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Biskit quote o' the night: "Oh, that's the pen that smelled like kerosene forever from that time in the cemetery."

Punkin, later, on that quote: "Oh yeah, my room smelled like kerosene forever too because of that."


that's okay. there was a bucket of ashes in the trunk of my car for months.

Tomorrow is Saturday. well, today now, technically. Tomorrow is more poking Bitsy Hopper. Sunday is likely to be more of the same. I have a dentist appointment Monday and am going to make gooey cookies #3 for that boy. I thought about devising a clever gooey cookie #5, but the recipe for #3 looks like it's going to make about a billion, and I do NOT want to keep any of them. Tuesday I get to go to lovely Dr. Braverman, who, we hope, will not remove my eyes from my head and play ping pong with them this time.

I just got home from Biskitworld. I love her because we are the same. I really need to brush my teeth. We talked about the same things we always talk about: men, boys, cleaning bathrooms, classes, and our surreal early childhoods. hee hee. we are evil and need shot, but it's fun. Other quote from her today. "[Reading that love letter] was like watching someone poop their pants in front of a lot of people." A note to all men who read this - Be paranoid. Be incredibly, gut-wrenchingly, agonizingly paranoid, because we mock you. Your hair, clothes, tastes in music, books, and movies, manner of speaking, writing style, every tiny little insecurity you've ever foolishly let us pick up on...we will pick apart everything, EVERYTHING, right down to which shoe you put on first.

After we break up/dissolve whatever twisted pseudo-relationship you or we think we had.

Before that, you're mostly safe.

Unless we're really tired and have had too much caffeine. To be safe, assume that our very best girl friends know every thought we've ever had on any topic concerning you.

Other stupid quoted quote o' the night. "If I weren't gay, I would definitely have been with her."

that kind of sums up my entire existence. *WHAM*

I have realized that my remaining issue on that subject is that I never got any closure. What I need is for him to admit that he was dragging me along by the hair and then to let me whack him a good one with a nice, sturdy mallet. Then we'll all be juuust fiiiiiiine.

I need someone to destroy. It's the primal urge to chaos. I cannot be held responsible. It's just...I don't know. These things happen, and then I'm like, what the fuck?

that was a really deep sentence, but it expresses what I mean rather well. I'm not one of the girls who set out to do it on purpose. not consciously, at least. brat. brat. brat. all girls are brats. I just don't have anything better to do than perfect the art. And I know all of the above is going to dig me into a deep deep hole, but it's three on a Friday night, it's not specifically relevant to any one person, and I DON'T CARE.

lord lord. I really need to hurry up and tweak Bitsyhopper to its temporarily final running state so I can start my real journal. I can only do this on a 486, preferably with MS Word 6.0. No one understands this. I can only pour out my real gut when confronted with the proper stimuli. Biskit and sugar on the wrong side of midnight, or a simulated antipookie.

time to scrape down the face and fall into bed. y'all shine.


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July 2015

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