Electricity is a beautiful thing.

So, J again.

J is in and out of the hospital a lot. The, er, psychiatric hospital. There's a fairly precise formula to the whole thing:

1.) J has girlfriend.
2.) J breaks up with girlfriend.
3.) J cries, afraid to be alone. Dejected. Comes over a lot.
4.) J sees ex-girlfriend against his better judgment, they 'make out'.
5.) J threatens suicide to his therapist. Is checked into local hospital for electro-shock therapy.
6.) Rinse.
7.) Repeat.

You know. He's got his whole system down and it seems to be working for him, so I'm really in no place to judge. EXCEPT. J has added another step, which is:

8.) J buys a fucking puppy.

Okay. Unstable, in and out of the hospital, abandonment issues, clingy-love issues, lives alone, never home, irresponsible, has never owned a pet. Did I mention that he's allergic to dogs? Oh, because he is.

So. Dinner tonight at this cajun place a friend works at [loud jazz, annoying hipsters, free food, peanut butter pie]. J walks in. Sits down, shakes his head in the usual manner and spits out the same old words: I saw her at the library. We made out. I know you're disappointed in me - I didn't want to tell you in front of her [indicating me - I am the mean one that tells him to stop crying and not to touch me and points out that he is ALLERGIC TO DOGS].

So. Looks like I'm getting a new dog soon, if only on a temporary basis.
...anyone want a 8-week old puppy?

The Banana on my birthday rug. It's very soft. Also, I am posting this from my NEW BIRTHDAY COMPUTER. The keys don't make any noise when I type and the processor doesn't sound like it has a cracked muffler. Today is good.
Posted by Hello

It's not my birthday YET.

Every year I tell myself that this year, I am going to let my birthday go by unnoticed. No reminders, no writing it on the calendar, no slyly slipping the fact that my birthday is in TWELVE HOURS into casual conversation. Yeah. This year it didn't take, either. 'My mom bought me a birthday rug!' and 'I have to go buy something to wear to my birthday!' were the only words that escaped my lips yesterday - overandoverandover.

So. Tomorrow is my birthday. I'm going to be 24, which seems old to me now. I'm upset because I feel like I really wasted my 'lucky year' [23 on the 23rd] - nothing really extraordinary happened. To be honest, this past year has been pretty fucking bad. [not with a p-h.]

Tony and I are both off today, so I've been instructed to decide what I want - whatever I want - and we're going to go buy it today. No restraints, no limits [uh. within reason. I can't spend more than we have...I've already tried that. A house! A million-dollar IKEA gift certificate! a pony!

I think that it proves what a loser I am that the first thing I want is a computer - which I desperately need - and after that...All I can think about is yarn. Do you have any idea how much yarn I could buy with that computer money? Sweetholyfuck. That's a lot of unfinished, ill-fitting sweaters right there.

Sorry.

Okay, okay.

So cancer's not funny. Name changed.
Work and birthday dinner tomorrow. I guess I should be tired.

Creeping Paranoia.

I don't know.
I guess it was bound to happen.

I switch apartments once a year - why not webspace?

Finding newgirl's diary at work affected me more than it probably should have. I hadn't really given much thought as to what would happen if someone I worked with stumbled across me on the internet. But now I have. And I have come to the conclusion that the end result would be: very bad.

I know that the whole blogging thing indicates latent exhibitionism, but I am in reality a very private person. I blush any time I'm expected to offer up information about myself.

Also. Turns out that certain people I may or may not have been spying on were actually spying back.

Damnit. That shit's supposed to be ONE-WAY.

So. I hope you love me enough to change your links.
The End.

Penguingirl.

She came downstairs, drunk in her penguin suit, holding a ball of purple yarn and two knitting needles.

'Can you teach the penguin to purl?'

The banana kept attacking the feet of her costume. They were huge, stuffed, orange things - as big as pillows. I watched her struggle with the needles, commenting under her breath that it's hard to knit when you're drunk.

Guess I've never really tried.