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 I still have a hard time writing about my bed bug experience.  I feel grimy when I do, and ashamed, like I can't scour them off my skin, like I have to make a list of justifications, give evidence of my personal hygiene, prove that I was an undeserving victim, that I'm not some vermin-infested grungy freak.

But this is worthwhile.  Because internet reading actually plays a huge role in the 'having bedbug' process, for most people.  We're a googling, wiki-ing culture; the moment we have a question we search it up online, relying on the testimony and claims of randoms and non-experts to decide what to do next.  Bedbugging in particular is a condition that fills you with a lot of free floating anxiety and insomnia.  The sheets begin to crawl, the enemy is nameless, you're restless and awake and the internet is right there!  It's full of horror stories of years of bites, full of hundreds of DIY solutions that we want to try right away.  And this can lead to a number of things; to despair and to trouble.

SO.  My encounter with bedbugs.  I guess it makes sense to start at the beginning.


I'm not sure how I got them, not one hundred percent.  My brother had come to live with me for a few weeks, it's possible he brought them along, but simultaneously a neighbour had died in a next-door suite and all of his stuff had been brought out of the apartment in a 1-800-GOT-JUNK truck.  When a bug has no more food source, it runs for the next warm body, and I was the nearest thing.  I believe his suite was treated when mine was, but it could also have been wee-brother.  Because, of course, seeing your first bedbug doesn't always mean it is the first bedbug to be in your bed.

I'd been having what might be bites for a couple of weeks.  They show up differently for everyone, but I was dismissing them at the time as puncture marks from my new kitten, who was prone to kneading.  They'd show up on my skin in twos and threes, as spaced apart as a cat's claws.  I'd probably have ignored them forever, blaming him, except for one morning, by fluke chance, a bug skittered across the sheets right in front of my eyes.  I was blindingly hungover, due to unrelated, staff party related reasons, but this goes to show; bed bugs will not be convenient, you will not find them when you are ready for them or when you are expecting them.

I grabbed the little fucker and tossed it in my empty coffee cup on the bedside table, then into a tupperware container when I was done hyperventilating.  I looked it up on the internet, decided that's what it was, then carefully cut off its' head with a kitchen knife and taped it to a piece of cardstock (I didn't like the idea of it pinned forever behind the tape, or suffocating or anything.  Never mind that I was about to poison all of its' family with impunity.)

I called, in this order; my mother, my father, and my landlady.

My landlady was showing another apartment at the time she got the call, and had a hasty conversation with me in code.  She called me back- and another suite caught fire while she was on the phone.  She called me back half an hour after that and did three wonderful things;

1) She told me it was not my fault, that you could pick up bedbugs sitting on bus seats, and that she wasn't angry.

2) she told me how to safely prep for an exterminator- NOT TO VACUUM, and to run every scrap of fabric in the place through a hot dryer cycle, to be mindful of dropping things in the hallway or on the laundry room floor, to get plastic bags with no stupid features like string tops or odor bullshit and that were rated leak-proof.  Every scrap of fabric in the place needed to be heated, from bedding to clothes to curtains to upholstery covers, then bagged and stored.  The bags had to be tied and sealed in such a way that they were UTTERLY airtight, paying particular attention to knotting the handles-- here's a good picture.  Imagine an air-proof knot where the red ribbon is;

3) She hired a professional exterminator.

Do not fuck around on number three.  Ask your landlord how well they know the place.  The landlord needs to cover this expense, but it will be worse for you if they cheap out on it.  Do not do raid or bug bombs or anything by yourself, do not do anything like the earths or the vaseline tricks or any other internet remedies.  Just wait for your exterminator.

What I did to prep for mine-

-freaked out and searched my entire apartment- there was no sign of them!  I found one skeletal hull, a shed adult skin, but other than that and the one bug and my little scratchy bites, I would have never been able to recognize the signs of the infestation, not in a million years.
-I moved kitten to the boyfriend's place (after getting him a new bag of food and litter, and treating his carrying case with bleach in the bathtab to be sure it had no stowaways.)
-I treated my fabric and sealed them out of harms way.
-I threw out my crinkly foam mattress pad, after marking it 'bed bugs.'  It may have been treatable, but I didn't want to add to the pain of treating the mattress itself.

