put it all together and bill the concierge.

I may not be around much over the next few weeks.
So I shall leave you in the safe hands of the Royal Air Force, as personified by Armstrong and Miller. Ausgeseichnet!

oh boy

This is so sappy.
but this song is exactly how i'm feeling.



and ryan adams is teh sex.
you know, despite being a deaf midget struggling beneath the weight of his own ego.
he sure can write songs.

such a smart girl!

uh.
i just realised that my piercer looks like jemaine from flight of the conchords, only he's fair.
it was bothering me the whole time i was talking to him.
oh.
and there ain't no tea party like my nana's tea party.

Flight of the Conchords - Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros from Flight of the Conchords

boom click back tick

Okay.
Okay.
Okay.
Seriously, this is going to be bad. Wait for it...wait for it...
I watched Enchanted the other night.
Yes.
Oh, yes.
It was brilliant.
Well, James Marsden was brilliant.
The bit where he screams, 'Giselle!' and rams his fist into his mouth. Seriously. My little heart flopped over. Or would have if my stomach weren't so busy doing the same.
He's freaking HILARIOUS. Stole the show. It makes up for the fact that his forehead takes up about the same percentage of face as Tom Cruise's smile takes up on his (that is, about two thirds).
And then I made the mistake of watching X-Men 2, and for some reason...don't ask me why...I kept expecting him to come rushing down the stairs of the mansion squealing, 'Logan!'
Uh. Yeah. The subtext is totally there. And it is steamy.
Hugh Jackman is still the only man I love who is allowed to have big rippling muscles.

tick tick hash.

Turkey bacon is...not...quite...it's just...I can't...
It's gross.
Mondo gross.
And I know I sound like a ruddy valley girl, but them's facts, me luvs.
You can't have a proper bacon sandwich with turkey bacon. It doesn't sizzle, it just...burns and goes all...narsty and smugh.
Yes.
Smugh.
You know what's stupid?
I can't sleep.
And my piercing itches like a bastard on a stick.
Cause they're very itchy...erm...bastards.
On sticks.
And...I had a seriously crack!head dream last night.
It involved Jason Statham and Marilyn Monroe, an old-fashioned steam-engine,
and The Chronicles of Narnia.
Yeah.
No kidding. It was so messed up.
Uh.
Insomnia is a pest and a half.
Especially when someone who will remain unnamed very unhelpfully volunteered a mental image of drippingwethughjackmaninatowelonly, and I am unable to go to sleep to make proper use of said image.
Perhaps I shall try to take over the world.
Now where are those lab rats?

wakka wakka bang splat.

Uh...I probably shouldn't be broadcasting my adoration of Vimes any more than I have to...but...I was listening to Thud! today and my little heart just about beat out of its chest. Multiple times. Specially when he was tearing down the street and hijacking the carriages of little old ladies in order to get back home and read Where's my Cow? to his son. The most cuddled book in the world. Heh. Seriously, if I were a fictive, Sybil and I would have a serious throw-down for her husband. (Only I like Sybil too. Whole bunches. She's such a bloody rocker.) She'd kick my butt, of course, but it'd be...you know...wossname...worth it. Yeah. To get called an idiot by the Commander. The only bloke I go weak in the knees for. Give me a moment to swoon. Thanks.
*Ahem*
ANYHOW! Now that's out of the way, we can move on to more important things. Yeah. Like...oh, I got my nape pierced finally. I win at life! Hurrah! Thanks to Chris at Electric Art who coached my whiny ass like a shiner.
(I actually didn't whine. I moaned a little, but not so much that anyone could hear. Bragging rights, yo.)
I shall give piccies when I have pritty jewellery to show. Right now there's just a healing bar barely sticking out of the skin by about three milimetres. I've discovered that the edges of band-aids cut me (fragile blossom that I am), and that a warm-bordering-on-hot saline soak for ten minutes in an upended shot glass makes all the ouchies feel just that much better. It's mondo delish.
Buglit. I has runned out of things to say to peopulz.
No fear. I'm not actually speaking lolcat language. Cause trying to sound cuter than you actually are is a hanging offense, and I'm terminally (ha bloody ha ha) aware of my level of cuteness. It's limited to banging on about cynical, fictional Watch officers more than a half-century old.
Uhhh...my back hurts.
And I have found the only sexy trolley boy in the world. He has big gauges and dark eyes and a great smile.
And he's probably about seventeen.
Great.

Tis a Pity He's a...

little boy.
But it helps that he has an adorable accent and messed up teeth.

Watch 32 Songs in 8 Minutes on CollegeHumor

Heart Healthy

Always eat a good breakfast the morning of a body modification.

Just in case

I haven't mentioned it before,
there's nothing quite like being told that your dress is cute
by a boy from Oz.

Like Porcelain

The first narcissus (narcissi?) of spring are growing outside my house. I still have memories of Massachusetts, the garden where they drew knee-high to me (when I was much smaller), with their long necks and pale yellow chiffon petals.
Heh. poetic, much?
Well, I'm not much for flowers, but they're pretty. I like the leaves best, succulent green, the sort of spring-flavoured green earth and flake white with yellow ochre that manages not to be an earth colour, somehow. Buh-zzare.
Erm. I'm still doing rubbish sketches. I got the Vetinari eyebrow-lift perfectly, but still can not manage Sybil for the life of me.
Bah.
My destiny calls, and I go.
Or is that the carpool?

Goodness Gracious

I have been doing so many trashy sketches. Observe. Sorry about the blur.