Monday, July 04, 2005

Points of order

Yesterday's blog entry got toasted, so here goes:

The retarded lady at the 7-11 on the North Side gave me better directions to Steubin Street than Mapquest did. Nothing against that lady, she was extremely nice and her directions were more correct than Mapquest. That's the part that pisses me off--Mapqust ALWAYS fails me. The part that pisses me off more--I KNOW they're going to let me down, but I do it anyways, instead of going to Rand McNally's web page, because the website of the place I'm going to has a Mapquest button on it. I need kilt.


I am intensely full of the suck because I had a paper due at midnight and I haven't even started it. I just can't find the motivation. I have a migrane, I'm physically exhausted, and I am generally full of both misary and deprssion. I really do think I'm under-medicated. These periods are getting longer and closer and closer together again. Of course getting the dosage upped would mean actually talking to a doctor about the problem. Is it too much to ask that I be so jacked up on drugs that I'm a stepford wife?? That's gotta be preferable to feeling things that feel as sucky as this feels.

And no, that doesn't mean e-mail me about how I need help and how you hope I stop being miserable. I'm so sick of getting those e-mails. Really. If I want to wade in the shit of my own misery, then I shall. Free will's a bitch.

I'm having covetous thoughts about food again. I'm sure it's wrong in many ways that I want to have those cheese-filled hotdogs in my refrigerator grilled and for breakfast. Yum Yum. Which is odd. because I hate hotdogs. I gues i'm feeling nostalgic. My grandfather ALWAYS had cheese-filled hotdogs that he'd make for me when I was over his house as a wee tot. he alsu used to always have animal crackers for me in those little animal train boxes whenever I visited him at the store. But back to the glorious cheese filled hotdogs. My parents always bought the nasties cheapest hotdogs, and a real brand name with actual CHEEEEEEESE in them was luxury beyond the likes of which my brain was capable of comprehending as a child. It was the cavier of hotdogs.

I also want to buy a half gallon of icecream, peal back the cardboard box and hack it up with my butcher knife. How come we don't realize how special the people around us are until they're gone?

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