When you fuck around with the home treatments and barriers, you risk diffusing the bugs.  Nine times out of ten, it won't kill them, they'll just run for other meat in the building.  Moving to an air mattress surrounded with duct tape for the night will keep you bug free FOR THE NIGHT but they'll be back the next night, or the next.  They live up to a year without food.  They'll hunt for blood in neighbouring suites and the building will get fucked up.

SO.  Once you've treated your fabric, wait.  Clean up as much clutter and bullshit as possible, move the furniture four inches away from the walls in prep for the exterminator.

Mine arrived and was lovely.  He bid me goodbye for eight hours, sprayed my place top to bottom (I should also note I had to turn off my fish tank filter and cover the top with a towel to keep them getting poisoned!) and when I came back, I put my apartment a tiny bit back together, just enough to live in.  Leave the fabric away, and still, forgo the home treatments and barriers!  Above all, do not give in to the temptation to go elsewhere!

Here's the gross but crucial thing about treating bedbugs.  You have to stick around.  You have to get bit.  The bedbug guy left poison strewn all around my floor and bed, and gave me strict instructions not to vacuum it. I slept in my bed the next week and a half knowing that the little fuckers were crawling through it to get to me, and dying, hatching and crawling through it and dying.  If you leave to go somewhere bite free, they don't walk through the poison, the infestation remains.

The first spray kills all the adults in the apartment, either at the time of or crawling through the detritus to feed.  Then, there's a very specific window- imagine that ten seconds before the exterminator walked through the door, a bed bug laid an egg.  In egg form, they pretty much aren't going to be poisoned.  You need to spray again AFTER that very last egg has hatched, and BEFORE it has had time to lay more (poison impervious) eggs.  That's where the two week spraying thing comes from.  A day early or a day late, and you're fucked.

But what makes bedbugs such irritating little shits?  Is that it only takes one.  If a pregnant female survives either of these sprays (in a book, behind an electric socket, in a light fixture) and doesn't manage to die in the poison around the place?  The bugs remain.  If two side by side units are being treated off kilter with one another, and the bugs are in the wall between?  The remain.  If you treat bugs but your side by side neighbour doesn't consent to let the exterminator in or doesn't check and says they have no bugs?  You've got them for good, basically.  If you spray your apartment but vaseline your bed posts and layer stuff with the earth, they remain. 

If you go through all this, but didn't happen to kill one of the bugs in your laundry bags?  Bang, they're reintroduced!  This is why after my treatments were done and I had been bite free for a month, when I began bringing my stuff back into the apartment I rewashed it all.  I threw the plastic bags directly out into the dumpster.  I also pitched my vacuum through all of this- because you guessed it, the reason my landlady had me not vacuum is that it could suck the bugs up into it, sparing them the extermination, and they'd crawl out and be back!  I could't be sure I hadn't vacuumed recently enough for it to be infested, so it had to go.

Mattress bags are risky.  THey'll trap bugs IN an infested mattress, but if it tears accidentally the bugs will be rereleased into an otherwise clean apartment.  I didn't use one, I just had my mattress (and couch) sprayed very extensively.  They both turned out fine.

I'll conclude this with these facts.  I had only the two treatments for the bedbugs, and though I saw bites between the two, I never saw another bite after the second treatment.  I think this is a combination of a) luck and b) the fact that my landlady MEANT BUSINESS and made sure I knew how to handle myself.  This impacted my life very immediately for the two weeks during the spraying, and then pretty intensely for the month after I lived with no spare clothing and pretty flimsy bedding.  For another two months after that I was checking really compulsively for bed bugs.  Now, I just check whenever I change my sheets, using the quick hiding spots the exterminator taught me (they like pressure, wedging themselves in seams, in zippers, in corners, etc.)

I am now at exactly six months sign-free.  I promise to update this post if this changes, but I feel good.  I haven't thought about the bugs in a few months, not really.  Two treatments and bingo isn't exactly common- if you do everything right, it can still sometimes take three or four to get that very last bug, and if the infestation has spread and your neighbours aren't cooperative you may need to move out (do rigorous research on how to heat treat EVERYTHING before you consider this.)

