now I'm done.

Maybe I'm ovulating. Let's hope I am!*

Today me and a neighbour (we're like Friends over here!) made gingerbread houses. Then suddenly for no reason, right after she left, I hurt my back. Damn, I'm lucky she'd left, you're really not supposed to limp slower than a 8.75 month pregnant woman. So now I would do really awesomely well in one of those zombie walks because that's about the pace I can walk, but still not really because I do this grinning face because it hurts and well zombies don't feel pain right? So I'm kind of a loser however I twist and turn it.

"Ah the pain."
"What did you do?"
".. A gingerbread house?"

The conversation above brings me no street cred. At all.

Bf just looked at me like he usually does when he's playing WoW and is certainly not listening to me, when I complained about hurting so I had to fry my own damn meatballs! The living standards around here.. But, to steer the attention away from my lameness, I would like you to look at this instead:

 Come let me cheer that sad face right up, doll.

Mmmmm. Now, for those of you who don't recognise him (I certainly didn't before sunday evening, during which I spent four hours watching documentaries about rock bands), this is mister Trent Reznor, the singer, creator and pretty much the only solid member of Nine Inch Nails.

I repeat: Mmmm..

I mean, yeah, he's like.. 45? But my mom certainly was right about men becoming hotter and hotter for some years there after they turn 30 (come on bf, I'm winking at you) and in Trent's case, this is certainly true. Dude looked like a silly person in his younger years, and then blossomed into THAT. Don't judge a book by it's adolescence cover, girls. I'm not very into his music as a whole but there are gems in there, and in the documentary they stated (because we all know that everything said in documentaries is TRUE!) that he'd didn't like people that don't understand what he sings about, listening to his music because it takes the point away.

To answer that, mister, if you ever find yourself passing St Aldus, you are totally welcome to tell me aaalll about it.

I'm not even gonna try to find out how tall he is because that'd just ruin the fantasy.**










*Because as of today, I'm 15 days late. Which meeaans.. new cycle? Let's hope this one behaves, shall we.
** Yes. I am shallow. Third nipple? Fine. Plush? Teddy bear lovin' baby. Short? Uhm.. next.
*** In this post, I tag douchevags because I totally sound like one.

Well that's obviously a lie.

I just, for the first time, added interests on my blogger profile. Yeah. Big moment. Then I looked at my own profile, patted my tummy in great rejoicing, and then clicked my interest "taking slow walks on the beach" to find like minded people.

"No profiles found", Blogger told me. You're trying to sucker punch me Blogger, EVERYONE loves a slow walk on the beach! Have you ever looked through the personal ads in newspapers? It's as empirical as it gets!

But, Blogger also tries to convince me that 80% of this country's population has an account on here, so I guess I should take it with a grain of salt. But I'm keeping my eye on you blogger, don't forget it. Cue Sting's scary stalker song; I'll be watching you..

It's one of those days.

Have you ever wished for something funny or exciting to happen, not just for the reason that it's gonna entertain you a little, but also for you to have GOOD LORD GIVE ME ANYTHING something to blog about?

Those days, when life feels so still and uneventful like such a bad dryhump that even the most accustomed 16 year old virgin that have spent years mastering the skill on keeping the blue balls at bay, would take a step back from the sultry yet unattainable blonde sitting in the run down couch in his fathers basement and say "Well, screw this. I'm going over to Jake's for some video games and porn."

Days that just take the edge of everything you think is fun and pleasant to do every other day of the year.
Photography? What should I take pictures of.. snow..? Real blissful.
Watching Jamie and Adam blow things up? Seen that!
Crochet something cute? Row after row of booredom!
Watch porn? I've like, seen it all by now.
The allround, wordly solution to all problems - eat? Not even the yummy gingerbread rolls in the freezer seem naughty enough.
Paint? Like using a brush? Lame.
Surf funny blogs? The internet has run out of funny blogs.
Sleep? But moooom, I don't want to go to beeed!

