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Virginia the Queen



Last Updated: 7/1/2009

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Gender: Female
Status: In a Relationship
Age: 27
Sign: Cancer

City: Atlanta
State: Georgia
Country: US
Signup Date: 9/15/2006

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Monday, October 02, 2006 
5:54 PM 
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Friday, September 29, 2006 
 
God damn you, Tom, if that's even your real name. God. Damn. You.
 
MYSPACE DOES NOT GIVE A SHIT ABOUT REASONABLY ACCURATE CODING.
 
I don't know that for a fact, I'm sure it's very well structured in some deep, foreign layer beneath the glittery pustule-covered surface, but I am presently frustrated beyond belief with the way you have to break code to make it function in the MySpace arena. I am not allowing for any possibility that it is I, Virginia the Queen, who has no idea what in the hell she's doing. I wonder if anyone else has noticed that? Probably not since this place is rife with copy-and-paste slash jobs. Lookit me ma, I'm totally posturing like some kind of 1337-ass and whatnot. Not really, but it is bothersome to have to rework things that already work. Maybe I've been with The Phone Company for too long (as if there is any doubt), I'm starting to talk like them...rework and whatnot. Ewwwww.
 
I should make an effort to individually address certain matters, but I lack the time and patience. If I owe you a response of some fashion just pick out the one you think applies and run with it.
 
-No, I won't Friend you. You're gross.
 
-So are you.
 
-If you don't Friend me, I am going to mess up your Rolodex.
 
-Chicken lo mein, actually
 
-9:15-in-the-Aye-EMM
 
-Pirates are so much better than ninjas. Duh. You can't tell me you'd rather leap around in a leotard than be an abusive, pillaging drunk doing nothing but kicking ass and counting yer gold all day.
 
-For $300, I better get the finest mother-loving souvenir this part of the Mason-Dixon divide has ever known, for reals.
 
-I'm no theologian or anything, but I am pretty sure there is no Saint Jimmy, and if there is, he's not the patron of Slim Jim processed beef snacks.
 
-If you call me one more time sobbing because you refuse to follow legitimate, friendly, concerned advice, I may have sex with your husband my damn self just so you'll stop speaking to me too.
 
-That's your real picture about like Maya Angelou is my real mama.
 
-You're going to snap those fingers in my direction again and I am going to reach out and snap them off, comprende?
 
-It's not cheating at Scrabble to have a large vocabulary.
 
-I hope the next time you go to the zoo, a monkey breaks free and bites you...hard.
 
-Before you hand in that paper on sexual deviance, please understand there is a great distance between the terms rapist and rapier.
 
-Stating "I disagree" behind every single "Agree or Disagree, then elaborate" prompt does not constitute as a complete assignment. As a matter of fact, it only serves to make me angry.
 
-You think I am going to be placated, I can tell. I'm not. I'm...angry in the really real-for-real-real sense. Whether or not you think I have a right or reason to be angry with you is of very little consequence to me. I am what I am, in all senses of the statement.
 
-They make pills for that now.
 
-You are enabling me to become the person I didn't want to be. Stop it.
 
-You misspelled unsatisfactory. You are the weakest link, goodbye.
 
 
4:47 AM 
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Wednesday, September 27, 2006 
Now that I'm making platelets again and not about to drop dead from exhaustion and the like, I am definitely going to make a serious attempt at beginning to get around to work on re-skinning vtq.com. I like the function/ability of WordPress, but it has certain constraints I've never faced before and therefore it requires more time and patience than I may've ever possessed to begin with. I was trying to explain to one of my sister's children the idea of a image source tag and embedding a photo file into a page, but I was doing it all wrong. I was doing it the right way, so it was wrong. It's not "open tag image source equals quotation mark URL quotation mark closed tag." Evidently, if you can't copy and paste it, you should remember it like this "pointy thing emmmga srick equal sign whole address with quotes around it other pointy thing. Then more. Then more." This is why, I believe, there are pages on MySpace covered in 9,000 images in varying degrees of disarray. At first I thought it was on purpose, done to offend the finer senses of anyone adult enough to meander on over for a little look-see, but it may be entirely possible the average fourteen year old is just stupid as fuck and these godawful layouts are the result of said stupidity, and a quarter-concept of hypertext markup.
 
