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Today ended up being a day for an impromptu photo shoot -- booked with Canon EOS 1000D. My Going the Distance parade was quite literally made to rain on by intervention: it had been foreseen that going the distance to the library would have required physical exertion (to use circumlocution to avoid that other 'ex-' word whose utterance would trigger an anaphylactic shock/bodily infarction). I'm not downtrodden from this intervention, for I rather enjoyed the photo shoot in lieu of all that other physical exertion to which I would have subjected myself. (It even resulted in what shall be a new profile picture over which all in between the front and back covers of my Face book can genuflect/weep/genuflect and weep/regurgitate a couple or 237 calories and/or which they can like/block and report/"invest" $7 in me to promote -- I have to figure out which I'll use first.)

I also finished Season Four of Doctor Who today, and the season finale was actually rather sad. My hypothetical lachrymal system may or may not have labored a little more than usual, especially since Donna, the one with whom I was most able to relate (I mean, I also would have been quite serious about Captain Fuck(yesplease) Jack Harkness hugging me/taking my pre-made ready body/enslaving me with his pansexuality/wait what?) underwent one of the saddest experiences ever. That Dalek with the legerdebouche did call it when it told the Doctor of one of his children dying. I totally foresaw it being she who had to "die", because a perpetual motif of my life is "This is why we can't have nice things"-ism...or my name is not Leucine666. The finale was great nonetheless, though I wish that there had been another golden showdown between the Daleks and the cybermen...since we did have to endure the race of extraterrestrial semi-beings for yet a 2938473298th time.

Whilst I'm still here, I'm going to archive my progress in my crocheting a...whatever shall be the output of a few dozen rows of practicing the basics of the fine art of crochet:

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It was pleasantly overcast today, but it was somewhat dreadful because I am still without a functioning laptop, and I must use this computer that is not my own. I ended up sleeping for quite a bit of the day, anyway, which is the natural bodily reaction to a cocktail made of ennui and nebuli, right? It was still just as dead as it had been before I had taken to my natural lapse into unconsciousness.

I unlocked my triple crochet badge as well (which I believe that I did last night as well). Soon I'll be able to join the circles of experienced crotcheters and demand their respect and awe of me -- all zero of them within a 2398-mile radius of me.

In the meantime, however, I will be magnanimous in doling out some of my wealth in depression by sharing with the echos of my keyboard typing that are my readers, the following video clip. I know that videos like these can be tailored to accommodate a particular agenda, but this seems to be rather believable issue -- and I believe that these victims can be given the benefit of the doubt. Many law enforcement officials -- even without the quota system and the ridiculous link to their performance and characters as such officials -- would take and certainly have taken an extended and taxing trip on the power card with such a high limit that even innocent civilians have to be paranoid about being in the wrong place at the wrong time (or about even having the audacity to include them in your field of vision).

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This morning, I was mostly awoken as I was face down (ass not really up, though), only 5% certain that I heard the word "mail". Flung wide were the covers, and up was I sprung, for today could be the day of the arrival of that missing piece which would revive my aged laptop. Alas, it was. Oh Happy (Fri)day! It was a day of merriment, finally to be graduating from:


("There must be more than this provincial liiiiiife")

to:


("There must be more than this provincial liiiiiife")

A few hours later, however, when I go to open the package, I see that, in place of the circular metal harness, there's an exposed congregation of cords basking in the package's vacuum compartment. Trying not to blow my neuronal fuses, I disassemble my laptop (save one screw, which seems to be inaccessible without simply ripping the laptop asunder) and put in what is supposed to be the key to my regaining access to my comatosed clinically-dead laptop. (Since it is not the only way in which the piece connects with the computer/motherboard, then I figured that I might as well try; there is a sixty-day return policy in the "rare case" that there should be any aberrance in this eBayer's supposedly-flawless-but-obviously-imperfect performance.) There have still been no signs of my laptop working, and since the provider is apparently a Monday-through-Friday business, I must endure the weekend -- and however many other days it will take for a replacement to arrive -- with this computer I've been using since the Pluviose Tragedy back in the bemired, dragging coattail days of August. Why is humanity so cruel. Why the perforating whiplashes to my heart?

