LaDeDa.

how bloody tired I am. I'm trying to think of someone to blame. Cause what really matters is the blame... somebody to blame...

I'll blame Andre. He wears it so well. Though at the moment he almost has me feeling a little sorry for him. He's in a role play at the moment, out at sea in new york harbor with his idol, and unadmitted, (and most /definately/ unrequited) crush-object Horatio Hornblower. And he's got to compete with the most diabolically typical of mary-Sue characters for his attention, not to mention any other midshipmen who just think tall, dark and curly is the grooviest thing since the indoor latrine. Which hasn't been invented yet, (in 1776? i think not) so there.

Poor, poor Andre. So very closeted. So very fraught. I wish he'd be interested in some boy who /wasn't/ so damn difficult for once, although anyone who might return his affections would force him to actually... *gasp* come to terms with his nature, which would prolly blow up his little head.

oh dear, oh dear.

but I have to go to @#$%^&*(! work now, so I'll just have to feel sorry for the boy later. Ah well... Tonight, perhaps, when I am page-editing.

So much to do. So little sleep.

<<agé chose>>

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