I’m headed out to spend the evening surrounded by a bunch of sad weirdos who’ve convinced themselves that this arbitrary holiday brings something actually new and different. We will all desperately cling to one another, thrusting our tongues about, hoping to numb the strange sensation that the slightest alteration of our calendar brings. You have no idea how happy watching this sad, drunk parade of fools falling on their faces while trying to chase down the hottest (least ugly) girl/guy at the party/bar makes me. It’s an entire roomful of people who’ve been told that tonight is their last night on Earth, and if they dance harder, make out with enough people or do something especially shameful, they just might get a second chance.
Happy New Year’s Eve, friends. Let’s go 2012.
-Thai food for lunch!
For some reason this one hour time difference between Missouri (where I was) to NYC (where I am) is translating to a one day difference in my head.
Then I saw that I could preview the text via Amazon.
Nothing! Not even a little bit of me.
It’s OK. I’m not that funny anyway.
I really hope there’s someone out there who looks at pictures of me and thinks “She’s not as pretty as she thinks she is” because, yeah, I deserve it.
I mean. It was Hunger Games. So good in the way that some people think crack is really good. But whatever it is, good or bad, I miss reading it already!
Let the games begin!
I shall name it Joe after that weird real estate agent that got me and Drex drunk a few weekends ago.
Making a fucking ton of hot apple cider to drink alone while watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas alone in Brooklyn. If you’re one of those friends of mine in NYC and you want to share with me tonight, then please come over.
I’m wearing this dress for NYE. I’m planning on looking like a slightly thicker version of this lady (minus most of the hair). Can’t decide what tights to wear with it…
So, Tumblr. Thoughts? Lace tights? Neon tights? Textured tights? Tights with a seam up the back? Help me?
Explained my extreme sensitivity to onions to him, he laughed. We had a thirty minute conversation mostly about food and work, then he left.
Finally, I looked in the mirror and saw long black streaks of mascara down my face.
I equate being seen with a make-up disaster (of which I was clearly unaware) with farting in front of a new friend. Like, we could all be cool and grown up about it face-to-face, but you know he’s all like “Ew” and even if he isn’t I’m still all like “OMG, the horror.”