However, my BFF pulled through (and apparently our foul mood swings are synchronized, even if nothing else of ours is) and had me snorting and emitting sounds like those of the green pigs on Angry Birds. I also sort of earned my double-crochet badge today after thinking that perhaps I've mastered the double crochet.
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My sleep schedule has undergone what seems to be a seasonal shift. In Summer, I was awake rather early in the morning -- probably because Summer days are basically pregnant with more potential on a daily basis. Recently I have been going to bed as the sky takes on a cerulean tone prior to the sunrise, especially since now I'm pretty much doubly confined to this place. Would that there were actual public transportation within walking distance, the fact that I still have anything to do with this place (outside of holidays) would not have me loathing life as much; I'd just loathe everything mostly everything within the ten-mile radius of this place. There must be more than this provincial life. (I know there is, because I had it yesteryears ago.)

Meanwhile, I have mostly been left with revisiting and revisiting the sepulchre of the relative life that I once had -- under the auspices of the social juggernaut that is Facebook. If I should ever again be asphyxiated of the tomb and relics I've set up, I apparently can always turn to the other online memorial of Memmento, one of the startup sites in the nascent(?) for-profit commemorative services industry. (Trolling of my eTomb would be welcomed...that is, those who are dissimilar to Westboro picketers.) However, I cannot say that I would effervesce with diabolical rage if I were to be able to entrust Facebook to lock me out of my own little microcosm I've established in it -- at least until the riptides from the aftermath of the election have subsided right around Thanksgiving time.

Meanwhile, in this lack of a life, I at least have only to wait two more days at the most for a crucial part to arrive for my near-decade-old laptop to turn on again.
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Whether voiced, verbalized, or unvoiced, there's this expectation for someone to grow up or to act his/her age. I haven't been victimized by it verbally, but I have the distinct notion that some people that I at least used to know have come to think this and have maybe even communicated/propagated over fine wine this astute observation of theirs that I need to synchronize my maturational age with my chronological age -- which would be downright baseless for having bemired my very name whilst engaging in the fine art of imbibition.

Drawing away from my ostentatious shawl of paranoia -- and bypassing the bosom that isn't very prized anyway -- let us focus on my face, the focal point/fulcrum/quincunx/linchpin/whatever center of ugly-mass. (Actually, since this is a journal post, focus would be on the fingertips accosting this keyboard and effecting this post.) After having become mesmerized by more pervasive verbal nuclear warfare on Facebook, I was rendered vertiginous and couldn't stop; wouldn't stop clicking through the links...and reading the comments from many comprising evolution's most marginal. That may have been rather harsh, so I suppose I should just say that such people could lend potential energy to my opposition to their rights to vote for the reason that they are natural (or chosen) enemies of the [human evolutionary] state (a state not to be confused with the polity). Actually, that was harsher, but I throw my silk glove down and return to relevance.

This is all relevant because there have quite clearly been bends/shifts in and adjustments to maturational age, thanks to social media. Political circus ringleaders who are noticeably advanced in age compared to me have been warring with tactics pulled from the encyclopedic wealth of those a third their ages. If there isn't an Orange/Red security alert for their chronological-maturational age disparities, then why would there have to be one for me? How do we gauge age? Why would I conform to the obligations of my age (get married, have babies, eat myself into beluga status with reckless abandon -- which I've already achieved and exceeded anyway)?
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Last night This morning I had a dream about how I was a part of what seemed to be a sitcom episode. I evoked laughter from others; I made myself lose a few pounds (infinitesimal given my astronomical number of tonnes); and I felt great even in that interstice of transitional time between synthetic and sensation, even though it was rather odd that I recalled being (or at least donned the voice of) a rather conflagrational homosexual man in that dream. I believe I had said something similar to, "Ohhh, it looks like he needs some assistance." Just to de-cloud the murky waters from such a statement, let it be known that the extent of my being an ass person reaches only so far as my noticing that someone has a nicer, more curvaceous one than I -- as in, I covet/have established a fund to have mine sculpted in the likeness of it.

