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In my lofty position as the Captain of the carpet ship, I celebrate ... with Ben & Jerry's Mint Chocolate Cookie ice cream and peppermint schnapps.
The peppermint schnapps is really a crucial part of this equation. It's sort of like a float, because the ice-cream is now floating. I am less tactful than usual when deleting spammers. Note the following: ( Drunken and tactless reporting of spammer )
The grocery store does not have the high-lighters that I require for work. I pout, even though I will survive a few days without yellow in that particular style. I pout mightily.
It seems that somewhere between this morning and tonight, I just got hit with "A Cup of Time" bunnies again. I'm not entirely sure what-all is going on with that universe, but Dolores (the Original Character who is in no way Prof. Umbraige) is back in my head, insisting somewhat hysterically that it is not fair to leave her with undone errands for this length of time. Her husband is surely a Gary Stu, except I think I can get away with it because he does not steal the stage and he is sufficiently mild-mannered and harmless and stereotypical that he is almost a cardboard character. "Buggy colds" indeed! The only way I risk breaking character is violating the Limited 3rd Person and having Dolores (she does not get a shorter nickname as most of my characters do, because she will never be anything but Dolores; she will never be Dee, she will never be Do or Doll or even Dodo or Dolly) know too much about her husband's line of work would violate her character with the Gary Stu nature of her husband.
My nail polish is all chipped. I should renew it before work tomorrow.
The first writing group meeting that I ran, officially, went surprisingly smoothly. (Or maybe that was the peppermint schnapps poured liberally over, onto, and into my pint of the ice cream? Because that was excellently smooth; I recommend it with all good cheer!)
There was a rather potentially creepy incident in the parking lot of the supermarket. In the supermarket, I'd seen someone wearing a Star Wars T-shirt, a man the mid-to-late 30s/early-to-mid 40s range. I nodded cheerily to him as we passed on separate shopping errands. No words exchanged. Fast-forward some minutes, and I'm out in the parking lot headed home. A truck pulls close enough to make me nervous. "Would you give me your phone number?" this same fellow inquires.
I gape. "...No," I say, because there's really no other answer that a sensible girl gives at this juncture.
"Please?"
I manage to utter some sort of negative, and the rather stymied fanboy and his truck go off about their business. I watch the vehicle drive away and make sure it doesn't lurk somewhere nearby before going actually home. On the one hand, I'm flattered that people find me attractive on the strength of my appearance. On the other hand ... um? On the gripping hand, the sanctity of my phone number remains intact, and I wasn't followed home.
It might have been different had he asked me for an e-mail address, and had the circumstances been better-lit and better-chaperoned. Even though I'm very, very bonded, and very, very not interested in creating new relationships.
The peppermint schnapps is really a crucial part of this equation. It's sort of like a float, because the ice-cream is now floating. I am less tactful than usual when deleting spammers. Note the following: ( Drunken and tactless reporting of spammer )
The grocery store does not have the high-lighters that I require for work. I pout, even though I will survive a few days without yellow in that particular style. I pout mightily.
It seems that somewhere between this morning and tonight, I just got hit with "A Cup of Time" bunnies again. I'm not entirely sure what-all is going on with that universe, but Dolores (the Original Character who is in no way Prof. Umbr
My nail polish is all chipped. I should renew it before work tomorrow.
The first writing group meeting that I ran, officially, went surprisingly smoothly. (Or maybe that was the peppermint schnapps poured liberally over, onto, and into my pint of the ice cream? Because that was excellently smooth; I recommend it with all good cheer!)
There was a rather potentially creepy incident in the parking lot of the supermarket. In the supermarket, I'd seen someone wearing a Star Wars T-shirt, a man the mid-to-late 30s/early-to-mid 40s range. I nodded cheerily to him as we passed on separate shopping errands. No words exchanged. Fast-forward some minutes, and I'm out in the parking lot headed home. A truck pulls close enough to make me nervous. "Would you give me your phone number?" this same fellow inquires.
I gape. "...No," I say, because there's really no other answer that a sensible girl gives at this juncture.
"Please?"
I manage to utter some sort of negative, and the rather stymied fanboy and his truck go off about their business. I watch the vehicle drive away and make sure it doesn't lurk somewhere nearby before going actually home. On the one hand, I'm flattered that people find me attractive on the strength of my appearance. On the other hand ... um? On the gripping hand, the sanctity of my phone number remains intact, and I wasn't followed home.
It might have been different had he asked me for an e-mail address, and had the circumstances been better-lit and better-chaperoned. Even though I'm very, very bonded, and very, very not interested in creating new relationships.