Altough, I know this mood stems from the sneaky cold that's creeping closer, the one that have kept me from making out with bf because I didn't want to get sick before the weekend. The one that I probably got in full swing today when we made out. At least I got laid, right?

Not bad for a day like this!

Eat yellow snow, it might be beer!

Do you know what happens when you give a silly person bubble wrap and two bottles Jaegermeister for a birthday present, and then mix that with 15 drunk people?

Neither do I. But I have some tell tale pictures of Roomie being rolled up in the plastic and bf's computer desk drenched in some kind of dark, sticky substance. Suspiciously many pictures is taken of people hovering around the christmas tree, that is now unfixably crooked, of which no one will take the blame. The little vultures guzzled up two pounds of christmas candies, three bags of potato chips and all the nachos we had. Psych and Top Notch tainted my computer room (luckily enough, bf and I have already taken the virginity of that room) and I have danced so much that I'm workout-sore in my ankles. DJ got me into the club for free and I abandoned bf in some very questionably cellar with strange hillbilly rocker types staring at him and I had the seriously most tasty and awesome drunken night snack on the way home from the club while Foureyes were orgasm-yelling out her love for tahini. All sunday was spent in the couch, five people in a row under a cover, making fatty effort grunts to any little movement.

BEST weekend of this year.

Thank you friends. I love you!

FUCK YEAH!

The christmas is in preparation (behold the rocky road god in our fridge!) with all its cleaning, baking, dipping stuff in chocolate, discussing methods of handling dough, drinking glühwein before dinner, eating thai food. But it's not just for christmas folks. No, the uprooting of the poor dust bunnies, the eviction of the salad remains that had settled in the sink and started putting together their own declaration of indepedence and the reorganising of the closets are for much grander and purely hedonistic reasons: My birthday weekend.

It is finally before me. In a few hours, I will have my most beloved and chillingly socially inept group of people here. With me. In St Aldus. The glistening winter weather have never looked this pretty, and the boring hours leading up to it has seldom seemed to BORING. Giefs weekend, now!

On my birthday, I got out of bed at noon early and started watering the plants around the apartment when bf stepped through the door and ordered me to at once retire to bed because I was, I quote; "ruining everything!"

So I waddled back into bed and waited. Prentending to be pouty to cover that I was really excited. Heard clinking and a coffee maker in the kitchen, and a few minutes later bf came into the bedroom. Singing. LOL! A wrapped present, a lit candle, chocolatey coffee, a piece of cake, and because he couldn't find croissants (apparently, he'd spent an hour roaming like an restless ghost through all stores in town), candy and a can of Red Bull.

I've never felt so loved before (and I'm not even being sarcastic).

No seriously. I need it. Mama needs her sugar.

But, back to the weekend. It could get interesting. And by interesting I mean "GOD I hope people won't act strange around eachother". Top Notch and Psych have slept together, Foureyes and Roomie have slept together, Northener and I have slept together and so I will (again) find myself in a room where 25% of the participants can raise their hand to having banged me. So classy. Foureyes is gonna compete with Roomie and DJ over the 19 year old chick (I will have to tell her to bring friends, jeesh). Roomie told me, in a very "cryptical" manor, to put up a mistletoe somewhere in the apartment, just shortly after he proclaimed that he doesn't want to sleep with Foureyes again. Why is that, I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

"You see, I want to go home with a new girl every weekend, not the same as earlier."

Worst reason ever?


So yeah, no sexual tension this weekend. So far, when I've mixed my friends, there's been a 100% success rate for at least two people getting laid. This time we'll see. Oh, and Foureyes: you do not know this!

All in all, I'm really excited. Bite the dust, Get Psyched-mix, I don't need you!

This entire post is a question, so why not the title too?

Ever since I started my first blog, I've felt like I've gotten myself into a pinch. What should I write about? Should I use all the cussing I use in my daily life or would that offend lots of people? How raunchy can I get before it starts looking like attention whoring or just plain tastelessness? If I'm really angry with something, should I write about it or should I shut up so I don't rant along? Should I rant? How much time should I spend on the posts, making them better and focusing more? How seriously anonymous should I be? Should I tell stores about my past or doesn't that interest people really? Does anything I write interest people really? Should I post pictures? I mean, I take pictures because I think it's fun and the pictures often has nothing to do with my writing, should I post them anyway? Or should I just google-steal pictures that might match the content? Or just get a blog with photographs? But there's so many much better photographers out there..