Regressing from the digression, though, when reality punched in for its 9-5 noon-to-6 a.m. shift, it was much like that time when one was picked up and escorted back to hell/HOME* on the Sunday morning after a sleepover. The rest of the day up to now, especially along with it being Columbus Day, made me think about how there not only must be but is more than this provincial life. The whole verbal nuking of each party/ideology by the other just made me want to emigrate from this self-eroding nation and renew my passions and immigrate to Iran, for example. Iceland and Finland are also amongst the countries on the list of hypothetical countries to which to immigrate. I would include my homeland of the North Pole, but the waters have likely blanketed my humble lands; I would also include Neptune, but a flight there would -- supposing incarnation -- cost me my liver from about 80 or 9283 reincarnations. The problems of an immigrant dreamer.
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Despite most of this day being draped in overcastèdness, and my finally having ordered the missing piece that will have me reunited with my senescing laptop, this certainly turned out to be a less-than-ideal day. I'm still only on row one of my crochet (said: "crotch-et"); I've relapsed into trichotillomaniacal sessions as I have once again become more sedentarized; and the fact that my friend count within 500-mile radius remains more at zero than the number of Walmart attire I own -- as I utilize my literacy to read about everyone composing my own little Facebook world enjoying themselves today. Damneth be you, literacy. (Actually, praises be showered upon you, for I would not have been able to read Dostoevsky or Mishima without you in these past couple of months.)

The sun tomorrow is going to have nearly free reign to graze over this area in which I'm living, which surely is to translate to a demotivational day. However, Oktoberfest at my high school is tomorrow, to which I can go and forget my woes of plenty for a while in German edibles, seasonal crafts, edibles, edibles, edibles, and did I mention edibles?
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The Christmas season has arrived two months ahead of time this year. 'Twas 81 nights before Christmas when all through my Facebook, two creatures were stirring and it has come to my attention that I have friends who give a shit! All the comments were hung by the status update with care, in the hopes that Unsaintly I would be there to reply. It doesn't matter whether they all live out of state or not, but I now know that if I were to be taken from this Earth before I ever would have thought I would (God forbid), there would be some out there who would commemorate me, the concupiscent one who was left leprous from all the havenotgirlproblems flares gone past. So Merry Christmas to me!

In return, I used an offer from this one site in its nascent stage in the cybersphere to send a gratuitous Starbucks to one of my friends from college. Since there was no return, it means that I was totally a Santa Claus, so ho-ho-ho. It worked out, since I'm nothing if not rotund; I just had to feign a beard and the whole being the opposite sex bit. (When you're of my proportions/disproportions, though, the latter detail seems not to matter as much.*)

*I wish that I had remembered that when I was at the hospital earlier...when I was fat-flagellating myself for last night's abashedly unabashed ingestion of half the world. If I had remembered, then I would have accrued two scrumptious-looking red velvet cupcakes to my adipose-savings account.
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I oftentimes feel quite comfortable being in a hospital, which runs quite contrary to what most people feel when they are in hospitals. I suppose it is some sort of expectance not to pass in a hospital -- some sort of false sense of immunity or immortality, i.e. sanctifying the institution as some sort of holy ground serving as a safe haven from the external and the dangers it harbors. Even though shows themselves totally depict the opposite which is more congruous with reality, I tend to believe this from the perspective of the visitor and even as the patient with the congested aorta and cranial nerves falling out of my ears. From the time that I kept a company friend in the hospital one weekend in Korea...to having been there for one of my relatives just today. Perhaps it's a peculiar, half-selfish like because of an escape from the Groundhog's Day that has become my life.

Whilst continuing down the road to abnormalcy, I may as well unload my bosom and bear forth the truth that I would not mind being some sort of hired hospital companion to help patients occupy its material real estate. The following stipulations would have to be guaranteed:

  • No waste management (I'm not seeking orderlyship)

  • No limitation just to patients (the anxious carepersons are people, too, I guess)


Something just would not quite congruous with my hypothetical source of emolument being from Pay2Care services.

