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K☆KO, Princesswings (THAT'S ME!!!), Starfighter Tigerlily (also the steampunk reboot Star-fighter Tiger-lily), does still update this journal occasionally, despite the abandoned appearance. If you would like to be admitted to our inner circle, please submit your request for consideration.
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Dad decided he was too old to be driving a stick shift and so has purchased a new vehicle. Thus I am soon to come into possession of Jank-Ass Hand-Me-Down #2: Honda Edition. It is a 2004 Accord and not something I would have chosen for myself even when new, but I will take it for "free" (I suspect it needs a good amount of brake work and probably tires and also detailed 3x because omg filth). This, however, means I will have to dispose of Baby, the long-suffering, dearly beloved 1995 Saturn they gave me to take to college in 1998 and that I have been driving since then (literally half my life). THIS IS A PROBLEM. It runs fine but also needs brake work and is slowly but steadily rusting out underneath. But I am super hung up on it and it basically symbolizes my youth and if Dad hadn't sold the farm years ago I would just park it there and mound dirt over it and eventually it would sprout plants with buds that look like little shift knobs.

THEY AUCTION DONATED CARS. HOW CAN I SEND BABY TO AUCTION. What reward is that for twenty years of service. But the me that is cheap frugal enough to drive a beat-up Saturn to 230,000 miles cannot quite bring herself to pay storage costs either. There is no winning here.

I can't think about this and not cry, which is like the epitome of middle class white girl first world problems: oh no you drove your free car into the ground here look daddy will give you another to finish off. but seriously I am having irrational drama queen issues. My family is hopeless at best and toxic at worst, and most of my friends are not fully present, but Baby has been more loyal to me than I have to myself and I guess I just hate to let go of the only thing I've ever thought loved me no strings attached, inanimate object or not. It is like the Velveteen Rabbit and has become Real.
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I am confused about why the fortieth anniversary Saturday Night Live event was held on a Sunday. I have not seen this questioned anywhere else so must assume I am just obtuse. I've never actually watched any* so probably am not qualified to judge what is to be expected.

* this is not a pretentious "your lowbrow comedy is beneath me" comment.** my weird cultural bubble nurtured since adolescence just failed to include any current American television programming for reasons. LUCK OF THE DRAW, shall we say, and move on.

** I am just feeling super apologist lately, probably because I am feeling super hateful lately and am afraid everything I say will be misinterpreted to be as snarky as I really mean a mere 65% of it.

Annie finally dropped her baby, so I need to complain about yet something else that doesn't affect me in any way whatsoever (see above) so BUCKLE UP, GENTLE READERS:

I find even the theoretical concept of babies to be paralyzing in much the same way that a fitness instructor screaming GO GO GO causes every molecule in my body to freeze in place. I nope right the fuck out mentally and emotionally and occasionally will go full blown panic attack over it. None of my first-tier friends have reproduced, and I have only the one sister who seems unlikely to breed, so any kind of informal desensitization therapy is not likely. I'm sure it's another manifestation of my total failure to mature mentally past about twenty, OR MAYBE it's Darwin. I waffle.

I still haven't forgiven myself for my reaction to Biskit's wedding, either. Or "non-reaction," as I couldn't even process that enough to RSVP and be that minimally socially acceptable. In my diseased little brain, a person marrying another person is the same level of weird as a person marrying a goat. okay? I guess? if you really want to? do I like. send a card? When she first texted me about it, I felt more or less like most people do about a Presidental assassination or extreme natural disaster on another continent. You wake up one morning in a slightly altered universe, where dangerous, terrible things can happen. Your friends can suddenly get married or have babies like animals and it's JUST NOT OKAY NOTHING WILL EVER BE OKAY

I would die of cancer without health insurance before I would legally entangle myself with anyone's bullshit. You can be totes drop dead in love, and they can get hit by a bus and become a vegetable and you have to sell your house and spend down all your assets to qualify for a Medicaid bed in a nursing home, or they can leave you for a blonde half your age because they have a secret tiny brain tumor turning them into an asshole or maybe they've secretly been an asshole the whole time, or maybe they have huge student loans that can't be discharged in bankruptcy and then can't find a job and suddenly your car's repossessed while you're at work one day. Maybe I have trust issues (looool maybe), but I'm not saying I think it highly likely that anyone's going to fuck you over ON PURPOSE. It can absolutely happen through ignorance or accident or a thousand tiny ways. If I go down in flames, it will be through my own fault, and I'm not dragging anyone else with me.

And Annie, for God's sake, her idiot husband is too lazy even to get a driver's license, he's 33 years old and his aunt had to yell at him for wiping snot on the wall, WHY would you choose to perpetuate those genes? seriously? BECAUSE her sister had a baby and she became all hormone-riddled and stupid. I should actually be delighted, as it's the perfect excuse to quit even pretending like we'll ever hang out again. Everyone knows I'm allergic to children. I'm glad it was born successfully though, as she's 39 and considerably overweight, and if something had happened I would have felt like my negative energy projected out in the universe had somehow contributed. because it's all about meeee.

or maybe I'm just envious of everyone and everything. because the only man I'll ever really love was made up inside my head (see: Sylvia).

or maybe babies really are just gross.

