First off: Having no money is not my fault. I have to yell at the bank tomorrow.

Fox is right. /Always/ make deposits over the counter.

Those fucking bastards.

I'll talk about the good things tomorrow, when I am over my hate. Time to go let figments make a baby.

05.08.02 - 3:04 p.m.

I was supposed to go to the post-awful, and I am not, because I do not have any money to send the package I must send.

In fact, I have less than that. How much less?

A LOT. So I'm just about fit to be tied. In addition to this, which just roasts me.

Fury, fury, fury. Hate and hellfire. Damnation and brimstone.

Did I mention that I cannot get a messenger service to work to save my soul? Let alone moveabletype.

So I munch on powedered cheese-product-with-noodle, and drink my chocolate-chai-with-kaluha, and fume, fumily, over here.

05.08.02 - 1:51 p.m.

Or well, not anymore. Yesterday, Brent, my UNC radioboy and perpetual shadow finished up the last of the stuff for his story. Then you know what he did? He went to my work before I could get there and left me a prezzie-- a small 'le chat noir' in a mat, for my wall.

What a darling boy! He reads this thing you know, and had me read some of it for our radio audience even.

Apparently, the rara avis airs in 2 weeks. I'm grinning.

The other reason I am grinning has to do with the fact that I am wearing a rose-colored satin dressing gown that actually gives the impression that I have a chest. Clingy and stretchy. This makes me happy.

I work and 5. I have to go to the post office before this. So I will have to leave my pretty dressing gown behind and put on a shower and real clothes. In that order, with judicious application of a Towel in the interum. Which I know where it is, that towel of mine.

Oh right. I have to eat too, don't I? Funny how when I do a lot of cooking, I forget to eat.

And congratulations to the Cori, who is also employed. I hugs her.

<<agé chose>>

0 comments.notation.profile.DW.Quois.Lochinvar.smut.Tambourin.DiaryLand.DeadNazi