Raisin ramblings

Last night, King Haldol (who is actually just my mailman, but will henceforth be referred to as King Haldol...) sat brooding in Castle Vicodin on the planet Xanax, near the great Demerol Forest and the river Wellbutrin, called and insisted I meet him for a drink. He had that sort of tone in his voice that meant he would soon go after strangers' eyes with a salad fork, and because I am a good friend, I agreed.

(Unnecessary Note: I really am a good friend. Some people may not think so, because as we've established earlier, I'm difficult. I tend to dissapear for days at a time, sometimes I borrow things and sort of forget to give them back, and I will tell you that you are full of shit if, indeed, you are full of shit. You'd be amazed at how many people don't appreciate that. Oh, and I also have this silly diary where I may or may not reveal embarrassing personal details about you. On the plus side, however, I am incredibly loyal, sort of the human equivalent of a golden retriever, I will allways stick up for you in public or private, and if you demand that I meet you for a drink I will walk over my own grandmother to do so. Just make sure you include the words 'for a drink'.)

And well, It was fun. And if my soul hadn't gone out on yet another drinking binge, I bet it would feel so cleansed right now, so, I think next time I'd rather go play in traffic. Or I would if there was any traffic at 1:30 in the freaking morning. So maybe I won't. But I will think about playing in traffic. And then I will maybe go to sleep and pretend I'm in a coma as a result of the imaginary playing in traffic. And then maybe you will come visit me and leave me flowers that I can't see because they're not real and I'm not really in a coma anyway.

I feel pretty & witty & gáááááy!

All I really wanted for my birthday this year was an ark, Good Luck Bear to admit he is a mockery of a Care Bear, and Ben Folds to perform his rendition of "Tiny Dancer" for me at my surprise birthday party that should be reminiscent of Kelly's surprise birthday party on that episode of Beverly Hills, you know, the one in which she ended up passing out in the bathroom after downing a package of diet pills, only minus that part, but with the same guest list and add Ben Folds and me as The Tiny Dancer and you've got my dreambirthdayparty.

Yet somehow, none of this happened. Seriously people, what gives? Was I perhaps not clear enough (although I highly doubt it...)?

*sigh*

Fine...

I guess I AM (kind of) difficult. I'm a big enough person to admit this. I can't stop it, and even if I tell you I wish I could, I'm lying.

I lie. I like to argue. I think O.J. is innocent. I will never, ever watch A Beautiful Mind, just because. I have a shoe-tying test that I administer to people with out their knowing and if you fail, you're just not worthy of my time, sorry. I have never worn gloves, wait, that's not true, I've worn surgical gloves (Shut up, like you haven't worn surgical gloves!), but I mean winter gloves. I'm a mitten girl. I ask really obvious questions, like "Are you sleeping?" when you're sleeping and "Did that hurt?" when you stab yourself in the leg with a fork after I tell you about how I don't really blame the Menendez Brothers or when I tell you I can't come out to play because Jerry Maguire is on again, and who knows, maybe this time it will end differently, maybe this time Renee Zellweger's bastard son will get eaten by a pack of wolves at the zoo, it could happens. And I expect my friends to come up with an ark and Ben Folds on my birthday (not to mention Good Luck Bear). Deal with it.

Love me; love my high level of difficulty.

The magic 8 ball says "Outlook Not Good"

Ok. Well, yeah, I've been missing in action for the past couple of days, but really, there was no need for you to seek solace in drugs or alcohol or barnyard animal sex. Really.

Anyway. Listen, I can explain my absence, really I can. It's like this. I'm pretty sure I was taken hostage by Mai Mai rebels in the Congo. Again. I mean, it's definitely either that or I recently became Mrs. Alice Cooper and have been in Arizona on my honeymoon. Or I was incarcerated for taking obscene photos of my mailman. Or I was incarcerated for drugging and tying up my mailman so I could take the aforementioned photographs. Or maybe I just decided to devote my life to ice skating and spent the last 14 days trying out for The Special Olympics Disney On Ice.

Is it so hard for you people to believe that I might have been recording an album of romantic duets and Air Supply covers with 50 Cent? Fiddy frowns on blogging, you know. I suggested he start a blog, but when I told him guns weren't involved he asked if we could just get back to singing "Making Love Out of Nothing At All". So we did.

Hey. Did I mention I have nothing to say? Because I don't. Clearly. You see I've been working on getting my affairs in order and suchlike. Since this IS my final year of college I figured I might as well do things right for a change. However, things have not quite been going my way, I missed a few deadlines and well, there's a whole bunch of other administration I should really get sorted and now I have to go write out my wedding gift thank you cards (oh, you didn't send a gift? Nice, real nice. I'll remember that. And so will Alice. And also, Alice says to tell you that people GO TO HELL for lesser things! and you KNOW he KNOWS), pick up trash along the highway as part of my community service (definitely worth it for those nude mailman photos, let me tell you)...

But instead I decided to put on my new swim goggles (they're pink and sparkly!) in the bathtub and pretend I'm deep sea diving.


I know, I MUST remember to start taking my meds again. Immediately. The green ones. We don't want any more incidents like this now, do we?

Comme tartine et boterham

I would like to have magical things. I have this pencil in my room that I use to kill spiders. I use the pointy end to jab the big spiders, and the eraser side to snuff out the little ones. I would say I've killed a few hundred of the little buggers. It would be so useful if it was like "Sting" from LOTR and it began to glow an eerie blue light when a spider was around. That would spare me the nasty shock of coming upon the spiders unexpectedly.

I also think it would be fun to have something like a magical green scarf that could fly around and get me things. I'm sick of pausing Mariokart so I can grab a soda. Go get my soda, scarf! And a sandwich! And make it snappy!

Of course, with my luck, Scarf would probably soon turn into one of the most tedious slipper-toting bores - yapping on about machines, or buying and selling things for a ludicrously small amount of profit or loss on some gay online auction, fond of Laura Ashley and round toed shoes, trying shove me into dungarees, DUNGAREES (the lesbian wardrobe staple) in some pathetically weak, Turkish bid to keep other leering scarves away. Typical Scarf behavior.

Also, some random fucktard has stolen my wallet. On my birthday. Tragic isn’t it?