But yeah.  I guess I just wanted to fill the vacuum on the internet that I saw, on that first panicked night of post hunting.  Not every single bed bug occurrence is a protracted fiasco of anguish and tears.  It's stressful,  and it will take a lot of work, and you will lose some gross sleep lying in your bed as bug bait, and you will do hours of laundry and you will be tired and itchy and not like having to deep clean every inch of your apartment, but by doing so you will save yourself being one of these cautionary tales by the wayside.

Sometimes an bedbug problem goes down easy!  But do it right.  Don't do home remedies, you aren't good enough at it.  Don't let your landlord screw around with it and don't waste any time.  If finances are an issue, landlords technically are obliged (in Canada, at least) to comp your laundry costs and your bag expenses.  I never billed mine, since I brought them in and I love her, she makes me tea sometimes, but rather than spread the problem worse due to lack of funds, know you can be reimbursed.  

Best of luck to you, and ask me anything you need :)

If you are throwing stuff out- MARK IT AS INFESTED
If you are bringing stuff in- HEAT TREAT or BLEACH TREAT it.  If you're bleach treating, doing it in the bathtub is good.  If you can't do either to an item, heat in a dryer or bleach into every nook and cranny, it isn't worth salvaging.  Never bring any upholstered item into a home whose history you don't know- I personally include thrift shopping in this if you are in a bug-heavy city like NYC, Vancouver, San Fran, etc.
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I am physically going to force myself to change pairings.
Boogie Man

boogie man )

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This one was for another kinkmeme prompt, featuring slavery.

Same pairing, same rating.  It is basically also a snapshot of all my kinks.

here there be s&m )
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Sleeping Beauty AU for a kink meme prompt.

[This might be the darkest thing I've ever written. The song in Talia's spell is called Green Grow the Rushes, O, and I'm putting it at the beginning for anyone not familiar with it. It is sung call and response, much in the format of the Twelve Days of Christmas, and is pretty and haunting.]

I'll sing you twelve, O
Green grow the rushes, Ho
What are your twelve, Ho?
Twelve for the twelve Apostles
Eleven for the eleven who went to heaven,
Ten for the ten commandments,
Nine for the nine bright shiners,
Eight for the April Rainers,
Seven for the seven stars in the sky,
Six for the six proud walkers,
Five for the symbols at your door,
Four for the Gospel makers,
Three, three, the rivals,
Two, two, the lily-white boys,
Clothèd all in green, O
And one is one and all alone
And evermore shall be so.

sleeping beauty )

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Bane sends his men to the orphanage to arrest the priest who rumours say has been helping Gordon.  Blake has just enough time to throw on a collar and arrange to have himself taken instead.
WARNINGS: Torture, extortion for sexual activities, bondage, sadomasochism, knife play, fear play, reference to mutilation, violence, murder mindfucking, actual fucking, bad philosophy, feminist theory, and sad.

here there be blood )I can't use cuts )
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 Okay.  So I've been working in the tea store, paying taxes each week off my paycheck.

T4s are due to Canadian employees in march.  I haven't seen one yet.

My taxes are due April 30th. There is no late penalty for filing late if you don't owe the government money, so I hadn't planned on filing for a few weeks- it's exams season until the 27th, then I'm on vacation through to May.

I get informed by my manager today that he isn't filing me as a taxed employee, but a contractor.  He'll give me a cheque for the taxes he's been taking off my salary, the money will be refunded to me by him.

BUT this means I owe the government that money, and that I now have less than two weeks at the busiest time of my life to file, when I was supposed to have a month and a half.  I still don't actually have a T4 from him, though he says I'm still going to get one.  If I don't file on time (and I don't think I'll be able to) I'll face steep penalties.

What the fuck do I do?

It's sorted out.  He changed me to contract because as a contract worker, he doesn't have to give me a T4, meaning it isn't as late as what it really is, meaning he doesn't have to pay late charges on it (ten dollars a day, looking at thirty plus days now.)  So the reason I lost my workers comp benefits and RRSP savings contribution is that he's disorganized.

