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I take it back;
This album is just as special as the one song.

Because I'm feeling emo still, it looks like you're in for another rant. If I'm gunna fuck up my day, I might as well work at it.

I'm dealing with some lame themes. I'm feeling a need to write copious ditties all rhyming about how shitty I am.

"No Children" is the sort of song that sums up my fear of real relationships. This is a song I'd picture for my parents' relationship.

The mirror thing that I keep alluding to, but skipping over is still the same story; me looking in the mirror, face coated in a bad marker-beard. That was more "me" than anything I see normally. THAT's what I intend to tell the doctors.

I look at the mirror, as I have my whole life. I see a stranger, always. That stupid blond girl? Not me. That marker beard? Well, say, hey now -- who is that dashing fella? Why does he seem more real?

I said it was gay. I wasn't kidding.

I've been staring at my body, watching it form. I see these tits; they don't seem like mine. I usually play with the cleavage, pretending it's someone else's. I think that the nipples are the worst part. For some reason, that really clinches the sensation that I'm looking at bitchtits. Moobs. Man mammories.

I'm slowly duding it up. I'm going about this half-cocked. I have a manly girl fashion sense. I moved from 70s t's to blouses, to man t-blouses. (Button-up t-shirt.) Currently, it's a set of black t-shirts. I thought I'd go polo. Didn't get that far. Bought a bitchin' Freddy Kruegar sweater, though.

I went on a mission, hunting down a Brock Samson jacket (denim, with a white ruff-collar); I was so stoked that I could sew, because the only one NOT made for a midget ended up being a female's winter coat. I took out the awful lining, and left the rim. Trimmed the bottom, because it was long. The sewing machine is being a bastard, again, so it's denim-by-hand. Needless to say, I've been wearing this sucker all over town, with sewing pins keeping various parts down.

My hair's growing back. Everyone's happy.

A girl I barely can stand said, on FB, something about my hair being so awful; I saw her comments from Cherish's login, because apparently the doof blocked me. I added a, "If you think my hair's bad in this.. check out my air-conditioner ass," line. Sarah backed me up with a repeating LOL.

My life is sad. In the lame sense.

I'm pretty much plotting to sleep through Sunday. Fuck Sundays.

You Missed:

*DISCLAIMER
* WHO TF IS ALL THIS??!
* INTRO, 2
* NAQ

Backlog:

Circa 2010