Anyway, VTQ.com is due for a new face/skin/coat/whatever the applicable term at this time may be. I have decided to use this for it:
 
 
 
Appropriate, yes?
 
There was a drug bust at the nail salon I go to. I wasn't there, but Steve, the owner was telling me about it and had the newspaper article out, highlighted to the part where authorities are sure the salon wasn't involved in the activity. I told him to take it down, he'll get more customers that way.
 
Further proof I'm stupid:
 
1) When I saw the pictures in the paper of the two people they arrested, all I could think was "Oh, that's such a pretty picture of Xuan."
 
2) I'm kind of disappointed that she got arrested, she is one the best nail technicians I've ever met and she was funny. She did have this blackhead on the side of her nose I always just wanted to forcefully pop, but that's...just a another item for the Ways Virginia the Queen is a Nutjob list.
 
The woman is probably going into the federal court system, never to be heard from again and all I can remark is that the picture they used in the newspaper was pretty?
 
Furthermore, she's allegedly a gateway of illegal substances and I'm more concerned with the impact this will have my on my French manicure than the community's safety and integrity.
 
I might also be way more "forgiving" of the situation because I have a strange weakness of Vietnamese people. I say that the way some people say they can't get enough chocolate ice cream or Monday night football, which is wrong; I don't want to make them seem like a novelty or source of entertainment...I just think they're cool and obviously, in general, superior in culture, class, and conversation to a lot of the other people I know.
 
I wonder if/when Flogging Molly is going to be in the Atlanta area...or even Birmingham...or somewhere I could reasonably drive without becoming hopelessly lost and expatriating to Texas or something. They're next on my concert list. This is the same list I've kind of been ignoring for a while, I don't know why I'm so...interested all of a sudden.
 
I'm sure no one else knows you actually expatriate when you move to Texas, but it's true. I've seen it happen. 

Speaking of borders, and going South of them for no reason:
 
The Boy does not like Mexican food. That's not a dealbreaker or anything as far as I know, but I'm kind of amused by the way he told me this, as if I would suddenly decry the spicy goodness altogether because he said he didn't like it. Don't even think about trying to come between a girl and a quesadilla, bud. I'm also a wee bit bothered by this recent development (and it is recent, he didn't harbor ill will to jalapenos, etc. four months ago) that has now suddenly been etched in stone. To hear him tell it, he's always hated the food of Meh-E-Coh and its bastardized American counterparts but I'm just too self-centered to notice. Right. And I'll suddenly start liking fish and everyone will believe I've always been into seafood. Whatever.
 
Speaking of water-dwelling creatures and the fact I don't eat them:
 
I am so excited about The Little Mermaid coming out on DVD. Why? Even if it's understood that I am a total retard, it still defies explanation. I loved that movie as a child, and still do. I might whip it out and watch it now except I wore out the VHS tape years and years ago. I still have it, though, and doubt I'll ever elect to part with it. I'm not even all that interested in the supposed pornographic aspect. I've never freeze-framed to see if the abbot truly had an erection, or if there were strategically placed penises all over the landscape. I think the human brain can make anything it wants out of anything else, as can be evidenced by a lot of advertising campaigns, but that doesn't necessarily mean that the animators made it this way deliberately.
 
