…it does smell like the Exxon Valdez ran aground outside my window when they were attempting to put oil into my building.
Perhaps the oil man sneezed when he was trying to stick his hose in the socket, and sent it spraying everywhere?
It be talk like a pie-rat day! so shiver me timbers and pass the grog, I be lookin’ fer a wench (“Prepare to be boarded!” I’ll say).
Speaking of booty, who be wantin’ this horrible thing?
“I miss you! do you miss me?”
“sure….”
“no! wroooong answer”
“no…”
“no?”
“I mean, uh, yes”
“oh love, you’re playing bingo with my emotions!”
“…. bingo?”
–
Also, apparently, ‘punch drunk’ isn’t the term used to describe people who act drunk when drinking non-spiked punch, and instead comes from boxers who get the stupids from being smacked about a lot.
I hope I’m not the only one who thought this, though, as usual, I can blame Pamela, as the evening of the night I met her six years ago, she told me I was acting punch drunk, introducing me to the term.
CLEARLY IT’S HER FAULT.
Jasmine:
i’m bored
and should sleep
Jamie:
me too
you can crash on my couch if you want
you’ll have to move the guitars though
Jasmine:
heh
sounds tempting
Jamie:
it’s a marvelous couch
it’s an Autobot. It’s currently in ‘bed’ mode
Jasmine:
like in “transformers”
do you have any deceptecons?
Jamie:
I did. They were in ‘Banana’ mode, and then they turned into ‘smoothie’ mode, which proved to be their undoing.
—-
I’ve started uploading pictures since the last update, which was roughly 3.7 billion years ago.
Here are the naughty bits of some otherwise respectable plants (ask a subject to model for you, and you can shoot anything with them):
I’ve decided that should it ever come to it, my best course of action for striking at the tyrannical empire of the USA (You! Es! Eh! You! Es! Eh!) will be to get arrested for having brown skin and a funny name, then get tossed into a detention centre without charge, be abused, and finally kill myself.
That’ll surely strike a massive blow to the American Hegemony.
… was wonderful, congratulations to the happy couple who fortunately don’t read this site, but I’ve got nothing bad to say about them anyway, unlike other people, like my great uncle Moody who’s a total ass.
My playing was apparently well received (or people are polite liars), though I wasn’t really comfortable; the guitar wouldn’t tune and the electronics cut out. I really want to start playing out though, so it ought to get easier.
There was also no liquid courage (not sure it helps me, though, maybe smoking a fag?)
We had a delightful and simple meal tonight of sautéed shrimp (with a metric shit-ton (about 2.3 imperial tonnes) of garlic), French bread and fruit punch spiked with mango flavoured tropical rum (my parents would be shamed to know about this bastard-rum concoction being consumed by their spawn).
I never thought I’d be writing about my meals on the internet. “Dear diary, I thought about doing something banal today, but instead I settled on something merely trivial and mundane and am now writing about it.”.
I plead that ‘sautéed pr0n’ was worth it. If only I could post some suitable pictures for the title, but I suspect my personal well being will benefit from this minor difficulty though – women are so touchy about some things.
Speaking of touchy women (no, not like that, unfortunately, get your mind out of the gutter), my better (worse?) half objects to me singing along to the cars driving by, usually the singing out the pounding ‘phat’ beats, or the other day speculating that the Civic that just scrapped along sounded much like farting into a kazoo would, and then imitating that with my mouth, as sadly I didn’t have a kazoo on me, and I was politely stopped while fetching a comb and wax paper – I conceded that we were on a sidewalk in broad daylight, and it might be bothersome to some local parishioners (I’m all about compromise).
PS: I’ve decided to pass on this link as important public service. Perfectly work safe, except for a few bits that aren’t safe, if you work in one of those totalitarian places.