Fine, but whatever.  We were sitting down, calculating how much he'd taxed me per shift, when I realized my three month training wage and stayed through my eight month employment there.

He said 'oh, I guess I never changed it.'  I'd noticed it was short, but I'd thought it was just the tax deductions.  He promised to get my contract out and take a look at it.

I've been talking to him about my 8.50$ wage for months.  He knows that's what I thought I was being paid- and for him to sit there and bold facedly fill out my paycheques for 8.25$?  Mother fucker.

I told him flat out that if he'd been paying me that wage all this time and that was how he valued my work (seventy five cents less on the hour than my incompetent male coworker) that I needed to consider whether I was going to stay at the store.  He got a little upset and said he'd think about it.

I'm looking for a new job.

My thing is, at this point, I've been working so as not to have to take out student loans- it's worked, I'm three years into my degree and absolutely zero dollars in debt.  But I could stop this- I could take student loans out and I could study harder and improve my grades.  I'd been thinking of doing it anyway.  This is just one more reason- I still have the other part time job, after all, for pocket cash.

I hate the idea of taking on that kind of debt at twenty, but it'd free me up to do resume boosting volunteer work, including a lot of stuff I'm really interested in.  Research assistant jobs too.  Something in the field I want to go into.

Maybe this is the kick in the ass I needed?


Apr. 13th, 2010 01:49 am
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Okay. Okay long story.
My neighbours our super evil, I've ranted about them before.
Well one of the issues we've been fighting over is the laundry machine. We have a shared split day system they always use our days- we're supposed to have monday, wednesday, etc. They don't give a shit, they do whatever, this has been going on for months and we've made multiple complaints.

About six months ago I noticed my underwear were going missing. I remarked on it to my roommate.

About three months ago, I accidentally put a tube of burgundy lipstick in my jeans pocket and sent it through the wash. This left little purple stains on everything that had been in that load.

Today, our neighbours were using the dryer on our day for the fourth day in a row, so my roommate took their stuff out of the dryer and set it on top for us to do our wash. It was a little rude of her, but whatever, totally understandable, our clothes were filthy and we'd asked politely.

After she did her clothes I did mine, and I just pulled my stuff out of the dryer. I decided that I could just slide their clothes back in, no harm no foul and was in the middle of doing so when onto the ground fell my distinct, pink and grey thong.

Complete with burgundy lipstick stains.

And it couldn't have been from my load because it was cool (I had just taken my stuff out of a hot dryer) and smelled of their fabric softener. It was definitely in their load of laundry. It was even distinctly faded- I have two matching pairs of panties and a bra which are several shades darker.

I think I'm going to throw up. I went through my other things and tallied and I'm missing two thongs and a pair of panties and I am fucking crying.
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      The garbage truck wakes me up early this morning.  This isn’t anything new.  The garbage truck always wakes me up Fridays; what was different about it this time was that I was too jittery about it to get back to sleep afterwards.  I tossed and turned in bed for about a half hour before getting up to shower.  The morning is wasted compulsively cleaning the house, de-snailing my fish tank (seek out and squish) and reorganizing the bathroom cabinet.  A lot of time spent furiously accomplishing nothing important.  In retrospect I realize I was too nervous to have an appetite, and didn’t have a bite to eat.

At one thirty I leave the house and walk through the park to catch the bus up the hill.  It takes me three tries to get out the door.  I have to check if the garbage can has been brought in off the curb.  I remember I’m supposed to put a skirt in my bag for the evening’s plans after the protest.  I can’t remember if I turned my alarm clock off or not.  I lock the door and check the knob behind me, and make it out onto the street, still fighting down anxiety.

The indecision extends to the music I’m playing on my headset.  I can’t settle on anything, flicking through my usually favourite with angry dissatisfaction.  I’m half-way to campus before it occurs to me that the only thing that’s going to be listenable is clearly Queen.  Don’t stop me now.  R has class until two twenty and I get up to campus at two, so I move in circles.  I go to the pub and ask about tickets for the party that night.  I go to the cafeteria and buy a bottle of orange juice, a bottle of water, and two granola bars.