There were a bunch of people back in the day who complained that it looked like Vulcan was a little too happy to be on his perch, so to speak. I've been all around that mofo and I never detected it, but other people could clearly see it was there and wanted to complain. Human beings, in type, like to bitch...a lot. Some crazy man was blowing up the IC line the other night because he was given that number years and years ago by an AM who extended her best service and offered him an extra callback number and blah blah blah if you run into any trouble, you just give me a call... This meant that he was harassing me for the better part of forty minutes about some bu-sheeeeyet I have absolutely no control or influence over. I palmed him off on someone else who couldn't help him either; 'tis The Phone Company way. That sounds terrible, but there are simply some problems that have no resolution within the confines of the illustrious network cesspool of telecommunications technology. In my not-very-expert opinion, the only help said man really needed was an antipsychotic prescription to help him calm down. It is unbelievably impolite to scream at a stranger just because it's an exchange over the phone and you're relatively certain I can't reach out and slap you upside the head. He did offer some entertainment value, otherwise I wouldn't be rambling about him in my 'blog. People who want to be important and posture as such are always funny. He kept throwing in police/emergency services/whatever codes into his sentences, like I was supposed to know what they meant in the broad scope of things. "We received a report, a 572,009,138-BBQR that a woman was DOWN in a residence..." It was almost like those kids with Tourette's who just toss in some inappropriately spaced profanity at the strangest of times. I should've done the same thing, just to see if he would react. "Well sir, I do-45-dash-L-apologize for your dissatisfaction 91-dash-11 and I will do everything in my power-STAT-to help you attain the level of customer service you-17-QRS-99 deserve... He probably wouldn't have noticed, since he was too busy trying to bully me via the phone. Loser.
 
If, by likely chance, I am pulling a Nancy Grace and being wrong all over the place about Ariel and Scuttle, and that Eric guy, and Ursula and...whoever else, and Disney studios lets perverts make their kiddie cartoons...I don't think that's going to be the corrupting straw on the backs of the world's camel-children. I watched the video daily for a couple of years and I think I turned out a-ok. Totally.
 
I briefly hung out with Chas. That was supposed to be normal, but somehow it made me feel old as hell. I am old as hell, but I don't HAVE to feel like, especially at the hands of Chas.
 
I am also trying to figure out why it's perfectly fine for me to drive all over humanity with my nephew at ungodly hours of the night, but if I happen to have errands to run after midnight and I go by myself, it's tantamount to taking an overdose of sleeping pills and leaving the gas on.
 
I got stuck LIC the other night, so I left work shortly after midnight. On my way home, I stopped at the bank to put some checks in the night depository because I didn't get to do it earlier. I put them in at the ATM's deposit thingie, so I had to get out of my car and walk up. Around the time I managed to wrestle the very last damp envelope out of the entirely misguided ledge labeled "Envelopes," as in plural, more than one soggyass piece of stationery, The Boy decided to give me a call. In some parts of the world I hear people get greeted with things like "Hi, how are you?" or "Hello, what might you be doing?" I, on the other hand, get "Where you at?"
 
I revealed my oh-so-secret location (Wachovia, downtown) and that warranted a flood of other questions, none of which pertained to information I find to be anyone's business but my own.
 
For starters "Why are you there?"
 
I don't know of any other way to put money in the bank, except to deposit it. Did I miss something?
 
He went off about how it was retarded for me to be at the bank alone, at night, outside.

Because, really, someone is totally going to hit the jackpot by stealing a $50 rebate check from Best Buy, the check Dweedle wrote me to repay the $20 I loaned her like twelve thousand years ago, and the $12 BCBS-A deems I overpaid at my last dental appointment.
 
If you're going to go to the trouble to hold someone up for that pittance, you obviously need it more than I do. Sheesh. Never mind the fact no one is staking out the ATM at Wachovia. This is a cul-de-sac of culture in the Southeast, not a great big metropolis of high-margin crimes.
 