NEXT TIME: why I'm depressed about my job, how exercise is vastly overrated, and how I totally flipped my shit at my annual checkup tomorrow. STAY TUNED.
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I spent the last fifteen minutes dancing naked in my kitchen to the San Diego Symphony.

Just because I can.

The three screws in my hip are named Athos, Aramis, and Porthos.
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When I was at Walmart today, I saw a giant pile of the new Harry Potter book on a big table, totally ignored by all shoppers.

I thought of you all and smirked.

I've read them alll merely because Dad has bought them all. Brat has the new one, and I'll probably read it when she's done. I personally don't have any real feeling about the series one way or the other.
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In a pathetic attempt to motivate myself to start chucking in this thing again, I am emulating the esteemed [ profile] brakspants and opening the floor for random questions.
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I am forced to attend a barbecue this evening. There will be meat and beer, both in large quantities, neither of which hold the slightest interest for me. I was instructed to bring "a salad."

A Salad:
Napa cabbage
organic whole-wheat couscous made with organic miso broth
aduki beans
dried nori
shiitake mushrooms

There are subtle degrees of snark.
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October approaches and saturates my senses, neither scent nor taste, yet both and still more. It envelops me like smoke, vapors rising from phoenix ashes. All things die in winter to be born again, and autumn is the blaze of glory, the trail of the comet. The transient beauty in all things becomes more apparent as it peaks and fades; the bittersweet tang quickens my blood, the current pulling relentlessly. The squirrel outside the window digs with tiny paws, eyes shining blackly with blind thought of ACORN, and my hands curl with the feel of fur. Everything is so perfect within itself. A kernel of popcorn is a raindrop until it becomes a snowflake, and where is a greater miracle than that? I am spellbound by the pumpkins in their bins; smooth, orange rinds slide under my fingers. The ridges and dimples and cracks are a secret message to those who care to read. I want to take it all in, but I am not large enough to hold the world and can only stand in the wind transfixed as it runs through me. It is an agony of impossibility, that the universe even is, that a pumpkin exists, and therefore all things are possible. It leaves me moon-mad to a degree, and I dance in unlikely public places.
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I wish this exact moment would last forever. I am wearing leopard pants and thatboy's Lain shirt, have Sailormoon hair and no makeup but eyeliner, have a diet Coke and a lap full of little Tootsie Rolls, my playlist is 11.5 hours long set to shuffle, and I am scattering random BEEPs throughout this BECAUSE I CAN.

all my teeth are falling out, but I don't care.
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I am bored. According to this, I am 31.1% geek, which explains a lot. Another said I am 90% mentally pure.


Mom dragged out a bunch of old pictures of my dad for me to paw through and steal. You don't realize how amusing this is unless you know my dad was born in 1932, so we're talking OLD pictures. All the chicks he hung out with in high school look like poster girls for Grease. it's kind of scary. I should scan these and pass the link around to people I know who have had his classes.

Bitsy Hopper and I are playing with QBasic.

I am not real.
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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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I am back and mostly alive.

Thatboy's family didn't quite destroy me completely. I like his mother and aunt and am afraid of his father and uncles, which is how it usually seems to happen. I am always afraid of everyone's male relations.

The dog liked me. I dislike dogs. I am not yet quite sure I've forgiven that boy for being so amused when it jumped at me and I ran downstairs making high-pitched squeaking noises.

I wish his dad wouldn't tell ME to make him get better grades. as though I can do something about it.

Then I came home, decided our house was too filthy for me to stay here, and vacuumed and dusted the world.

I had a whole list of shit to do today and haven't done any of it except my nails. I think Hector and Biskit want me to go somewhere with them tomorrow, but I need to do other things and don't have any disposable income to go shopping at the moment anyway.

I had extremely traumatizing dreams all last night. I don't know what was up with that.

Today was also Ultimate Pookie Destruction Day. the monster box ("Bitsy") in the other room has DOS on it now, and I am attempting to feed it Win 3.11. I put the antipookie's hard drive in it just to see what would happen...exactly what happened in the antipookie. Windows would load, and then it exploded. sigh. Seeing my old desktop was lovely nostalgic, though. I shrieked and made mother come look. I so miss 3.11. hopefully I will have it again soon. I need to find an old monitor somewhere and dig the anti's power cord out of my closet so I can quit taking Brat's. and try to find my PS/2 to serial mouse thingie. dammit. that came with my last mouse, and, at the time, I thought, Why the hell would I ever want a serial mouse?


AT keyboard holes bother me inexplicably. thatboy gave me a cute little lavender adapter thingie. The anti keyboard is missing the dash/underscore key. it works, but the top part is apparently floating around in the bottom of my closet somewhere.

I have been home for...25 hours.

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Well, my darlings, I am off again, this time to be driven completely insane by someone else's family for a change. yippee. I need to put the top coat on my nails, find food, and coax my hair into drying enough for odango-me, so this is short and pointless.