I go to the concourse computing facility.  We will rock you.  Killing time is agonizing somehow.  I check my email, and fire off a few replies.  I take a sip of my orange juice and realize it’s ‘the official juice of the Olympics.’  Idly, I google-news ‘olympic protests feb 12’ and read the articles that pull up.  I stick the orange juice back in my bag and realize I’m hungry, but I can’t really eat in the computing facility.  I move out into the hall and eat one of my granola bars.  Robin calls and says to meet him at Cornerstone.

I talk to my mother on the phone while waiting for him in the coffee shop.  The conversation is vague, and surprisingly ordinary given how anxious she’s been about all this so far.  We hang up quickly.  I want to break free. R shows up, bouncing on the balls of his feet and waving cheerfully, playing with the strings hanging off the ear flaps of his hat.  We get on the 135 together and bus down the hill to his apartment, where he drops off his books and I leave behind my things.  The pile of stuff I leave on his chair include my credit card, the damn Olympic orange juice, my day planner, a pair of high heels and a skirt.  The plan is that we’ll finish with the protest, come back, warm up, and go up the hill to the rowing party fundraiser tonight, since the organizers are mutual friends.

      He grabs his camera, and we hurry out the door.  The bus starts to go by as we reach Hastings, and we chase it for half a block.  The sprint is just long enough that my heart is pounding by the time we do board.

The ride down town is interminable.  People get on and off at almost every stop.  Everyone around us seems to be talking about the Olympics.  We’re next to two VANOC volunteer girls, who are discussing their postings.  We run into another mutual friend who tells us happily that she’s going to the opening ceremonies tonight.  She has a temporary tattoo maple leaf on one cheek.  R glances at me sideways, and neither of us mentions that we’re headed to a protest.

By the time we reach down town, the bus has nearly emptied, and we’re running late.  The protest is due to congregate at the Vancouver Art Gallery at three, and it’s nearly three thirty.  We turn up a street and the bus very quickly slams on the breaks; the entire road is at a dead stop.  The march has already begun.

Of the ten or twenty people left on the bus, one woman rushes to the front immediately and asks to be let off.  The driver answers that he can’t legally do that until he can pull up to a curb.  We’re actually parked at this point, and to make matters worse, someone has decided to install the bus with an extra-loud anti-crowd horn that sounds like something that belongs on one of the BC Ferries.  The driver honks it periodically as his passengers get more and more fraught.

R and I glance at each other.  The march is maybe a city block ahead.  We can see signs being waved, but can’t read them.  Someone is carrying a torch.  The man in the seat behind us leaps to his seat and stalks to the front of the bus.

“Fucking protesters,” he snarls as he goes, obviously furious with the situation.  The bus lurches forwards a few feet, and he begins to get into a shouting match with the driver.  He’s a reporter.  He starts swearing loudly about the event ahead, but garners no real support from the rest of the passengers other than an unhappy mutter; the aggressiveness towards the driver is really what does him in.  No one seems to be on his side at all, and he realizes it, shortly.  Still, he asks out loud, “Why don’t they just call the police?”

At this point, R snorts and pretends it’s a cough.  Later, out of earshot, he’ll perform a fictional conversation with a police officer.  ‘Um, sir, there are three thousand people on the road blocking traffic with signs and fire.’  ‘Oh shit, I had no idea, son, I had better get down there.  To the batmobile!’

As the angry reporter sits down into a seat, someone on the bus pulls the string to let the driver know ‘next stop.’  We’ve been sitting at a dead stop begging to be let off for fifteen minutes at this point.  The bell goes, and the entire bus bursts into uncomfortable laughter.  The reporter mutters that he’s late for work, and one of the poor VANOC girls is babbling an explanation into her cell phone.  In all, the lot of us are stuck on the bus until about ten to four, until we can finally get to a curb.

At least R and I don’t need to worry about finding where the protest is?  We sprint down the street after it, ignoring the blaring car horns, and approach it through the crowd.  I overhear snatches of conversation that seems to echo the sentiments of the people on the bus with us.  A woman reassures her partner that “Well, that’s what having your say is,” and he agrees a little too hurriedly, obviously as an amendment to something critical he’d just said.


and then things get interesting )


Oct. 15th, 2009 05:58 pm
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Don't you love it when people trying to show off end up looking really stupid?