Having an official/reception/non-janitorial/cafeteria job in the hospital of my alma mater would be at least magnificent...if it has been written in every unwritten law that I shall not be a doctor. I was impressed by the environment. The quantity per dollar of breakfast could alone disenfranchise all McDonald's locations within a 10-mile diameter. The residents weren't above reciprocating a smile; the doctor has been reflecting well the standards and prestige of the hospital; and the nurse already has a letter of recommendation by me in the cognitive works. As some sort of implicitly celebratory occasion (since everything had gone quite well), I created a whole new universe by how much I consumed at Outback Steakhouse -- and solace wasn't taken in this because of the fact that the accompanying margarita drink brought about nary a shape-shifting transfiguration in any of the cells of my body...since cells change shape when alcohol courses through one's body, amIright?

I guess it isn't too unfitting that the cute little adipose creatures from Doctor Who sprang to life in my memory when thinking about/feeling this whole new dimension of gormandizing I've reached tonight. I wish that my adipose were able to compact and depart from my body like they do in that show; I'd even keep one/two/seventeen of my own hard-earned adipose compacts as pets.

(27 hours late!)
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My sad, sorry ball of yarn that I tried to make is probably SickSadWorld-worthy. It certainly is discouraging, since I seem to have displayed much fail even at the most rudimentary level of knitting/crocheting. However, my hemorrhaging spirits have been lifted and patched up by the free McDonald's fries that I've won thanks to the return of the Monopoly game. I will certainly take the payoff of an investment in my future caloric inhalation/their caloric insufflation.

Then I also thought about how Target Styles also is back in action with their seasonal beauty bags -- one of which I've already gratuitously pre-order. These uplifting occurrences have me feeling so on top of the world (even if I am the world), that I will finally go the distance to make this...at some point. Procrastinators unite!...tomorrow.


Mint Split-Pea Soup
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On this beautiful, cool, mostly overcast first day of October, there was a ventral, borborygmous insurrection as I was sitting in the library, whose violence intensified proportionally with the number of food pictures upon which I laid mine eyne with each flip of the cookbook pages. (It wasn't a cooking for dummies book, even if it most likely should have been.)

What didn't necessarily help with my hunger pangs was that mesomorphic DILF who made my singlegirlproblems concomitantly flare up -- nor did my reading about sharpening an image from a book on Photoshop. In the book, a man's pores were been sharpened to try to enhance the quality of the picture. My brain transduced that experience of seeing imperfections highlighted on paper into amplification of my own imperfections/woes: my singlegirlproblems, my famished girl problems (see abovementioned insurrection), penniless girl problems, gayficient girlwholikesboyswholikeboysproblems...basically havenotgirlproblems. The girl with the white iPhone and the iPad sitting in front of me propelled me into a ♪whooooole neewww third fourth fifth sixth seventh-wooooooorld♪ shitstorm of havenotproblems.

Fortunately, a book on knitting lay on the table in front of me: my future was staring me in the face! Fortunately I've already started investing in the spinster materials! This sort of segued into the recollection of having read this excerpt earlier:

Maturity was the sunset of beauty. From eighteen to twenty-five years the beauty of him who is loved subtly alters its form. The first glow of sunset, when every cloud in the sky takes on the color of sweet fresh fruit, symbolizes the color of the cheeks of the boy between eighteen and twenty, the soft nape of his neck, the fresh blueness of his shaved collar line and his lips like a girl's. When the sunset glow reaches its peak and the clouds blaze many-colored and the sky goes mad with an expression of joy, one thinks of the blossom time of youth, from twenty to twenty-three. Then his look is somewhat fierce, his cheeks are taut, his mouth is gradually making plain the will of the man. At the same time, in the color still glowing shyly in his cheek, and in the soft streamlining of his brows, traces of the evanescent moment of a boy's beauty can be seen. Finally, the time when the burnt-out clouds take on a grave complexion and the setting sun tosses its remaining beams like hair is comparable to age twenty-four or twenty-five when, though his eyes are replete with pure gleams, in his cheeks are seen a beauty transcending the severity of its stern masculine will. - A Book Called 禁色


(Mostly the emboldened part.)

Also, I'm apparently not even good enough to complete this (35/41, which is sort of in the B/B- range):



I did, however, enter not one but two sweeps to win movie tickets to the theatres I haven't patronized in years. Even if I were to win tickets, with whom would I go, really?




