02.Mar.2004

i still love billy idol, though.

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sex. attack.

Flesh for fantasy: I often have a difficult time conveying the velvetly licentious layers of every dirty thought ever harbored about a particular person or whim involving that person to, well, that person.

Why?

Because if I spread the pallid legs of my hippocampus to a morbid chance of defection, you may as well have just snatched all of my lesbian porn from my sweaty little hands and told me my tongue-lashing strumpets don't love me.

At any rate, yes, any rate you please, that's not the sole purpose for this update.

I'm frustrated for two reasons, one of which circles ever-so-dastardly around the execrable realization my computer, finally and vociferously, murdered itself. I'm updating from my brother's machine, where this darling child (who's six and a half years my senior, mind you), for some reason totally unbeknownst to my browser-infused fort�, utilizes Windows XP Professional.

Why, brother?! Why must you destroy yourself?! Can you not see the waves of others who apprize you? Oh, I shall remember you fondly.

I'm bent, laced, abused, and strapped for time here, however, I'm sparing a few minutes so you may spare shorter minutes over my incessant whinging, whining, constant hunger and rampant befuddlement with HP PCs.

To which I am grateful.

Naturally.

Your time, not my rampant befuddlement with popular computer manufacturers. Really, the confusion simplifies me to a state of inerudited shame, and mayhap I should spend the remainder of my time on this earth seeking a career through beauty school.

You could envision that, couldn't you? Me with mounds of unruly brown curls piled upon my benighted head, administering manicures to blondes in Betsey Johnson knock-offs, pestiferously chomping Bubblicious and reiterating the, "Ooh, honey-girl, yo man is gonna flip ovah these nails!" sentiment, couldn't you? It's believable, isn't it? You don't think I look fat in this stupidity, do you?

Flapdoodle!

I'm in an awfully silly mood. I think I'm manically attempting to cope with the loss of my machine, and I'm famished, and I'm out of green beans.

Now, returning to the pressing matters at hand, Danny, I do believe it goes without typing that I stretch my submissive skin cells before your exciting feet, amongst these electronic streets.
And.
If you can name both musical references above, then I suppose I'll simply have to proclaim to the masses exactly how much loving time you should put into making me a Caesar salad.

If you or anyone you know will vaguely miss me from this Damned intarweb, you can always purchase me a new computer. Or, you can send me Spam which reflects the length of (or shall we say, "lack thereof") your penis and e-mail me at that old familiar place you know and love.

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time & machine