I've grown bored with the internet. My online life consists of three websites, excluding shopping.
I need some quality sites to visit, something that will pass the time when I'm bored- like I am today. I shouldn't really shop anymore, Myspace is becoming a bore, and here I find myself with very little to say. I've taken up reading my horoscope. I think an intervention is almost necessary.
If you're one of my friends, you pretty much know what my interests are. I'm a one-trick pony like that.
Uh PS- Coffee dates? Coffee dates?? Do people actually do that? According to MSN they do. And there's rules, to boot. I thought that a "would you like to join me for coffee?" invite was just a line 40-something actors say in crappy movies and TV shows to their age appropriate, America's Sweetheart counterparts.
If I ever decide to have children, the main reason would be so that I could share this poem with them:
I'm in love with this. I was just getting rid of some junk on my computer, and I came across some pictures that I'd saved from this, after I'd first seen it and was smitten. I don't know why I never thought about posting it for people who've never been privy, but watch it. Because it's wonderful, and it makes me squish my nose and raise my shoulders while I giggle.
I'm not one for nature and such, but if you happen to be reading this right now- right now being the second I post it- check the sky out. It's really pretty. The sun is covered by a huge blanket of puffy white clouds, and the light coming in behind is making them look all rippley. I did happen to notice this as sat in my car and drank coffee, wearing sunglasses, looking out of my sunroof. So, my perception may be a little tinted. If it doesn't look like a magical land of dancing leprechauns, you have my apologies. I woke up chipper.
That is... until I opened up a bottle of Dasani water and drank half of it. It tastes like stale cigarette ash. The bottle says it's bottled in Bellafonte, PA. I have no idea where that is in PA, but I'm sure it's close enough to NJ that all of the pollution from our beautiful oil refineries has trickled into their water supply. I might as well just drink Milltown tap, and that tastes like fish corpse rubbed with rotten garlic.
Anyway, last night was a terrific night for documentary television. I'm going to listen to Confessions of a Serial Killer and fall back asleep. No matter how much my life changes, the important stuff- like my choice in fine programming, always stays the same.
Since I've been on this zombie kick, I was pleased yesterday evening when I noticed that Night of the Comet was on Cinemax, or Showtime. I'm not sure which. This is not to be confused with Year of the Comet, which was on another channel simultaneously. Much to my dismay, the trusty info button informed me that Year of the Comet is about a rare bottle of wine, and some sort of romantic adventure. Night of the Comet, as you know, is about cannibal zombies and valley girls. This was the obvious choice.
I won't even get into plotholes, since we're talking cannibal zombies. I think a little Ed Wood-style suspension of disbelief is in order. They use shoes as ammo, and there's some punk rock zombies. That alone makes it a winner. The only thing I don't get is this whole zombie/consumerism thing. I mean, I've heard George Romero wax on about this a million times. Don't ask. There was a point when I watched everyhorror moviedirector-packed documentaryavailable, thanks to a particularly low season of fun Netflix rentals. I'm pretty sure he'd suck his own cock for pairing the two in the orignal Dawn of the Dead, but quite frankly, I don't really care about it. I care about zombies. And puppies. But mostly zombies. Plus, he should be flogged by me personally for that crap fest Land of the Dead. It sucked major, besides the casting of European hottie Asia Argento (who, if I had the proper appendages, I'd totally have a stiffy for). Har Har Har... have a stiffy for. Pun totally intended.
Anyway, while I could post journal entry after journal entry about my recent obsession with 80's zombie romps, I'll spare you the pain and suffering. I'm still one of the living, and that means I have to work, which means I have to spend a half hour blow drying my hair. Starting....
Fuck this onslaught of shit weather. I could hardly even smoke in my car, and that's a tragedy. Between getting assaulted by shards of ice, trying to smoke, crossing over the treacherous Route 130 where, for some crazy reason, they allow left-hand turns, and busting a move to Young MC on Big 80's, it's a wonder I made it home in one piece.
Fortunately, I'm still alive. Now I'm going to drink until I nap, then I'm going to wake up and drink some more. And maybe cry a little. And cut myself.
OK, alright, I'm lying. I'm going to eat frozen pizza and watch zombie movies in my pajamas. I'll make a fort on my couch, snuggle up with Lord Vader, and giggle over the awesomeness of special effects circa 1985.
After watching The Secret Lives of Women: Shopaholics, I hereby ban tube tops and the word "cute" said with inflection to describe articles of clothing from my life... forever. Tube socks are still okay.
Surely, when one applies for a position with the New Jersey Department of Motor Vehicles, the following questions are asked:
Are you grossly unfuckable? Are you unreasonably rude? Do you own clunky brown boots? Would you have a problem with rolling your eyes at everyone? Do you know the definition of "mail?" Can you snottily explain it foreigners?
Can you talk about your personal life, loudly, while using a rubber stamp and/or stapler?
Based on my experience, I'd say all applicants must respond "yes" to any or all of the above questions to qualify for employment.
This morning I was stuck behind a very cheery lime green "FUN BUS". It promised "fitness and fun... on wheels!" Wheels that move very, very slow, apparently. I was hoping the driver was a clown or something, but it was just some hard life looking old lady smoking, which I think is de rigeur in the bus drivers market. Anyway, she was smoking! On a fitness and fun bus!
Cradle of Filth in like, 10 hours. I'm going to have to fight my way through every teenage goth sporting d-rings in the tri-state area to get a Bud Light in a plastic cup. I'll pull hair if I have to. That's just how I do shit.
You know you're jealous of my party girl lifestyle.
Stupid Walgreens. I wanted Revlon Cherry Tart lip stain, they didn't have it. I wanted Diet Pepsi, they only had Diet Coke. I wanted Sally Hansen Airbush Legs in Nude Glow, they only had Light Glow. Now I have a bag full of the wrong stuff. Stupid Walgreens.
Clearly, I'm upset about the whole thing. I'm going to watch Frontline.
In the deepest, darkest corner of the passenger side of my Honda, tucked safely under a seat without a "jewel" case, was The Chronic. That's right. The mother f'n Chronic. It wanted to be found. It wanted to be listened to. It wanted me to not give a fuck about ho's.
I got funky on the mic like an old batch of collard greens. Then I stopped and got coffee.
Man, I'm tired and I tried to go to sleep, but instead ended up "napping". At 11:00 at night. STUPID. Now I'm awake, and my boobs are sore, and I bit my thumbnail down to a painful level, and my sleepiness but not sleeping problem is causing my eyes to water, and I smoked too many cigarettes, and I'm all out of Diet Pepsi , and my cuddle buddy Darth Vader won't stop doing that mask-breathing thing, and there's nothing on TV besides Unwrapped and I don't need to know that much about ice cream. All of this makes me want to break stuff. Stuff that's easy to break, because otherwise it'd further piss me off.
Now that I got all that hefty complaining out of my system, I'm going to go listen to Mark Summers talk about the birthplace of the hot dog or something until I fall asleep, again.