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I was up so early this morning that I actually had McDonald's breakfast (and it wasn't the post-pixillated McDonald's breakfast that serves as a receipt of a good night out). I didn't know how well I'd function -- or how badly I'd malfunction, but I ended up passing this close to September with flying colors...especially when it came to my laudable dietetic menu, which would have surely clogged the vascular systems of even the most stalwart of vegans -- sending them running to the appalled normal people to implore them for their previous wayward transgression.

To bring in the month of October, though, I have climbed every mountain, forded every stream, and finally bought my first knitting and crocheting materials. Though I was unable to become the proud owner of these last year due to my being in the financial subterranean zone, recessional cheapskatery landed me deciding against that second skein and that 6.5 mm crochet hook that I'm eventually going to be owning at some point anyway.

Despite my need to consult YouTube videos on how to ball the skein properly, I have set lofty goals for these best hands in the universe.
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I panted my way across this little town today. Why? I needed to return some library books before the grace period expired and I became some sort of library delinquent; I also needed to go to Target before I had to reduce, reuse, and recycle my contact lens solution (which I wouldn't actually do, but I need to keep my Masters in Exaggeration in good use. Being in the latter was remotely similar to being in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory -- even the candy called my ugly name. It took much from within and without for me only to buy that which I had stumbled into that store to get. Cherry pie filling, pumpkin pie filling, Ovaltine, Dove's pomegranate body spray, early-discounted (or so I thought) Christmas icicle/normal lights, tutu for my anticipated Halloween costume, iPod Touch (to the one I lost about a year and a week ago), iPad (20,000 leagues over my budgetary sea), Maybelline nail polish, and other miscellanies that shall remain undisclosed lest I become vertiginous from all the Have-notproblems that are in the initial stage of flaring.

Having neglected the duty to provision myself with fluids, my dear imaginary readers will find the following to be an accurate representation of how I transported myself from Target to the Aldi on the way back to my domicile:



Aldi: the place where I had a bottle of very, very, very cheap moscato on the mind...and left empty-handed. This whole self-imposed austerity measure has turned me into some sort of invalid of humanity; I might have to abrogate it because, even though the Spain, Greece, and Portugal are somewhat transatlantically sharing in the austerity with me, there is a complete absence of any of the abovementioned groups sharing in the austerity in me.

Welp, after that, goodbye. I should have been off to bed for my body to convert this box-ful of macaroni and cheese (dinner) to blubber layer #2938427938. The Blubbs cycle (somewhat like a Krebs cycle for the overabundantly huge species -- population: 1) takes a while.
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I spent most of this evening petting and embracing one of the most adorable dogs I've thus far had the pleasure of encountering. Apparently the dog is a he, but I'm still not all too convinced. One person referred to the dog (it was a puppy, really) with the pronoun 'he'; the other referred to the dog with the pronoun 'she'. Merely asking could possibly have been taken offensively (since one is assumed to know a pet's sex after having had it for a month or so), so I didn't really want to take the possibly offensive path. Regardless of the sex, the dog was absolutely adorable and seemed to love me: it was an interaction I get from no human ever. I would totally adopt him/her/ambo/pan, because I'm never adoption an offspring of my same species going on the assumption that I'm human, even though I'm convinced that I'm at least half-Gorgon.

That was today, and now I must decide what -- if anything -- I am to do this weekend. During this time of the year, I oftentimes have hesternopothic flares particularly for studenthood at my alma mater. Though I had a miserable youth (just like Fräulein Maria says it in The Sound of Music) at that place, I hold on to the parts that were on the opposite end of the emotional association spectrum. Returning to my dorm of all four years after Summer Quarter was most definitely part of those joyous memories at my alma mater; I was even able to do so before everyone else returned for two of the four years. Here it is, x years later, and I still long for these times...even after the Northwestern student who has lost his life was an orientation leader for new students just like I was. May God be with his family and friends who attend that school.