He kept on yelling, so I just put my phone down on the seat and went driving on my merry way. I stopped at the post office to buy stamps out of the machine, and when I got back to the car he was still reading me the Riot Act. I drove home, he was still bitching at me over the phone. I got all the way through brushing my teeth and putting a load of clothes in the dryer before he realized the entire point was long, long gone. That just made him angrier. Whatever. The more I let myself think about it, the more I am about ready to tell him to make a left at the corner and keep going. That is a terrible attitude to have.
 
My threshold for giving a flying fuck what people think or do is diminished beyond recognition at this point.
 
Stache is trying to start some shit and I'm not even compelled to participate in her drama, which is indeed rare; I loves me some melodrama. Her inadequacies are showing and she's ghetto trash, which is about all there is to be said about it; I can't possibly imagine what she thinks she has that she likewise thinks is impressive/intimidating to me. She needs someone to wax that Burt Reynolds mustache she has going on and revise some of the stories she tells before she even begins to think she holds any sway over anyone, much less me.
 
Blah. I am stagnating in this place and I need to just consider my losses, break camp and head my wagons elsewhere...or is that a John Wayne movie? Either way, this place, this job, this environment, these people, this...situation, the new fabric softener I bought = The Suck.
 
 
3:12 AM 
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Thursday, September 21, 2006 
The world is chock full of yahoos. A lovely gentleman in Southern Florida has taken quite a fancy to me, and my cockamamie beliefs. So stricken is he with the idea that I can say and think any goddamn way I want to, any goddamned time I like that he's taken to sending me love notes on the daily. Sure, Fergie-Ferg urinates on herself and gets admirers bearing Dolce & Gabbana goodies. I state my opinions on my own website and get deep-fried bullshit slung my way. How is it that Freedom of Speech is only allowed in the minds of people like Mr. Florida when it's the speech they want to hear? I'm perfectly, 100% a-okie-dokey with him, and others, not appreciating my viewpoints. I don't ask anyone to agree with me, and I don't necessarily swear that I am entirely accurate in the assessments I make. The thing is, ladies and gents, if you don't like what I say: don't read it.
 
Or, if you can't stop yourself, you can tell me I'm wrong; I hear that a lot. I'm a big girl, I can handle it. There is a vast difference in telling me my opinions differ from yours and I must not logically comprehend the magnitude of a situation for whatever reasons you care to state, and in telling me that if I like the Taliban so very much I should wander on over to Afghanistan and find myself a passel of them to gang-rape me. No, thank you, that's okay. I live in an Army town. I can find enough dirty, underpaid militants to satisfy any masochistic needs I might feel flare up without having to use all my frequent flyer miles.
 
The approach taken by this individual, Mr. Florida, is not very uncommon. It is however, highly ineffective and rather cumbersome. It's funny that he wants to intimidate me from across the Internet Superhighway. I'm supposed be frightened by this big, bad man using relatively small, dangerous words to pique my senses and make me cower.
 
Bitch-comma-please.
 
Getting off on self-righteousness is one thing, but if the only way you can feel validated is to imagine me violated, then you have issues even Dr. Phil won't want to touch.
 
At the end of the day, I still have a loud mouth and you're still a son of a bitch. I'm not going to argue with you about it. The thing is, though, Mr. Florida, I'm not what's wrong with the world. You can threaten me with "exposure" to Homeland Security all you want. I'll bet they have operators standing by, ready to take your call. I'm sure the NSA has more wiretaps running through my world than I care to know about and no one's busting down my door like I've hidden Elián González in my bathtub or something. Therefore, it reasons to assume you don't have much of a case; I don't care how many NRA meetings you've been to.

I'm not a terrorist, except maybe to my sister's kids or to my dumbass coworkers at The Phone Company, but that's not the sense of the word you're wetting your pants over. I pose no threat to national security. If every American citizen linked arms and sang We Are the World, other nations and fanatical a-holes would still be taking shots at us. My lack of complacence during this time of so-called national upheaval is not going to be the blow that brings down the beast. I haven't threatened you, or made allusions to your personal safety. I have, unlike you, never promised to come around and cut anyone's head off. You want to decapitate me? Bring it on, big boy. I'll even put down some Saran Wrap to save the carpet.
 
