Tuesday, June 13, 2006

HP & the Sorcerer's Groan

The G: i am a moron

S: me too! I thought I left my phone at the beach but it turns out I didn't even bring my phone to the beach and it was quietly sitting on the charger waiting for me to stop being a dillhole and acknowledge its existence

The G: oh, well. that's nice. i walk into walls. I need a helmet.

* * *

Dear People in the Machine:

So the night started off fine. The N is away for work, I decide to take a drive downtown and crash my sister-in-law's date, eat their expensive appetizers, drink their High Life, talk about how my personality is becoming more like Andy Rooney with each passing hour, etc. It was a pleasant time. We discussed bands names (J's idea for a ska band: "Ska Na Na". S's idea for a death metal group: "Sidecar Full of Sighs". If you have any ideas for good horror rockabilly names, we're all ears.)

I get home, check email, climb into bed. BD, distraught over the fact that his master (and LOVER) has disappeared for the night (BD bears a striking resemblance in personality to Smithers, what with his intense devotion and dedication to the N.) decides that tonight, oh tonight is his chance to blossom into the asshole he was always meant to be. By the 5th or 6th time I get out of bed to kick his ass because he is barking and howlng at the shadows on the wall (ooooh...... spooooooky!) I am seriously pissed. It is almost 1 am. I pull him upstairs by his collar. Mind you, I am doing all of this with no glasses on or contacts in, which means I am blind, but it is my own house, so I feel like even with this staggering vision disability I know where things like furniture and walls are placed, because it's my OWN. HOUSE. This is where I miscalculated, because I am a total moron, and in reality, I have no earthly idea where the walls in MY OWN HOUSE are located.

So I decide to walk into a doorframe. At 1 AM.

Cue blood streaming down my face.

And, since I don't have my glasses on, when I get to the mirror, I have to practically stick my entire face to it's surface to see what is going on, and therefore that skews my perspective of how large the gash on my forehead really is. In actuality, it is maybe an inch. Not even. It is tiny, and will not earn me ANY cred on the streets. Deep, but not particularly wide. But with my "objects are closer than they appear, only reversed" eyesight, I seriously think I have a gaping head wound and once flesh-eating infection sets in, I probably only have a few minutes to call my loved ones and tell them who can have my CDs and who gets the good furniture (1 chair) before croaking.

I am a drama queen.

ANYWAYS, long story short: my forehead is cheerily festooned with a butterfly bandage-thing that is totally overkill, and I'm counting on all of my buddies to back me up when I make up insane stories at beach bars this weekend. So far, I'm just thinking of sticking with a simple "you should see the other slut," and then pounding my fist into the palm of my other hand menacingly. That makes me look tough, like I am constantly fighting people, and then maybe that will scare underage boys in hemp necklaces into buying me drinks with umbrellas in them. Because it certainly won't be my looks*, no matter how many backless glitter one shoulder** crop tops I squeeze myself into. Nast.

It's almost unfortunate that in the light of day, I'm disapppointed. It's not much of an injury. Do you think I should doctor it up with some purple eyeshadow? oooh. I totally am going to do that.

What with my glasses and little boy hands and new lightening bolt scar, I am considering challenging Voldemort to meet me by the flag pole after study hall. FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!


The G.

* "sexy harry potter"

** no one looks good in one shoulder shirts. NO. ONE.

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