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Oh, yeah:
Joe-the-tree is dying.

I think I jinxed his namesake.

Either that, or plants don't like my place. I end up carrying them, room to room, waiting them to find a spot that doesn't kill them. I'm only gone for tonight, but I'm already thinking I'll go home, and my pitiful attempt at dealing with Joe will die with my black thumb with new plants.

I could bully my way through plants, and keep naming them (Joseph Rampage Blackheart III, Joe IV), like people do with pets. Yeah, I am still wondering about Joe's thoughts on the subject.

I wish he'd come back, and hammer out this Chuck Steak issue of mine. I think I officially scared Dylan off, with my sexually-confused worshiping. Did I mention I sent him an extra-emo email?

People haven't been getting my gmail emails, so.. maybe I got lucky, and all my faggotry ended up in spam. I'm tempted to call, when I'm feeling less pussy, and pretend like it didn't happen; try my luck.

If Dylan forgives me for my complete erotic devotion to his lingo, I will have to kill all the verbal erotic devotion to said lingo. It's past being funny. Now, it's sad and stupid. (But seriously. I want a woman to woo me with his words. The man's lingo makes my panties do a little dance. WHY ARE WE BOTH GAYYYYYYYYYY.)

I make myself sad.

I'm almost living a reverse of my own life, via Dylan: coveting him, for the fact that he speaks my language/has interests we could share. Jesus, Dill-bill; grow a pair and tell me to go fuck myself -- I have to do that to dudes, all the time. (Damn me, and my complex crush.)

I'm schoolgirl as shit, sometimes; Jesus.

DYLAN, WHY HAST I BEEN SO EMO THAT THEE HAS FORESAKEN MEEEEE.

Without Joe/Dylan, it's just me, making shit-jokes to an unappreciative crowd.

Maybe what I really need is to cybersex it up with a fatass motherfucker, pretending to be a busty redhead. Have him manbanter; have me bust a nerve in my junk, with some actual fapmaterial for once. Carry on a linguistic love affair that ends with irl meeting/brutal realization that we're not what either actually wanted.

STOP, ME; STOP WRITING EMO ENDINGS FOR YON-SELF.

Fine, fine.

Um. Happy ending. Sure. Despite all odds, I find true love in someone who makes me horny in all my parts, loves me for me; s/he is a wonderful motherfucker, and we fuck like demons. I finally fulfill my true self as a scorpio nymphomaniac; the sex is amazing, and it totally makes up for all the crap preceding it. The relationship is fulfilling, rich, and adorable. I finally get my awkward-guy-wins-the-girl happy ending.

You Missed:

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

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Circa 2010