If I am the problem, is that to mean you are the solution? What service or protection do you provide the American nation? Bitching at me? If that's the case, my parents need an effing Congressional Medal of Honor apiece for all the times they've been on my ass about something. I can't help but cringe at how the irony escapes you. You're getting your groove thang on to The Star Spangled Banner because you feel that's the best defense to people who breed terror amongst other citizens of the world to suppress individualism and promote the way they best see fit. But, in turn, you're trying to employ the same mechanisms to make me stop saying things you don't like to hear. If I was a book, you'd burn me. If I was a politician, you'd shoot me in the back as I walked into a crowd. If I was a movie, you'd censor me. Or would you? Would you have the testicular fortitude or the power to do any of those things? Because I'm just a name on the Web, you feel accomplished by trying to Dumb me to death to promote your own agenda.
 
Because I am a nice girl, and would probably be more than happy to put you out with an icepick if I saw you on fire someplace, I've made up a list of pointers to help you along in your future terrorist activities:
 
1) I am not that popular, or stupid. Making up thirty different E-mail addresses with the same free mail service, does not even begin to convince me that there are thirty individuals in the world who hate me to the exact extent you do, sir. Also, it's a little odd that these thirty people all misspell the same exact words you do. I don't even get your need to hide behind "numbers." You supposedly have God Himself, the American military and the entire Bush Administration rallying behind you to waste my time...why do you need to invent imaginary friends to help you along? I didn't block your E-mail address when this started because I know how easy it is to circumvent something like that. I won't even get into the fact each of these thirty unique identities stem from the exact same mofo'ing computer. Be serious.
 
2) Calling me a lesbian doesn't make your penis any bigger. If it's supposed to insult me or somehow hurt my feelings to know that I come across as oh noes! a d-y-k-e! omgz! to you, it doesn't. The fact that you and I are so incongruent as individuals does not determine my sexual orientation simply because you claim to be male, my birth certificate swears I was born a girl, and you want me to know you'd never fuck me. This is delightful news, honestly. The less losers like you I attract, the better. It is kind of insulting that this is all you can think to bring to the table. My ten year old nephew you can tear some shit up better than you and he still has a bedtime.
 
3) Don't tell me I don't love this country and you do when it's obvious you're just sitting on your ass trolling the Internet to pick a fight because your access to kiddie porn is blocked or something. Why don't you go enlist in some branch of something somewhere? I'm sure there are grenades to be thrown and lawns to be mowed far, far away from the likes of me. Maybe you'll get really lucky and find yourself a nice gig checking IDs at the PX on some base in the middle of the Midwest. The endurance of freedom depends on you, Mr. Florida, so hop to it and leave me to my sinful ways.
 
4) Arguing religion when you obviously don't have one, is about like trying to tell someone what brand of tampons to buy when you don't menstruate. I've read the Bible, I've read the Koran, I've got an extensive background in the works of Dr. Seuss. I've read enough fortune cookies I'm probably even considered, in some trailer parks, to be well-versed in Confucianism. Hell, I wasted three hours of my life on The Da Vinci Code, Kumar's mama's fed me enough naan to make me an honorary Sikh, and I subscribe to Martha Stewart Living. It reasons to assume I have at least some grasp of some of the major world religions. If you want to get down to it, I own a couple of Marilyn Manson albums so I'm probably a Satanist by certain societal criteria. Nowhere, at all, has there ever been a burning bush, commandment from the Heavenly Father, slaughtered lamb, or interpreted portent that says: "Mr. Florida is the way, the truth and the light. Whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." You know why that is? BECAUSE IT'S NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT POSSIBLE. Come to think of it, buddy, I've never read a religious text that explicitly promises salvation to anyone who makes such an ass of himself. You might want to look into it before you tell me you are empowered by God. God, I'm sure, doesn't know you from that other fuckup, Adam.
 