Take, for example, the moron in the student residence parking lot, who liked to pull out of parking spaces really really fast and scream away.

A little while ago he tried this on again, only the genius forgot to put his car in reverse.

Moron crashed over a small tree, over a boardwalk and a flower garden, and straight into the wall of the first floor, next to someone's window, (a distance of about seven feet in total) scaring the shit out of everyone on that side of the building. Two firetrucks and a tow truck later, the car was gone, but the tree remains flattened and the boardwalk is still cracked, afaik.

I still see the guy in question around campus. Haven't seen him driving, though.
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I actually come up when I google my rl name. That really freaks me out.
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So, it turns out I have mild scoliosis. Anyone on the flist out there got any experience with it, or advice?


Apr. 17th, 2009 12:06 am
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Wow, I had this philosophy class this semester- I'm reading over my notes now, and I can tell exactly when a lecture ends and when one begins based on the quality of the writing.  It starts out neat and proper, then dissolves into chicken scratch and point form, then into scrawled observations about the people around me and philisophical gems such as 'I WANT BACON,' and 'ALIENS ABDUCT ME NOW,' and sketches of naked people, spider webs and killer hamburgers on stilts.  I should scan this shit.
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Although, look on the bright side.  If the jackass was capable of this, I kind of dodged a bullet in terms of finding it out NOW as opposed to, say, six or seven months later.
knights_say_nih: (kabuki)
why am I pouring out my emotions to the internet? cheaper than a therapist, I guess. )
I have a parent in the city, and I"m parenting him.  Yesterday I came down with a nasty stomach flu, and he arrived here this morning with two soup at hands, two mr noodles bowls, one package of lipton's noodles, and four microwaveable soup bowls, as well as two huge bottles of ginger ale.  

While I did ask him to bring me soup and gingerale, and told him I'd pay him back for it, I was unprepared for the sheer overabundance of soups- it sounds harmless, but the kind of breathless urgency with which he gave them to me set off major warning bells.  It felt like a tick- is one more soup enough?  Better get one of these.  Is this enough?  Better get one of these, too.

It's especially worrisome given that he's recently declared bankruptcy, so uncontrolleable shop/spend patterns aren't something he can handle right now- and I did pay him back for the thirty dollars worth of groceries he unexpectedly delivered, but what if he does this all the time?  Can I do anything about it?  I'm his nineteen year old daughter, not his mother.  Furthermore, I'm vomiting whenever I even smell food.  If I believed in immaculate conception I'd say it was morning sickness. I threw up just from taking the elevator down to get said soup from him.  I'm not up for dealing with this, either emotionally or physically.  I don't even know for sure there's anything to deal with.

I guess it isn't unexpected.  We had all been really thrilled about the change in his behaviour, recently- finally on the right dose of medication, depression dealt with, starting to look at getting a job.  This is just the beginning phase of the 'manic' in manic depressive.  The only thing I can actually do is keep watching.

He has a brother in the city, but he isn't really helping at all.  In some ways he's even more childish than my father.  He's also planning on moving soon- it's not fair to go to my mother.  She divorced him for god's sake, and is marrying another woman in a few months.  What would be ideal would be to get in touch with the people at the mental health centre he's with, so that I could give them my perspective on how he's doing in his day to day life- but then again, he's dead set on keeping me out of caring for him, and he's probably right about that.  I'm a teenager, as much as I like to pretend otherwise.

Part of me is terrified that he's going to ask me to help funding him, and I won't have the backbone to say no.  I truly believe it would be the wrong thing to do- I don't want to make him more codependant than he already is, but then, I don't want him targeted by a predatory loan agency either, and I definitely don't want him out on the streets.  He's my father.  In some cultures children are expected to take care of their parents the rest of their lives- maybe I'm just going to end up looking after him?
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This is ridiculous.  School is eating my soul.  Not only is my brain so fried that I'm reading/addicted to Laurell K Hamilton, but my biggest problem with the latest Merry Gentry book is that the mock court case they're about to go through would probably not turn out the way she's saying it will.  I mean, there's a clear argument for not criminally responsible by reason of mental disorder, and the guy's likely to be found unfit to stand trial in the first place.  Besides which, US foreign policy generally doesn't work that way.  Christ.  Stupid unbelievable fairy porn books.


