Ten Little Chances to be Free (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tenlittlebullets) wrote2004-07-06 10:00 pm
tenlittlebullets) wrote2004-07-06 10:00 pm
Bored. Random.
Writing my thoughts as they run through my brain.
My hair is... sort of pinkish-orange. I tried to redo the red last week but it didn't work that well, and I really don't like the current shade.
Perhaps I'll shave my head.
I hate summer. The heat. The bugs. Having to wear shorts and sleeveless t-shirts if I don't want to roast.
I fucking hate not having my arms and legs covered up. It feels so weird.... kind of exposed. Like when I tried to wear slutty girl clothes in 8th grade. *shudder*
Slutty girl clothes make me miserable. I doubt it's a coincidence that I developed homicidal tendencies at the end of 8th grade.
I'm simultaneously dreading going away to college and eagerly anticipating Simon's Rock.
I fucking hate mosquitoes.
Only the people I care about can hurt me. Maybe that's why I don't really care about anyone outside my immediate family. Or maybe I'm just a frigid bastard. Who knows.
The actress playing Christine on the Swedish recording of Phantom has a more operatic voice than the others I've heard. Nice, as she's actually supposed to be an opera singer and all.
Over the weekend I came to the realization that smut rots my brain. Have attempted to stop thinking about it and instead devote my brain cells to projectile physics and the suppressed pagan roots of Christianity (the two hot topics of the weekend at the family get-together) but have failed miserably.
Tis very odd that I like m/m slash and gay porn so much when in real life I have no interest in men.
English would be so much cooler if we still had a second person singular and if people didn't look at you funny for using words like 'thence' and 'whither' in everyday conversation.
Pennsylvania just legalized slot machines. I fully support the measure, along with the lottery--tax the stupid and all that.
My fic ideas won't leave me alone, but I have no idea how to write them.
I think that when I go off to Simon's Rock I'll make the official, full-time switch to male pronouns.
I still have to write Anea a thank-you for sending me that Swedish CD.
Observe the master procrastinator in action.
Perhaps I should stop carrying my CDs around in a plastic bag. They're getting rather scratched.
I have four fireworks left from the weekend.
I wonder how badly my dad would hurt me if I went outside and set all four off on the driveway right now.
Know that I am made up of death from head to foot, and that it is a corpse who loves you and adores you and will never, ever leave you.
The cat is eating more-or-less normally again. Perhaps we should stop coddling him.
Bach was an evil, evil man, and playing his damn three-voice piano inventions is harder than it looks.
Listening to recordings of his fugues is fun though. When I'm not the one who has to play them.
Someone needs to crank up the air conditioning.
How do you get to the unopenable door on JK Rowling's site? I haven't been able to find it yet.
It's rather sad when half of the things running through your head are quotes, lyrics, or passages from books, not your own thoughts.
Fucking acne.
I want my original hair color back. Even if it makes my face look red and blotchy and this color doesn't.
I should probably go off and do something useful.
This is more fun though.
The Mutter album gives me great mental images. Blue and purple sine waves against blackness on one song, a butterfly trapped in a crypt for another, fireworks exploding against olive drab.
Why do my mental images never relate to the subject of the song?
It's a sad indicator of one's state of existence when one's greatest short-term ambition is to improve one's minesweeper times.
113 seconds is my current record. If I had a not-so-crappy mouse I could probably shave it down to 110.
I'd better stop now.
My hair is... sort of pinkish-orange. I tried to redo the red last week but it didn't work that well, and I really don't like the current shade.
Perhaps I'll shave my head.
I hate summer. The heat. The bugs. Having to wear shorts and sleeveless t-shirts if I don't want to roast.
I fucking hate not having my arms and legs covered up. It feels so weird.... kind of exposed. Like when I tried to wear slutty girl clothes in 8th grade. *shudder*
Slutty girl clothes make me miserable. I doubt it's a coincidence that I developed homicidal tendencies at the end of 8th grade.
I'm simultaneously dreading going away to college and eagerly anticipating Simon's Rock.
I fucking hate mosquitoes.
Only the people I care about can hurt me. Maybe that's why I don't really care about anyone outside my immediate family. Or maybe I'm just a frigid bastard. Who knows.
The actress playing Christine on the Swedish recording of Phantom has a more operatic voice than the others I've heard. Nice, as she's actually supposed to be an opera singer and all.
Over the weekend I came to the realization that smut rots my brain. Have attempted to stop thinking about it and instead devote my brain cells to projectile physics and the suppressed pagan roots of Christianity (the two hot topics of the weekend at the family get-together) but have failed miserably.
Tis very odd that I like m/m slash and gay porn so much when in real life I have no interest in men.
English would be so much cooler if we still had a second person singular and if people didn't look at you funny for using words like 'thence' and 'whither' in everyday conversation.
Pennsylvania just legalized slot machines. I fully support the measure, along with the lottery--tax the stupid and all that.
My fic ideas won't leave me alone, but I have no idea how to write them.
I think that when I go off to Simon's Rock I'll make the official, full-time switch to male pronouns.
I still have to write Anea a thank-you for sending me that Swedish CD.
Observe the master procrastinator in action.
Perhaps I should stop carrying my CDs around in a plastic bag. They're getting rather scratched.
I have four fireworks left from the weekend.
I wonder how badly my dad would hurt me if I went outside and set all four off on the driveway right now.
Know that I am made up of death from head to foot, and that it is a corpse who loves you and adores you and will never, ever leave you.
The cat is eating more-or-less normally again. Perhaps we should stop coddling him.
Bach was an evil, evil man, and playing his damn three-voice piano inventions is harder than it looks.
Listening to recordings of his fugues is fun though. When I'm not the one who has to play them.
Someone needs to crank up the air conditioning.
How do you get to the unopenable door on JK Rowling's site? I haven't been able to find it yet.
It's rather sad when half of the things running through your head are quotes, lyrics, or passages from books, not your own thoughts.
Fucking acne.
I want my original hair color back. Even if it makes my face look red and blotchy and this color doesn't.
I should probably go off and do something useful.
This is more fun though.
The Mutter album gives me great mental images. Blue and purple sine waves against blackness on one song, a butterfly trapped in a crypt for another, fireworks exploding against olive drab.
Why do my mental images never relate to the subject of the song?
It's a sad indicator of one's state of existence when one's greatest short-term ambition is to improve one's minesweeper times.
113 seconds is my current record. If I had a not-so-crappy mouse I could probably shave it down to 110.
I'd better stop now.