5) Cover your ass. If you want to drop figurative trou and show me your buttocks, at least make it a challenge to find out where you are. I didn't even have to call The Mad Scientist for help. Not only that, but you filled in valid contact information when you bitched at my hosting manager that it's their duty as Americans (they're in India, chump) to shut me down. Interstate transmission of threats applies to E-mail, too.
 
I'd kind of like to know who bestowed upon you the right to tell me what to do and what gives you the audacity to expect me to listen? You're definitely not my daddy, and even he gave up on trying to make me stfu a looong time ago. You're not my priest. You're not my boss. You're not my boyfriend because Lord knows he already knows not to start an argument like this. You're not my hairdresser or my best friend. You're not my bank manager. You're not my auto mechanic. You're not the CSR at Walmart. You're not the Central Branch librarian who ssshs even when no one is talking. You're not a member of my local community's, friendly homeless-people-beating police force. You're not any lawmaker I've ever heard of or been asked to give campaign money to. Your thumbs oppose enough you can use a computer, which tells me you're not a Bush. You haven't invited me to take a shower with you, so I know you're not Jesus. Who are you to tell Virginia the Queen what to do? Please don't say you're an American and that's what gives you the right. Eighty percent of the Mexicans I know are American and they don't speak enough English to get started with me, so that's not it.
 
I know what I just said, but I changed my mind. I really don't think I want to know what's up with you. I think I'd prefer it if you'd just go play in traffic or something.
10:23 PM 
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Tuesday, September 19, 2006 
I've come across many, many websites of variable merit in my time spent online. I thought I'd share.
 
WTF? Things:
 
Date Jesus
Jesus wants to absolve your sins in the shower, yes he does.
 
Posh Tots
I don't have kids, but even if I did, I wouldn't be dropping $17k on a ride-on toy for them.
 
Dead Baby Photo Retouching Service
Not only is the photo retouching sub-par, it's also creepy as fuck.
 
Charity's Place
Neo-Con reviews of popular culture films. Because, really, everyone should care that there's supposedly a penis-shaped shadow in the middle of a three-second frame from a Disney movie.
 
 
Fun Things:
 
Get Your War On
This web comic sums up the way I'd describe my feelings on the Iraqi conflict, if I was a comic artist.
 
All I have to say is, One this is over, the Iraqi people better be the freest fucking people on the face of the earth. They better be freer than me. They better be so fucking free they can fly.
 
What's Your Sign, Baby?
http://www.ophira.com/astrology/signmain.html I don't know which part I liked MORE, the part where it told me I am the OJ Simpson of the Zodiac, or the part where it said The Boy and I should cease and desist immediately.
 
Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About
This is funnier than allll of my sister's marriages combined.
 
360-degree virtual tour of the Great Wall of China
There are worse ways to lose yourself for half an hour on an idle Thursday afternoon.
 
Found Magazine
An online magazine that publishes pieces of paper found here and there.
 
Post Secret
People confess things anonymously via postcards sent to a common address. I think a lot of them are made up for dramatic effect, but some are beautiful and very heartfelt. I own the book.
 
Safe Haven for Donkeys in the Holy Land
I'm buying my sister a donkey for Christmas.

World Rankings
Because looking them up yourself would be redundant.
 
Rooftop Zen Garden
Look carefully, my friends. One day you will be helping me make one.
 
HubbleSite.org
This is my boyfriend's favorite website, he could look at abstractions of planets and cosmic mass all day, but supposedly I'm a freak because I'd probably scrub-a-dub-dub w/ Jesus Christ. Sure.
 
Solitaire Scrabble
I'm so good with word games, I pwn myself, suckas.
 
Shopping:
 
Archie McPhee
I do a lot of my Christmas shopping here
 
Amphigory
If I ever decide to morph myself into a life-size Jem and the Rockers character, this will be how I do it.
 