I can't find my gum. Someone must die.

preferably the sibling.

*tee hee* she finally broke down and bought the fifth Slayers Try tape, because we are getting sick of waiting for Jenni-the-sloth to finish being obsessed with Fushigi Yuugi and buy them for us. I'm sure it was quite amusing, but I was utterly depressed by the lack of my bishounen-of-the-week. um. semester. um. year. um. um. I'm sure brat was just as thrilled I didn't drool down myself into her carpet. not like that carpet could get a whole lot worse.

I need new vitamins. yes, I do

it's feeding time at the zoo. Everyone have a lovely weekend, and come back alive.
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well, I am home and more or less intact.

I am Never. Never. going anywhere with them again. I hate them both at the moment and am seriously considering going back to Columbia after I come back from thatboy.

oh well.

Where the hell is everyone. it's 8:20 on a Thursday night. I feel abandoned.

I had lots of things to write here, but I am going to leave it for now before I rant off into a headache. shine.
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WELL, so much for ever sleeping again.

wah. no one is online or awake for me to play with. I was lying over the furnace vent in the dining room, trying to thaw, and mother stumbled out of her room to go powder. She didn't notice me until she came back and stepped on my hair. (apparently we are none too alert at four in the morning, sans glasses.) She asked the eternal, rhetorical question, "What are you doing on the floor?" "warm air. can't sleep." "Can I get you anything?" "no." "Afghan?" "I have my blanket. GO AWAY."


I am pondering giving up and having my shower, since it's obvious I'm not actually going to fall asleep now. This is mostly annoying because I'm going to have to get up at six tomorrow morning so I can be ready to leave by eight.

I went back upstairs and drank juice and ate the crackers Dad left on the counter. When will they learn not to leave food unattended in this house. If no one's watching it, I consider it fair game.

I only really like food if I'm stealing it off mother's plate.

I want someone to plaaaaay wiiiiiiith meeeee. Someone build me a nice androgynous robot to keep me company when everyone else is doing mundane things like sleeping or being in class or out with human friends.

I could boot my Pookie up and play Pac Man. bratPookie was already awake, so I let mine sleep.

I'm still hungry.

Why do all my pseudo-paragraphs begin with I.

I think that is the last time I take 2000 mg of vitamin C within four hours and then try to go to bed. I think that, the cold medicine, and my perky pill are fighting in my brain. I wish someone would shoot me between the eyes with a tranquilizer dart.
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Well, that was cheerful.

I still can't sleep.
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I am home and have clean clothes once again.

I got to see my Biskit girl. Sheeee is great. We put her in my K23 dress, which would be really cute on her if I weren't so much taller than she is and therefore about two sizes up. I got to play with her mommy and weird daddy, and they fed me cookies. I later persuaded my sister to hand-feed me chocolate cherries, using only two words: "do it."

If you train them young, you can do a lot with them.

I was somewhat gratified when I found out that the One That Got Away finally admitted he's gay. Now I have officially gotten every straight guy I've ever batted my eyes at eating out of the palm of my hand. There's an ego boost.


whee. Biskit and I have evil plots. If Santa was real, she and I would be so screwed.

YAY my mama bought me two more cutting boards and an extra set of the tumblers and juice glasses. time to pet my stash.

Pookums boo seems to have survived the trip home well. I rejoice.

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It is eerily quiet in the hall. I know most of them went home, but I wonder where the others are. I guess out celebrating the end of finals.

I celebrate it in my own, silent, antisocial way.

We're leaving tomorrow at ten. If no one hears from me in a week, send someone up with a staple gun and an emergency poncho.
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I am bored. None of the conversations I have had tonight were anything remotely like interesting or fulfilling, so I let them die. I'm disgusted with myself and most of the people I know and just want everyone to shut up and leave me alone. I'm sick of hearing us all pointlessly whine about the shit in our heads. I'm sick of a certain splutling bitching about Microsoft but then refusing to use any other OS because he couldn't play his goddamn fucking games (not you, Mr. Paranoia. go eat your biscuit). I want to run away to Montana and cut all my hair off and dye it really truly blonde and lose twenty pounds and wear tight little things and fake lashes and surprise people when I actually have a brain. I want a real journal that people don't read. I want to quit feeling guilty when I get upset with people. I am a person and get to have feelings too. I do not have to be radiant sweetness all the time if I don't feel like it.

I don't want to be a computer major anymore. I don't ever want to see a computer again. They make me feel little and stupid, and it's not healthy to hate myself all the time. Lots of things make me hate myself. I have a sneaking suspicion that it's not really ME I hate, but everyone else, and that I only process it as self-hate because I think I shouldn't hate other people. when I do, I feel guilty. And I feel guilty for wanting to be an English major, because I've mindfucked myself into being a pseudo-geek for so long. Then I hate me for not being able to pull it off, because I can't hate other people who can, even though I want to. God knows I want to. I am damned to this, damned damned damned, and there's no cure for it besides to throw it all away and start OVER to try and build my real self instead of the one my daddy wanted me to be.


it ends when you let it end and go eat a lollipop.
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