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LeftHandGreen
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Name: Andi
Birthday: 7/5/1981
Gender: Female
Interests: Football. Fast cars. Red nail polish.
Expertise: Twister.
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Media
Message: message me
Member Since:
12/3/2004
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| And yet another day of hating work.
But I got flowers. Someone sent ME flowers.
And a signed card.
Just because.
And I can't believe that something as small and simple as that, can make a shitty ass job seem a little less murky.
Fuck all of these work related stresses.
But hot damn. This bitch got flowers.
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| I hate Halloween. Just because I'm female, doesn't mean I want to be a hooker (stop salivating, Bradley.)
I have been trying to find a decent hardcore costume, but all I can
find is "slutty nurse," "naughty secretary," and "hoe-bag schoolgirl."
I was under the impression that Halloween is not a huge orgy.
Yes, I have been known to wear strategically placed leather strips, but
ONLY under certain circumstances.
Holy hell, I'm not going to a costume party to wake up with a whip in my hand a a gag in my mouth.
Fuck costumes. And Halloween. And all of those slutty secretaries.
And for the record, I HATE my job again.
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| It's a deep-rooted anger. Stemming from a childhood of
make-believe, an adolesence of day-dreams, and an adulthood of reality.
I hate lines in grocery stores.
I hate my ex-boyfriends and almost-husbands.
I hate spaghetti.
And I've always had a problem with hating things. Because it happens so effortlessly.
And when it comes to things I like...or even *gasp* LOVE...I am completely in denial.
I love rainy days.
I love chili-dogs.
I love Sharpie markers (among other office supplies, a silly fetish of mine.)
However, I HATE admitting that.
So, I was thinking how great and uncharacteristic of me it would be to
actually tell everyone that I can stand, how much I do care. But
then I looked in the mirror and noticed a small wrinkle on the side of
my eye, and the truth of the matter dawned on me...
God, I hate getting older.
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| I HATE most of my exes.
Really.
And maybe the biggest reason is because I am mad at myself for not
kickking their asses while I had them naked. Anyway, today I
found a letter from one of the aforementioned exes.
"I love you, baby." (Ugh. Gag me.)
"Get here soon, I miss you." (Again, please gag me.)
"When we're married... (Enough. Shoot me.)
And the funny, cringe-worthy thing is that he is recycling EVERYTHING he ever said to me, and saying it to a new girl.
No, I am not still hung up on him.
I have forgotten most important things about him except the way his
voice got whiny and nasaly when he was TRYING to be romantic.
But I feel so bad for the girl. She's young. And he's going to tell her
all of the same things he told me. And she will get wrapped up in the
fairytale...A fairytale, may I point out, that can't possibly come
true. And he will put her up on an altar and worship the ground she
walks on. And she will feel so pressured to live up to these
perfect expectations. And eventually she will crack under the
pressure and break his heart again. And she'll feel guilty and he'll
further the cause by saying he will never be happy again.
It's such a familiar story. I should have kickked his ass while I had him naked.
As for moving in...I still am. S L O W L Y. I'm not holding my breath
on forever. Although I probably wouldn't die. And I don't feel quite as
fami-nazi-ish as usual. My psychic advisor informed me that this is it.
That I am going to *GAG* marry him. Of course, she also told me I was a
milk maid in a former life. Ha.
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| I think I'm moving in with the guy I'm seeing.
Actually, I know I'm moving in with him.
Because slowly, I am migrating my stuff into his abode.
Last week, he bought me a hairdryer...he said it was going to live at
his house, so I didn't have to keep lugging my ionizing-heavy-duty
dryer with me.
So far, my toothbrush, my hairbrush, my vintage copy of War &
Peace, my two favorite a-line skirts, half of my dvd collection, AND
assorted knick-knacks that he has bought FOR me to live at his home,
have found their way into the decor.
It's almost funny how upon pulling the shower curtain open, no one
flinches to see my conditioner leaning up against his cheap-o
shampoo. And how gracefully he folds my knickers when he finds
them in the clothes dryer with his uniforms.
I hate to admit that I like him. And I hate to admit that I find comfort
in the way he casually slings around the words "us" and "we" when
discussing dinner plans with his folks and upcoming trips to the north.
I HATE him. Because I like him.
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