May. 17th, 2008 06:39 pm
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 I'm watching an episode of Boston Legal.

It has the actors who play James T Kirk, Odo, Quark, AND Neelix in it.  This ONE EPISODE.

Anyone on my flist who know who all these people are, please join me in gleeing.
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Well, it wasn't st pat's, but it was the saturday before, and my friend Lauren's boyfriend, who plays in an irish punk band, was performing at the Railway Club.

That was obviously the place for me.

I'm not a barbie-attractive person, you know?  I'm a little too busty/hippy to ever fit into any of the Fashionable Clothing.  My hair goes to my ears, and curls crazily, and all my blonde Jennifer Aniston haircut friends tell me that I should totally let them straighten it, but I never, ever will.  I have the greek nose.  I'm not willing to back down in an argument, I'm not SHORT (5'6) and I STILL wear three inch heels.

So that, on top of being at an all girls school, on top of being a vocal crim major who's not afraid to speak her mind, has kept me kind of out of luck in the men department.  I've had two two-week dating adventures since June, and both of them were dicks who in retrospect, I should have known better than to even really bother with.  And who, friday night, both happened to be at the same party with me, and made my life miserable.

This said, we were going out saturday.  So I was like 'what the fuck, I'm single, and I'm going to be empowered and enjoy myself.'  I got out the high heels and the black tights and the little black dress, and the dark green eye shadow (yay st Pat's) and I put a curl intensifyer in my crazily curly hair and I went out to have some fun with Brigit, Kody and Lauren.

Apparently, I'm the irish man's ideal.  Or at least, the fakely out being pretend irish on St Pat's.  I had one follow me out to the band-balcony, where Lauren and her boyfriend (from the band) and I were taking pulls out of a whiskey bottle, and be niiiiice and attentive.  Then, when I got back in, he vanished off somewhere (to have a smoke, I think) and another one asked if he could buy me a drink.  He did.  A chocolate martini.

So we then went back and sat down with Lauren and another band member and one other guy, who'd been smiling at me too and was a teeensy bit sloshed, and we converse, and at some point the band member looks at me and says 'hey, you look like the girl from dirty dancing' and the one who got me the drink says 'BUT HOTTER,' and then for the first time in my life, someone tries to make out with me in a bar.

The only problem is that both of my first times are at once, and I end up smushed between two attractive, greenclad redheads who are trying for a kiss.  It was like 'GENTLEMEN, PLEASE.'  And so Lauren dragged me off to play coy and dance a little, and the one who bought me the drink (who I shall now refer to as Patrick, as it is his name) came and danced with me for the rest of the night.  And we fucking JIGGED, not slowdanced, and did the swing and when he found out I knew how to charleston he made me start teaching him, but it was too crowded to do properly.

Then, he asked for my phone number, like a good gentleman, and we made out a little (because, although I can hold my liquor like nothing else and was only slightly tipsy, I HAD had seven drinks (combinations of cocktails, beers, and whiskey,) and that is enough to get even ME just a little bit happier than usual.)  And I'm NOT one of those drunks who's like 'i shwear to god guys, tooooottally sober.'  I talked to Brigit on the bus on the way back and she asked me how much I'd had and couldn't BELIEVE IT.

So, even if Patrick doesn't phone, and it'd be nice if he would, my night was completely fabulous, and I felt very beautiful for the first time in a whiiiiiiile.  Since the guys my age are all a little too young to be attracted to anything other than what the media flashes up in front of them.  Apparently, my answer is twenty three year old third year poli sci majors who will have a perfectly earnest Clinton-vs-Obama discussion with you over a chocolate martini and a guinness.

knights_say_nih: (Default)
The  Shining, ladies and gentlemen, where the tacky carpets are the SECOND scariest thing in the room.

It has just made me choke on my captain crunch, and now I am all sugary and sticky and scared out of my fucking MIND.  Oh my god, I am never looking at my tricycle the same way EVER AGAIN.


knights_say_nih: (Default)

April 2013



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