To return from my digression, though, there is an Octoberfest spanning at least the north sides and peripherals of this city. I am a fan of bratwursts (both bratwursts, imaginary assholes), but beer of any kind and I are almost as inimical as Iran and Israel. Besides, there's a more local Octoberfest in the actual month of October that is more local and would help me save some percentage greater than 15% my material existence(?) insurance. Perhaps I'll get this flu shot, which is being gratuitously provided in places where I'd very likely leave out being cerebrally capped (i.e. the South and West sides). I just might need it this year, however, so:

Hey I just met you, and needles are scary
So here's my vein, flu shot me maybe

Actually, if I go to one of these gratuitous needlefests, I had better get the flu shot.


Last, and close to least, I have been followed by some people who are wholly incompatible with my account and tweeting style. How do I come off as a vegan when I brazenly discuss meat/my colossal universal figure with double entendres and meating? Or as a MYLF (wait until you see my picture!) who has a four-year-old? Or as one who not just salutes but also "lives for" {insert any other demonstrative adjective than 'my' here} troops?
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I suppose I learned today that I'm allergic to rush-hour time public transportation: visceral hives that sprouted from (a) a spatial economy that can move the entirety of East Asia to envy, (b) the stench of someone who had quite obviously micturated on himself (though better than assaulting oneself through the other end), (c) the unnecessary heating system being on, and (d) the utter deficit of any remotely attractive person whatsoever (a deficit that makes even this country's budget deficit look attractive/sexy/debt chains and garnishing whips excite me). I also ought to mention that public transportation made me arrive 15 minutes late to my destination when I was supposed to have been 15 - 20 minutes early after having stopped somewhere for a birthday card that I ended up not even getting.

My brain then proceeded to entertain itself with such ideas as privatization and what not. I am, however, aware that I am consciously slipping/uncontrollably spiraling back to Basic (it's a seasonal change):

www
www2

It took much not to like JoAnn and Lifetime (and Klondike, too, but we shall say that I already like Klondike for that 0/0 chance that the Klondike powers that be ask me just how far I have pledged to go for a Klondike bar).

More importantly:
  • Why is it supposed to be 80 next Wednesday?
    abclocal


  • Why the fuck am I even still up?


  • Where would one go about procuring one of these, since they're apparently as valuable (though still cheap and at least not nearly as stylishly ageless) as diamonds?
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There are some who I know had another annuity mature and accrue to this experience called life today -- one of whom was my best friend in college. So, Happy Anniversary of Being Birthed from the Womb!

I'm deferring my post about a couple of dreams I've had and remembered until tomorrow.
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My friend brought me back to LiveJournal, and it seems as if she herself has already left me derelict in this mostly forsaken ancient world. It's not as if being kept company by the apparitions and dispersed skeletons of LiveJournal past would be unfortunate; it would, after all, match with my current theme for the upcoming Halloween season. So, fine, go and be with Facebook and Twitter! I'll just see you over there and every other social network in the netiverse...after I finish journaling to and for myself here amongst the rubble and putrefaction of the once great LJ.

I'll be finishing The Brothers Karamazov pretty soon (as in, tomorrow). I think I might have had my first sapiosexual experience ever at the end of this book. I shan't reveal the identity of him whom the hypothetical you is thank for this, because I believe that he actually was twice or thrice my age or something (no, it was not Fyodor; he was painted in a far from flattering way from every angle in which he was portrayed in the book) -- and the only one even remotely close to being that much my senior whom I'd reveal as having induced such a bodily response in me is the esteemed one who seems to have no expiration date on sexiness:



(All protests about that being an out-dated picture -- which would have to come from within anyway, and would only produce echoes throughout Deathjournal Valley -- will be met with "I do what I want.")

