*cold swarm*

i love my cat. that is all i can say at the moment. she has saved me from the potential hypothermic clusterfuck that could've ended me on this brutal sunday. my feet are like icecubes, regardless of the twenty pound cat and fifty layers of blanket that are swarming over me.

why is it that it's so damn hard to do work when you're sick? i've been trying for a whole two days to start my art assignment, but it's just not happening. time is short. as in, i have two minutes before i go comatose.

my shoulders have some unexplainable pain in them that calls for some serious morphein injections.

...

but seriously though, has anyone got any?

Rage

everybody.
butt.
the.
fuck.
out.
of.
my.
existance.
for.
tonight.
please.
thankyou.
bai.

Everything, everything, everything.

don't you hate it when you don't know what to write about? i mean, today was just the most whacked out day in existance. i got bible-bashed by an ex-best friend about not calling his girlfriend a "malnourished prairie dog". and my current best friend paddy having gay relations with rifle-shooting, car-driving, bear-bumming, moose-humping, tree-felling 15-year old matt. pree sure he wears flannos when no-one's watching. and pree sure i just won the padraic xavier honourable award for the most accurate description ever. one day i'm going to measure matt's voice on the richter scale.

i'm sort of losing my faith in igs womankind. they've all become such corrupt drunkards and it's scaring me. they constantly hook up with each other and mole rat, sewer dwelling creatures and in some cases dogs, and then proceed to tell me all about it and try and make me agree with the adorability of it. *shudders* why, oh why must we fall into this crazy sense of drugdom?! eek.
i don't know about you guys, but i'm in some serious need of fast-forwarded skype calls. D:

Owwwwright

hello everyone. i'd like you to meet dhani harrison, son of george harrison my absolute favourite beatle. i don't actually give a fuck who the mother is, all i know is that she's a punjab, but DAYUM did SHE produce a fiiiiiiine son.

i mean, he is thirty-one and all, you know, just twice my age, but he's mega musical man, and lanky, and *drools*

i mean, mr. daly is thirty-one, and he just got BITCHED. like, cock slapped over the earth by dhani. but then again mr. daly, well, let's put it this way, he has this stubble which he thinks makes him look like some sexy, rugged indiana jones-esque man, but in actual fact, he just looks like some penniless drunken hobos on kings cross that can't afford to shave.

but this guy? *creams self*

he rips a hole in the time babe continuum.

12:29PM

morgasaurus says:
my jammies are so awesome.
Otis [FIRE EVERYTHING!!!] says:
what are they?
morgasaurus says:
they're a mickey mouse t-shirt, red shorts and red, black and white over the knee high socks.
Otis [FIRE EVERYTHING!!!] says:
tri coloured socks. nice.
morgasaurus says:
although knowing me, i'll probably just end up sleeping in my underwear.
Otis [FIRE EVERYTHING!!!] says:
dome.
morgasaurus says:
doh-muh?
Otis [FIRE EVERYTHING!!!] says:
you'll get it.
morgasaurus says:
...do me?
Otis [FIRE EVERYTHING!!!] says:
WOO. we have a weiner.
morgasaurus says:
x]


yeah, i'm slow. what of it?