Thursday, April 07, 2005

And once again, I am sad. And other random musings.

I'm happy for the lady at the gym that's my grandmother's age and can not only outrun me but also kick my ass. Really. I'm happy for her. However, I go home at night and weep for myself.

The internet ate my last post detailing how I'd solve America's fuel problems in six easy steps.

I think I dislocated my boob.

I will invent a bra that is actually effective for people with tits above a size C cup that wern't obtained out of a catalog. Whenever you're a DD and they arn't hard and look like plungers due to excessive surgery, there isn't a sports bra in the world that is capable of taming the wild beasts. When my sister played rugby she said it was common for the girls to wear three bras. I tried wearing two, one to push 'em up, and one to squish 'em down, and that didn't really do much of anything. Besides duct tape, I'm not sure there's an answer.

I brushed my teeth before I went to bed (for that like hour and a half nap before I took James to work) and I flossed, and I used mouth wash, and I still feel something between my teeth. I feel like my teeth are mocking my effort at keeping them strong and healthy and in my mouth. Besides excessive night-grinding, what the hell have I ever done to them?

A little-known fact: I AM ten ninjas. Yes, shocking, I know.

Ted rules and the universe should know this. His mad car foo is saving me like $600 in car repairs. All it will require is my first-born raised and trained to do his bidding, and getting up really fricking early. I wonder if, for the indentured servitude of my second-born, he'd let me sleep in an extra couple of hours.

My back broke out in hives this morning. What weirdness is this?

I also discovered through this excursion just how flexable one really is, when one is ichy enough. I actually reached that unreachable spot in the middle of my back like an old pro.

Timothy Zahn's Heir To The Empire was the pinical of the Star Wars "expanded universe." All other books suck comparatively (though I did like little tinkering Anakin in the Corrilian trilogy). George Lucas should have taken note of this and just not made the prequils.

The ikea flowers continue to vex me.

Can someone PLEASE get a push-pin and put the clock back up above the door way?

And by someone I mean the person in this household who happens to be six and a half feet tall and can reach said spot above said doorway. I mean, you DID, after all leave Kilowog behind my statute of the holy family. Consider this penance.

My hands stink like aluminum baseball bat--metally mixed with rubber and sweat. I really should wash my hands after going to the gym. Y'know. If I'm not going to wash the rest of me. That sort of bare minimum coverage thing that somehow doesn't include my face.

I have a mutant cold sore on my lip. I am suspicious of it and fear it will take over my whole face.

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