Tesoros Trading Company
I love this store.
 
 
 
6:07 PM 
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Monday, September 18, 2006 
1) You know you have to be like the worst kind of person when I can take the time to think you're cruel to animals.
 
 
2) Joe-Joe called me a lazy bitch on the phone this afternoon. I deserve it, even if he is four years old, since I guess I taught him to say it. I blame his mother; she's the one who gave him all of her childhood toys to play with. What four year old boy needs to play with the My Little Ponies and a Strawberry Shortcake kitchen? He had her Rainbow Brite doll, but her husband took it away.
 
I digress.
 
I saw the illustrious Mr. Joseph playing with the plastic pony menagerie and he told me they were about to go rob a bank, complete with GI Joe's hard, plastic arsenal. I told him when I was a child my ponies just hung out in the beauty parlor; they were lazy bitches like that. If he'd learned to say "beauty parlor" and not "lazy bitch," I don't think I'd be forced to recount this today. Nonetheless, as I got ready to leave him to felonious fantasy, I heard him herding the ponies: "Come on, lazy bitches."
 
Lee called me later on to say she'd been in the kitchen after I left and her firstborn toddled in, hugged her legs and said "Mama, I love you; you a lazy bitch."
 
Her husband arrived home from work and was asked if he knew Mama was a lazy bitch.
 
On the telephone a couple of days later, he said "Gramma, you lazy bitch?"
 
Lee's mother is older than my mom and lacks even half the sense of humor. Thank God for the mangled speech of a young child. "What, baby...your legs are itching?"
 
Anyway, my dear, sweet, home-making friend phoned me on my way to the gas station for that $2.22 Regular Unleaded and said the fruit of her loins had something he wanted to say to me:
 
"Ge-gini-gi-ah, my mama not lazy bitch. YOU lazy bitch."
 
I should've known better than to say it in front of him, but he's also just prone to picking up stuff.
 
His father (deliberately) taught him to say "Ima open-fist punch you cause my pimp hand is skrong."
 
He can say "strong," but "skrong" is supposed to add to the effect of a little kid making such a statement. That fat-faced Welch's Grape Juice boy has nothing on Joe-Joe the Potty Mouth.
 
3) I hate my effing job.
 
4) If you are too stupid to use an apostrophe, I hereby revoke your right to say "you all." It's "Y'all," goddamn it. I don't know why people insist on trying to pass it off as "Ya'll."
 
5) Lime green doesn't belong on pale girls for a reason. You look like an oversized Glo-worm doll, only not as cuddly or mentally stimulating.
 
6) Charlatan kept turning my nameplate upside down, so I wrote "Hermaphrodite Love" on his Hawaiian Tropic Girl poster. This is going to be a fun semester or four.
 
7) Those granola bars from Caribou Coffee are better than they ought to be.
 
8) I want a living room with a Zen Garden floor.
 
9) I pointed out to Marmee today that I'll bet sometimes BossBoss is like "Get the hell out of my office. Go play Minesweeper or duke it out in the copy room, or whatever, but quick dragging in the roadkill of your poor interpersonal relationships like I'm supposed to give you a catnip treat."
 
10) All that Handout Drama+ from last week was traced back to Taper. That so totally figures.
 
11) Is it just me, or if the ceiling is FUCKING LEAKING GALLONS OF WATER, wouldn't you think to move away from it, especially if you are personally plugged into a major electronic device? Common with the sense, my peeps. For realz.
 
12) Last night I dreamed Mama came to pick me up from work (!) and drove me to the ophthalmologist's office and a woman inside tried to give me a pageboy haircut. I obviously cannot multitask on the subconscious level at all.
 
13) I need to skin my site in the worst kind of way, but I'm making a blog post instead. VtQ.com needs a makeover about like I need a makeover.
 
