I've got a new addiction- and I found her all by myself. And when people say that Martha is wonderful, I can say that I found her first. I love that post.
So there.

I've decided that I want a graphic... somehow, somewhere, of a vintage-looking picture of an ice cream cone. Even better, one that has tabs attached to it, so it looks rather like a paper doll. And underneath it, I want it to say in blocky, cheerful letters, "I scream."
I think it would be fun.

I rejoice in my new favorite store. But it's one of those cases where it would make you feel guilty if anyone bought you something from there. I don't know about you, but I would hate to pop open a box and know that the sweater inside cost eighty dollars.
But I don't know you. Maybe you'd like it.

I want a pretty website.
It seems to me that my website gives the impression of being fat. Do you know what I mean? I'm not sure I do.
It just seems excessively large, like a fat man at Thanksgiving.

I'm Satine from Moulin Rouge! Which Nicole Kidman are you? Find out!

I didn't cheat. I swear!!

One last post. Heh. Jory says I have, and I quote, "kiki fashionista prowess". Good heavens. Jory, let's go to the new Gateway mall and pretend to be ohsomuch cooler than we really are.
In other news, apparently there is a kind of Kung Fu called "Drunken Monkey". Really. Jordan told me. It involves you pretending to be intoxicated and then flying at your opponent with great speed and with your arms flailing.

Wait. I have one more thing to say. My anniversary was on Wednesday. My really anniversary, not one of those monthy things.
I am the Queen of the Universe.

Yesterday was the most freedom-ridden day I have had in an eternity.
A bunch of us went to Evergreen Park and had a picnic. That word is so perky.
After Adrienne and I rolled down the hill a few times, we decided we were sick and we wanted to play on the jungle gym. However, before reaching the jungle gym, we were enticed to climb a rather sappy pine tree-which we did not do- and we did all sorts of unmentionable things.
Alex tried to teach me how to throw, but it didn't work very well. Then we went to Jordan's later, and amid Jeff giggling like a gigolo, we played the coolest card game ever.
And that's all I have to say, because I'm not awake yet.

I'm sitting at Alex's house right now. They're watching "Twelve Monkeys" upstairs, and I should be watching it, too, only I don't want to.
Sometimes I wish I was the sort of person that other people wish I was. Do you know what I mean?

Angels and ministers of grace defend us.
Jewel says "ta-tas" in track two.

She lived beneath a disco discount store, with pictures of Randy Newman scattered all across the floor.

I want to write poetry that rhymes. And sometimes I just want to write poetry. Most of the time I feel as if I'm chasing it down, waving my notebook and shrieking at it. It's like a skittish horse. Sometimes it says that it wants to behave itself, come in, sit down, eat some take-out Chinese, watch Trading Spaces with me. And before I know it, it's taken over my brain like a house guest that has overstayed her welcome, the one that watches annoying movies and eats your ice cream and forgets to give you messages when she shouldn't have been answering your phone anyway.

And I'm sorry that I walked in on you unexpectedly. Sorry I didn't serve you both chamomile tea.
Do you want me like I want you?

I don't think Jewel has a swerve that could tempt anyone to sway.
But really. I'm sorry that my heart breaking ruined your day. But sometimes it be that way.

Oh, yes. I forgot to say something.
Vanessa Carlton. Vanessa Carlton. How can it be that she and Michelle Branch are not long lost sisters? The wonderflicity of them strikes me dumb.

Somehow these posts are becoming less about relevancy and more about my hands smelling like Pearberry antibacterial hand wash from Bath and Body Works. Sometimes these entries are about what a good book White Oleander by Janet Fitch is, and how I think Jory should read it, since he chain-smokes books and I think he would have a crush on Astrid because she could kick his butt.
Sometimes these entries are more about run-on sentences than anything else.