the frogurt is also cursed
Jun. 22nd, 2006 11:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thehefnerGood news: I signed up for the GRE's next Wednesday. Bad news: shit, I have to study for the GRE's by next Wednesday!!! Can anyone tell me how hard they'll be for me, how much studying needs to really be done, and how much it really matters to a college where I'm applying for Drama?
Damn, and I also have to think up an essay for my Catholic U application lickity-split. What to say, what to say?
You know, having an ungodly gorgeous car isn't always wonderful if it keeps breaking down half the time. The one on the left looks almost exactly like my father's 1954 Rolls Royce Silver Dawn. Since Dad can't drive anymore, he needs me to start driving the car around, which would be awesome if it didn't keep mysteriously breaking down on me. Last time we took it to the shop, they found nothing wrong with it, of course. Now they finally did; seems the transmission is bone dry! Well, that'd explain that. I had to wait three and a half hours in the backseat of a Rolls Royce in hot, humid weather. With no book.
Life lesson: Always... but ALWAYS... bring a book.
But then, even if I had one, I still would have had either suffocation or mosquitoes to deal with. It was Man vs. Mosquito out there, and the mosquitoes were winning. Sure, I killed about 12 of them, I'm proud of that. They were attracted to my jeans, whereupon my legs became smeared in mosquito guts and little bits of my blood that was in said guts. Then they started landing on my crotch, whereupon I frantically delivered a crushing blow to my own testicles. Smart little fuckers are learning.
Dad meanwhile sat at home, getting royally stewed far worse than usual because of how guilt-ridden he was by my predicament, so that when I got back to his house I was greeted with, "I'm just... pissed, John. I've had that car... for 17 YEARS..." which he had said about seven times already that day alone... "And never had a single problem, and it's given you nothing but grief every time!" "Well now, Dad, I've only driven it three times..." "EVERY time!" "Yes, but just three times..." "EVERY time!" "Three times." "EVERY time! I think we really should sell the ffffffucking thing!" he spat venomously, his head doddering as he said it. He wasn't even able to hold eye contact with me. He kept squishing and sucking on his lips, that was a new mannerism I hadn't seen before. Then again, I hadn't seen him that drunk in a long time.
I'm still not gonna sell it, I don't think. Unless it becomes more of a financial burden than they joy it has been.
God DAMN, I am wired by caffeine! BWEEEEE! If I don't crash soon, I may start thinking I'm some kind of hummingbird by the end of the work day!
Damn, and I also have to think up an essay for my Catholic U application lickity-split. What to say, what to say?
You know, having an ungodly gorgeous car isn't always wonderful if it keeps breaking down half the time. The one on the left looks almost exactly like my father's 1954 Rolls Royce Silver Dawn. Since Dad can't drive anymore, he needs me to start driving the car around, which would be awesome if it didn't keep mysteriously breaking down on me. Last time we took it to the shop, they found nothing wrong with it, of course. Now they finally did; seems the transmission is bone dry! Well, that'd explain that. I had to wait three and a half hours in the backseat of a Rolls Royce in hot, humid weather. With no book.
Life lesson: Always... but ALWAYS... bring a book.
But then, even if I had one, I still would have had either suffocation or mosquitoes to deal with. It was Man vs. Mosquito out there, and the mosquitoes were winning. Sure, I killed about 12 of them, I'm proud of that. They were attracted to my jeans, whereupon my legs became smeared in mosquito guts and little bits of my blood that was in said guts. Then they started landing on my crotch, whereupon I frantically delivered a crushing blow to my own testicles. Smart little fuckers are learning.
Dad meanwhile sat at home, getting royally stewed far worse than usual because of how guilt-ridden he was by my predicament, so that when I got back to his house I was greeted with, "I'm just... pissed, John. I've had that car... for 17 YEARS..." which he had said about seven times already that day alone... "And never had a single problem, and it's given you nothing but grief every time!" "Well now, Dad, I've only driven it three times..." "EVERY time!" "Yes, but just three times..." "EVERY time!" "Three times." "EVERY time! I think we really should sell the ffffffucking thing!" he spat venomously, his head doddering as he said it. He wasn't even able to hold eye contact with me. He kept squishing and sucking on his lips, that was a new mannerism I hadn't seen before. Then again, I hadn't seen him that drunk in a long time.
I'm still not gonna sell it, I don't think. Unless it becomes more of a financial burden than they joy it has been.
God DAMN, I am wired by caffeine! BWEEEEE! If I don't crash soon, I may start thinking I'm some kind of hummingbird by the end of the work day!
