You know, even if my guestbook is a bitch and hates you, my notes love you like a warm glove on Christmas morning... I promise.
Bah.
I have cold feet all the time. Why is that do you suppose?
No socks.
Gee, why didn't I think of that.
I do not want to get a job. Bah. But I have to soon, me thinks. I just... you know, I know how utterly crappy it is out there and my last place fucked me over so bad that I don't even know if I can stand.
Bah.
That was a nice mental image wasn't it?
I need to meet a nice, redheaded young man who plays the cello, or the bass, wears glasses, whistles, has large hands, broad shoulders, laugh lines around his eyes, smells like strawberries and makes me laugh.
That's not too tall an order.
I realized with quiet dread the other night that I hate going out. I'm just not that social. I've never been a big party-get together person. I only like it if I'm the nucleus holding everyone togethter. Does that make sesne? I mean, it's totally selfish, but I like being the one everyone knows. *shrug* Anyway, it occurred to me that I am never going to meet ANYONE because the person I'd like to be with doesn't like social things either and they're probably at home, avoiding everyone as well. We'll both go through life miserable because we're too lazy to get out of the house and meet.
Bah.
I can feel it in my bones, I'm gonna spend another year alone.
That's Liz Phair, not me. But it fits.