All in all, I'll have to think about which new work I'm going to use to while away my time/life/existence, but in the meantime, I'll have Facebook privacy concerns about which I needn't worry/hyperventilate/myocardially short-circuit (unlike apparently several others); a Myspace account whose reunion (and probably access, since my account's password has been changed before) I apparently need to consider; and whether Babe Walker has indeed sealed my fate/predestined me to have those last two sentences materialize in my impossible relationship with even more impossible boyfriend (click the LJ-cut below):

This place is desolate, so there's no one working here...therefore, would a NSFW label be appropriate here? )

Sorry, I had to put that there. Theirs look better than mine. What the supercalifragilisticexpialidociusistic fuck.
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The fair of freebies and offers has continued on Facebook. I went to the 92%-vacant mall nearest my residence today to take advantage of the Bath & Body Works offer of a free 2-oz. (a.k.a. sample size) lotion or body wash; I left with that, a coupon for a free body care item with my next purchase, and a survey offer on my receipt which would earn me $10 off of a $30 purchase (with no expiration date).

I'm somewhat confused, since this isn't necessarily the season of giving. However, this must mean that there is brand confidence and up, up, and away jumping from cloud nine to cloud nine. Hopefully there will be even more when it's time for the Black Friday/Christmas holiday season, because it was amazing being able to e-Black Friday last year instead of going out into Civil War MMDXXXVIII and hyperventilating over the bloodshed in the streets and in the stores -- not to mention the potential of having any of my material being meet with the ground due to the camouflaged stealth-ice sniping and tripping. I'll take what I can get, however, as I am that Whatever I Can Get girl who never actually checked the "Whatever I Can Get" box on Facebook (or was that the Random Play, which still wouldn't have explained the lack of expectant philanderers queued at my door).
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So it is officially the beginning of Fall, though it's not wholly reflected by the weather here. Autumn is slowly but surely moving in, but letting Summer take its own time in moving itself out subsequent to the eviction notice. As long as Summer is mostly moved out well before the start of the holiday season (Halloween included), I won't have to take to the streets vociferating my protests to the atmosphere, looking like some short-(or no-)circuited-brained being. However, I would like to petition that Winter have a ten-day guest contract -- and that Spring start its sublet term about three-and-a-half months in advance.

With this whole seasonal transition, part of me is sort of wishing that I had made my hiatus from Facebook a tradition. That is somewhat of a lie, for I would have missed out on this barrage of offers of various gratuitous items from a just as various number of companies. I also would apparently have missed out on someone emitting at least some of the pent-up kryptonite internally combusting within him/her for what s/he has claimed to be the last several years -- an assertion that is somewhat incongruous with our relationship for even the past year and a-half (let alone several years). I would have missed out on knowing that someone who has known me for years -- and has even spent time with me in the physical flesh -- still believes that there is anything more than 2.5 x 10-24% seriousness in about 85% of what I say within the antipodes of Facebook (100% in regards to my exchanges with him/her). Also, a hiatus from Facebook would have meant that the only outlets for my inebriated commentary (which sometimes isn't far too deviating from my equilibrated commentary) would be Tumblr, texting, and bonding with the dog that lives here...like when I read her the first few pages of Alice in Wonderland in this power-less, hopeless place. (At least I found love with the port and the rum in the hopeless place, thus making Rihanna and I relatable more than on just the level that we would have carnal relations with Chris Brown whether gay or straight...provided that he were the pitcher he's sure never again to be.) This all also would be as I'm reading The Brother's Karamazov and Mein Kampf, two works that are about as inappropriate for pre-imbibing as something like the Bible would be for pre-brothelling or pre-gaming for a Chuck Norris occult gathering.

This Fall is shaping up to be about transitions, which wouldn't be too different from that of last year when I lost the iPod touch -- my everything -- that I had bought three years prior in Seoul. (It wasn't really my everything -- even if the thought of it is just the same as pouring brine into the hole which my lost iPod has left; I'm just putting my Ph. D. in Melodramatics to use.) Not all transitions were bad: I did start driving again, and I made the acquaintances of Beyoncé (from this decade), Ke$ha, and even la Gaga. Hopefully this year's transitions won't be all bad either. (At least I don't have an iPod/iPad/iPhone to lose, even if I would love to have one preferably not to lose.)
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So after a nearly nine-month hiatus from this journal (and far beyond even the remotest possibility of being with child...as in, way out beyond even the universe's existence/nonexistence border), one of my friends has brought me back to LiveJournal. Tentatively, that is. Since "Commitment" is totally my middle name, I'll have to see how long I keep up my journaling here this time around.

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January 2013

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