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Would'st thou leave me so unsatisfied?
Nov. 1st, 2008 11:36 amSo, I've decided that it's universal: straight boys annoy the unholy fuck out of me. Even the ones I like get on my nerves. I'm really starting to think that if there was a bright, heterosexual center to the universe, I'd be on the planet that is farthest from. Yes, that is a Star Wars reference. Yes, I am that big of a dork. Don't judge me. Don't look at me in that tone of voice. You make those references, too.
*sighs* I think I'm just hormonal. I really need to find some way to fix that. It's getting unhealthy. Back on the pill? Yeah. Yeah, that would probably be a good idea. I was on an even emotional keel when I was on the pill. I was functional. I miss that. A lot.
One of these days I'm going to break down and let them give me anti-depressants. I don't want them to do it. I love the hilarious highs and I occasionally need the lachrymose lows. I just hate those 1.5 weeks per month where I'm an absolute mess for no reason at all. It's highly unfortunate.
And, really, I'm fine with things where they are. When the estrogen finally leaves my system, I'll go back to being OK with this. I like this whole getting-to-know-each other thing. It's nice. There's no pressure. I just wish my girly bits would remember to think at the margin. Stupid things.
I want to take Latin dance lessons next through U-College next semester, anybody want to be my partner? Anyone? Bueler.
Anyway, the show closes on Sunday and Maryse and I are celebrating the return of our social lives with baked goods and a viewing of Velvet Goldmine. Its time we both went back to our roots and contemplated the heavenly virtues, chief among them being Ewan McGregor in shiny silver pants. ♥
Are you dead, Big Brother? Please don't be dead. I need you. Who else is going to mock my Batman comic and terrorize my cats? I'm going to be annoying like Pete Wentz and spam your inbox until you respond. Just so you know.
ETA: I've realized what it is about choreographers that makes me, as a costume designer, so unhappy. Choreographers are hopelessly vague. Descriptions of their pieces involve a plethora of phrases such as "kind of" and "it's sort of like_________, but not really." The only things they're sure of are the things they don't want, and those are usually the things that you think would make the piece look its best. *cough*maryjeanandherinsistencethatthispieceisnotperiod*cough* Whatever.
*sighs* I think I'm just hormonal. I really need to find some way to fix that. It's getting unhealthy. Back on the pill? Yeah. Yeah, that would probably be a good idea. I was on an even emotional keel when I was on the pill. I was functional. I miss that. A lot.
One of these days I'm going to break down and let them give me anti-depressants. I don't want them to do it. I love the hilarious highs and I occasionally need the lachrymose lows. I just hate those 1.5 weeks per month where I'm an absolute mess for no reason at all. It's highly unfortunate.
And, really, I'm fine with things where they are. When the estrogen finally leaves my system, I'll go back to being OK with this. I like this whole getting-to-know-each other thing. It's nice. There's no pressure. I just wish my girly bits would remember to think at the margin. Stupid things.
I want to take Latin dance lessons next through U-College next semester, anybody want to be my partner? Anyone? Bueler.
Anyway, the show closes on Sunday and Maryse and I are celebrating the return of our social lives with baked goods and a viewing of Velvet Goldmine. Its time we both went back to our roots and contemplated the heavenly virtues, chief among them being Ewan McGregor in shiny silver pants. ♥
Are you dead, Big Brother? Please don't be dead. I need you. Who else is going to mock my Batman comic and terrorize my cats? I'm going to be annoying like Pete Wentz and spam your inbox until you respond. Just so you know.
ETA: I've realized what it is about choreographers that makes me, as a costume designer, so unhappy. Choreographers are hopelessly vague. Descriptions of their pieces involve a plethora of phrases such as "kind of" and "it's sort of like_________, but not really." The only things they're sure of are the things they don't want, and those are usually the things that you think would make the piece look its best. *cough*maryjeanandherinsistencethatthispieceisnotperiod*cough* Whatever.