All the tips out there on blogging always tell you to have a grand scheme so everyone knows what they're getting. Is it safe to say that what you get.. is me? How free can I be with my writing? Is it okay to sometimes write things in a little more dramatic novel form just for the fun and addition of details that otherwise won't fit into the story, like my dentist post? I know I really appreciate to read the more vigorous writing, with big gestures and made up words to exactly describe details. That's how I want to write, but often I don't. I don't want to get stuck in the "Today I.." swamp of plain storytelling.

In real life, pretty much all my friends have at some point told me that they really enjoy when I tell stories because I use emotions and "extras", usually in the form of facial expressions, change my tone of voice and gestures. All that goes into hiding on a blog. I know that everyone's supposed to just looove a challenge. I can easily confess that in this case, I do not.

What do the readers find really tedious? I have noticed a clear abscence of comments on any post where I pose a question, which I assume is just because you're trying to cramp my style bitches! I.. know where you live on the internets! Beware!

How much detail can I reveal about people and incidents? I can read posts from earlier and see that I held back parts of the story in order for it to be discreet, and realise that hell, no one's gonna recognise a friend of his/hers in this. Except for the instance that it should be the actual person I'm writing about, and if that'd happen, I just say... well fuck me. I mean, I'm not even sure that MrBusy would recognise himself in my age long story because it's all revolving around what I went through and less about him. Sometimes I feel the language barrier cramp my style too, knowing that I can use my words different in my first language, but I don't want to write in my first language.

It's been five and a half years ago since I started my first blog, and I still haven't come up with any conclusions about this. Sometimes I just wanna say sod it and post pictures that may be recognised or tell stories that I may tell out loud to large groups of people (I have a tendency to be.. the center of attention at parties now and then. I blame my awesome story telling skills). Then I walk by a blogger on the town that I recognise because I read her blog and thought it was friggin BORING and like.. she doesn't know who I am, but I know who she is. And that she ate Snickers last night while watching Grey's Anatomy and made out with her boyfriend a little after their son fell asleep. The she got cramps and ate shrimp. Uhm. I get nervous just by the thought of random people that I've never seen should know who I am and private stuff that goes on here.

Because well, I write about pooping at clubs, drinking alcohol during weekdays and throwing up beside trees in some poor bugger's backyard. Not the material to make my mom proud. Or an employer. Or relatives to bf. And ya know, the phrase "What goes on the internet, stays on the internet" is an unsightly truth.

But I have 26 followers. 26! It's a modest number compared to pretty much everyone I follow, but that has no meaning. 26 is more than I ever anticipated to have, having started out with a blog to tell my closest ones about the daily life in a city far away from them.

It's funny really. I guess the blogging means a lot to me. Otherwise I wouldn't be pondering this stuff.

Tuesday shorty.

Do you know how hard it is to PMS really badly while looking like an inverted Oompa Loompa?
I thought it could be fun to dye my eyebrows today while dyeing my hair, leaving me looking like a cow had pooped me in the face. Thick, orangebrown eyebrows decorating my of.. youth glistening skin.
Then I got pissed and totally had to contain my raging will to discuss stuff with my personal can opener, because I could not picture myself looking like that while being all loud and oogly eyed, complete with plastic wrap on my head.

And all I got out of it was the knowledge that the only thing that keeps me from looking like a real ginger, was my non-orange eyebrows. Who knew, right? I mean, some people are pretty as gingers. I am not.

Today's lesson learnt.

Yeah I got nothing.

It's winter. For reals. The christmas decorations glisten under the falling snow and it's cold outside. Right now it's almost warm, just a couple degrees below freezing. Last wednesday though, I took the train to go see my mother. It was eyelash freezing cold and I since I started early and would travel while it was light out, I hoped for a pretty view of the snow covered landscapes along the road.

