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Mar. 8th, 2007


(no subject)


I can't stop thinking about it.

I can't want it like this. It's too dangerous.

I need something else to focus on -- anything.

If only Wilson'd grow a pair for once. Pizza? Give me a break.


Mar. 7th, 2007

lollipops and rainbows


Rather than dwell on the awkward, I'd like to offer the following suggestion to all of you.

Yesterday? Learning experience. You'll think twice about poking your nose where it doesn't belong from now on.

(Not that I entirely object to being poked.)

Jan. 25th, 2007

stfu fools!

Theatre as masochism. I mean therapy. Whatever.

I'm contemplating putting my fellow inmates to work. Patients! I meant patients. Forgive me. Patients!

I've always wanted to direct. Some of them show some promise.

...it worked for the Marqius de Sade, didn't it?

I'm out of fucking smokes. Voldemort refuses to do me any favors.

...I want to die.

Jan. 12th, 2007


Which step am I on, again?

Greetings from rehab, or, as I like to call it, rock star vacation.

Apparently I'm the only one in this place who can't sleep at night, because nobody fights me for the computer.

Either that, or word's gotten around that I bite.

They give us stuff here to wean us off our narcotics in a controlled environment, which has just left me with a nagging question: If you're addicted to porn, how do they wean you off of that? Victoria's Secret catalogs? Britney Spears videos? An addiction is an addiction, after all.

Voldemort's glaring at me. I think he's using his evil powers to read my mind.

Naturally, I'd have to end up here when The L Word finally comes back. Spoilers just aren't cutting it. And The O.C.! It's a crucial moment in TV, and the rest of the castaways here on Loser Island are determined to spend their evenings in front of Obscene Home Manipulation, or whatever the hell it's called. It's really not that interesting when you know how every episode is going to end. The entertainment value is lost when socioeconomic status robs you of your ability to say, "Actually, your decorating style sucks."

I just have to keep telling myself that that's why the higher power made TiVo.

Dec. 13th, 2006


(no subject)


I should have died.

I almost wish I had.


Nov. 24th, 2006

lollipops and rainbows

What's your price for flight?

I suppose I should start this entry by listing the things I'm thankful for. That seems to be basic Thanksgiving blogging protocol.

I'm thankful for my boss and her common sense.

I'm thankful for my staff, because they do my work for me.

I'm thankful for fish tacos, Call of Duty 3, and the Spice network.

(By the way, the PS3 was totally worth the fifty bucks I gave that kid to wait in line for me.)

So how was your Thanksgiving, gentle reader? Was it a good one? Did the cocktail of tryptophan and awkward family situations do it for you?

I spent mine with Chinese takeout and VH1's Greatest Songs of the '80's special, which was a joke. H.L. Mencken once said you can't go broke underestimating the American public, and this certainly would've backed him up. The results came from an online poll or something, which explains why Bon Jovi's "Living On A Prayer" was number one. Bon Jovi? Really? The '80's must've sucked for a lot of people.

I particularly take issue with the ranking of #32, Night Ranger's "Sister Christian". Knowing the piano intro to that song got me laid four times in '84. Give props where props are due.

(no subject)


They don't get it. Nobody fucking gets it. I'm in pain. I don't get any kind of recreational benefit from any of this. Not that it matters anymore.

Thank God Cuddy has some sense. Not that God deserves any credit right now.

I'm not letting him get to me. I refuse. See? See? I have principles! I don't let people walk all over me!

Him. I mean them. Both of them.

There are two ways this could go, and both of them scare the shit out of me.

In the meantime, there's always the teacher's pet...

Goddamn it, Greg. You miserable son of a bitch.

I'm going to lose something before it's all said and done. So far my mind seems the most likely candidate.

Happy fucking birthday to me.


Nov. 9th, 2006

stfu fools!

(no subject)


Fucking cop. What is this, junior high with subpoenas and guns?

He can fuck with me all he wants. I don't care. He's a cop hellbent on acting out because -- the horror! -- Big Bad Mr. Doctor wasn't nice to him. If he wants me to keep thinking about his ugly crotchal region, he can go to town.

Except that's not what he's doing.

Wilson wouldn't have cared about those scripts if he'd found them on his own.

Who am I kidding? He would've thrown one of his I'm The One With Principles parades for a couple of days, and I would've smiled and nodded and zoned out like I always do and it would have been fine.

Fucking cop.

There's a sort of bright side, though. I go to jail for being the Massively Irresponsible Junkie, and Wilson goes for Aiding and Abetting the Massively Irresponsible Junkie, maybe we can room together.


Oct. 12th, 2006


(no subject)


I wonder if she knows.

Not that I expected anything from her. I didn't. Don't. Hallmark doesn't have a "Sorry You Got Shot, Ex-Boyfriend" aisle.

(It would be way funnier if Mark sent me a card. Because Hallmark definitely doesn't have a "Sorry You Got Shot, Wife's Ex-Boyfriend Who Antagonized Me" aisle.)


I go looking for my calculator, and this is what I get out of the exercise.

I should ask Wilson.

It's coming and going in waves. It was easier before because it was everpresent. Not that constant pain is easy, but I'll gladly take stability over random surprise. Way easier to treat.

My nollie's a little rusty, anyway.


Oct. 5th, 2006

ooohhh shiny objects!

Priorities are important.

In light of Dr. Cameron's impassioned assessment that we ixnay with the urveyssay, I've moved on to far loftier pursuits.

I'm a fan of intelligent conversation. Aren't you?

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