14) Mr. Justin Timberlake has not brought sexy back. It didn't go anywhere, but if it did, it would not rely on the musical stylings of that fuckwit to retrieve it. The only thing it brought back was the headache I tried to get rid of.
 
15) There are innumerable reasons I am usually LIC as opposed to EIC, including, but not limited to, the fact I hear stuff at 5:30 in the morning.
 
16) I'm trying to decide if I want to pay $11 shipping to avoid having to drive to the New Mall. Joey is right. I AM a lazy bitch.
 
17) I need to find out who to make program interface suggestions to. This SysRed:99Err/ stuff is not going to get it. My coworkers and constituents need more user-friendly error messages. I recommend things like "It to' up," "You done brokeded it now." "This comin out yo check," for starters.
 
18) When they finally legalize stem cell research and its subsequent gene therapy, Donald Trump's bald ass needs to get injected with some of Suri Cruise's DNA. That kid's got enough hair to knit into a tea cozy or something.
 
19) I need to stop drinking so much blueberry green tea.
 
20) When are boatneck tops coming back into fashion?
 
21) Winsor Pilates, we have determined, is for people with greater hand-eye coordination and equilibrium than I presently possess.
 
22) I need to go to the pharmacy for some ear candles, but I am living up to my Lazy Bitch mantle.
 
23) The Boy wants me to go see his acupuncturist. I do not do needles, snakes or gender confusion. What a terrible circus freak I'd make! I cannot decide at this moment if that's a good thing or not.
 
24) I overheard a woman asking the cashier at Winn Dixie if she could bring back her bagged salad if it had E. coli in it. I know the first thing I'd want to attend to after contracting a bacterial infection is getting my $1.99 back.
 
25) I am the reason they make jokes about childproof caps.
 
26) Laurie's dumb ass read a recipe that called for 1/4 cup oil. She didn't have any, so she sprayed an entire can of Pam cooking spray into the batter. She called me to ask why this didn't work. I hung up on her.
 
27) I got my bracelet fixed.
 
28) I am debating buying another Lip Veil to replace the one I lost. I probably won't do it, but I must take the steps to debate the pros and cons. Maybe I would make an okay circus freak after all.
 
29) Fat girls don't wear choli, okay? I know it. Deep down, I know the people trying to act like they never heard this rule know it as well. It is very simple logic: If you don't have a midriff, it's more of an overhang...you can't bare your midriff.
 
30) Rufus Wainwright is strange in ways I don't think people will realize for at least seven or eight generations.
 
31) I needed to start my research two weeks ago. I'll be saying this in six weeks when I still haven't gotten on it. Maybe Joey is a prophet, or some kind of soothsayer. He can totally call a lazy bitch when he sees one.
 
32) For future reference, when I say something or someone is Georgian, I don't mean they are UGA affiliated.
 
 
 
 
I'm going to sleep.
1:19 AM 
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Friday, September 15, 2006 

I guess the other MySpace account I had was deleted for inactivity, or I can't remember the E-mail address I used for it...or something. Whatever. Now I have a new one. I've had to re-friend certain people and that is just...not awesome.

 

I just remembered why I didn't buy into MySpace months/years ago.
 
-I am not a rocket scientist or anything, but I know my way around an upload form. Nevertheless, I cannot make my default image show up. The one I uploaded isn't "default" worthy, but why would I go through the ordeal of uploading the right stuff if it won't function with the stand-in?
 
-My HTML for my profile WAS valid, but it made the page look all askew. I had to INVALIDATE my HTML coding to make it look right. That is wrong on so many levels. Fucking bastardized coding.
 
-I find myself smack-dab in the middle of a bunch of people who see nothing wrong with running several videos simultaneously on the same mofo-ing page. This is more than a wee bit disconcerting.
 
-There are a lot of people I didn't like sharing a planet with ten years ago, and most of them have created a MySpace profile

 

9:14 PM 
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