What I really got was this:

Insert joke about artsy paintings picturing polar bears in snowstorms.

Apparently, when it gets so cold that hell really actually could freeze over, sometimes it can get REALLY foggy. Then the locomotive died and I ended up being 2½ hours late to my final destination. Thank god for winter and public transportation, life would be so much less exciting without it.

And, when I got home I discovered a leopard spot shaped bruise on my ass. Bf was all "What have you been up to?" and I was like "I joined a couple of dudes to the back of a store" (which was actually true, but one of them is my friend) and he was like wrinkling his nose at me and whipped out his precious member. To pee.

I also discovered that I've ruptured my ass crack. Now now, stay tuned or you'll get an entirely wrongful picture of me. I have a.. cut (from scratching?)?.. in the crack right by my tailbone. It hurts like a couple of sons of bitches and it's like seriously uncool to suffer from a broken ass crack. Bf laughed at me. Asshole. The bruise was pretty cool though. Leopard ftw.

And because this is a really random post and to lessen the weird feeling some of you may have gotten from knowing this about me, I'll post a picture of today's experimental makeup. Yes, the yellow once again. Yes, I LOVE IT. And yes, I use other colours too, but they're less fun so I don't post pictures of them. Look, glitter! Like anyone of you really cares. JK, I know you do! Cutie pies!

Header

Soooo, as you guys can see, I've made a new header. I just wanted a big one to play with, and I'm kind of pleased with it. Whattayathink? And I can let you in on that it's a very personal header, everything apart from the keys and the book in the center is my stuff that I have maticulously photographed just for you guys. You're welcome.

Of course, Blogger fucks up my "coding", so I have to change some stuff. Like not having that friggin header text there. I got it to huff off in a cloud of sourness while testing, but now it's back. Psh.


Edit: My awesome google coding skills fixed it.

Human experiment

It's a funny thing, this stress.

I've never considered myself a stressed out person, and I believe I've never been one.

When I worked at FFS Enterprise (that I hated to my very core really, the work itself, not the people), I started breaking out in this really obnoxious acne that totally reminded of these unfortunate teen boys that certainly wont get to even 0.5 base until their skin clear up which will leave them totally socially inept around girls the better part of their lives. I connected it to like the dry air in the office or something, because the acne would settle a little around the weekends. I slept really badly, which I mostly thought depended on me being a little unused to having a time to get up every morning after being home for so long. The acne slowly subsided as my last week at work went by, and everything was alright.

Then the miserable day came, when mom called me at work.

Sleeping became a luxury. Still is a luxury. I have to sit up until I almost fall of my chair exhausted, because otherwise I'll start thinking about stuff. Bad stuff. And the pimples came back, in full force. Hot damn you guys. I haven't looked like this in YEARS, if ever. Week after week, I was guzzling water like there was absolutely a tomorrow and the point then was for me to get laid with someone that didn't love me for my personality. Trying to eat right, drinking water, washing my face with the products that have always helped before. No dice.

On wednesday I took the train to moms. Today, after having spent four days at her place, helping her out and having a nice time and doing all that I can for her, they're gone. I look as much of a porcelain doll (ie, no very) as I ever will.

Strange huh? I can, after this experience, conduct that I'm actually a living case of stress and how that marks one on the surface. And, my period is three days late by now. Don't worry, that's not possible. It would be a virgin birth (that phone call did nothing for my sex life, lemme tell ya) and in that case, I'm in for a whole other problem than a mere, silly little pregnancy..
I'm wondering if that has to do with the removal of the IUD or if the stress moved my ovulation (not unusual) or something. Interesting.

It's stupid really. Feel like crap on the inside, look like crap on the outside.
Evolution took a wrong turn there. Asshole.

Just a thought a wintery Friday evening

Do you know who the assholes of the washing up is?

Dried in oatmeal. Seriously. That shit can soak for four days and still won't come out. Bastards.