What?

I hate parties. I hate partying. I don't want to get drunk with you.
I won't. You can't make me.

I'm in control of the situation, tough luck, honeys.



I'll just sit at home and listen to the beach boys, because it makes me fell endlessly temporarily better.



I still like you. And I don't want to.



I feel gross and ugly and terrible.

I am cryptic and weird.
I think I'll eat dinner.

"Can you hear me now? Gooood."

Conversation had last night at work that put me a better mood that I was in.

Verizon guy: Aw, these [iced sugar cookies, you know the doughy kind from kroger] are adorable. I have to get one, just have to. To go with my "Sinful" coffee [Sinful Sundae was the flavor yesterday, when I told him that, he says "Sounds delightfully naughty, not terrible, just enough. You've convinced me to get some." I just said it was kind of chocolately tasting]

Hannah: They are pretty adorable, I mean, they're great. I just wrapped them. Just for you to have with your coffee.

VG: Oh, I know you just wrapped them. I was watching you do it before. [in the LEAST creepy way possible. And if it was creepy, I wouldn't mind to be honest.]

Hannah: Yeah, just for you. Hahahahahaha. [signifying awkward laughing]

VG: Yess ma'am then, I'll have this cookie that's been wrapped for me, that's almost as adorable as the person who wrapped them.

aslkdjfaskhfaskdfasldjfasdf.

You have to understand. I stare at this guy on Mondays, he's pretty dang attractive. I joke about how we're getting married to the other girls, when they talk about their crushes on varoius (coughzachcough) cell phone provider employees. He came to the beanery 3 times. Last night.
He's most likely 27 or something and married. And is a salesman, so flirting is more or less his job, but STILL.

That's all for this one.

Forest Casual, for the Leafy Gent.

I am sitting at my computer, I am going through an entire year of a mediocre MP3 blog's posts and dowloading everything that has a semi interesting band name or that I've heard of (which is, sadly, 98.583762% of it) (wouldn't you laugh if I somehow could figure that out mathematically, and I was right?) (I would).
Sometimes I try so hard to be gramatically correct and I'm not. Like now.


I'm addicted to attention: this is a funny point to make about myself, I hate attention. I hate at christmastime when everyone is watching me open a present, and they expect me to react and I don't. I hate when I have to answer a question in class. But if you said hello to me out of the blue, I'd be thrilled with it and you for literally hours, comment me on facebook/myspace? it's the greatest moment in the world, and don't even get me started on if you texted me for no reason other than to say hi? Cloud freaking nine, honey.
I love seeing people places who know who I am, I love waves from across the hall, and I love it when people go out of their way to talk to me. Which is weird because I certainly don't act like it, but it's an addiction none the less. The majority of the anxiety (socially speaking) I have comes from people NOT talking to me. Not paying attention to me. I want to be noticed, but probably noticed for being understated, you understand? Me either.

But we had a killer record collection!!

I had this dream the other night, and it was really strange.
In my dream I was living in this really cute house, and it was all decked out exactly how I'd imagine my grown up house would be, the walls were a nice warm grey (don't understand my draw to this shade, but none the less) and there were all these oversized black and white photographs that I love on the walls. It was clean and plain, and there was entire room dedicated to the most fabulous LP collection ever. (I mean, we're talking Rob Gordon proportions here.) And this great stereo.
And I was pretty happy, and content and thought this was cool.

Until I found out that I was "married" to my pop culture teacher from high school.
Yeah, for SOME reason in my dream, I was married to Mr. Poiry.

Though, I didn't freak out or anything. The initial shock of what was going on passed. And I thought the whole thing was seemingly normal.
We just were being normal. Going to work and doing semi-fun dull things on the weekends. (I sort of saw my life all panned out, and I just subconsciously was aware of how things worked, you see? I frequently have drawn out detailed dreams like that) We had dinner parties. Where we did 50's style things, I wore cute dresses and heels and cooked dinner.
And listened to our killllller LP collection. With our adult friends.
Oh man.

Now, the thing you have to understand (that is, if you aren't most of the females I knew from high school) that lots of girls LOVE Mr. Poiry, they would LOVE to marry Mr. Poiry (or slightly less commital things...) but ME? I was never one of them. I mean, I liked him as a teacher a whole lot, pretty much my favorite teacher I think. And,
He did tell me once, though, that he thought of me his whole way home because he heard an Elvis Costello song* on the radio; and he and I had the same favorite beatles' song**. But I digress.
I don't/didn't/ever/will have a crush on Poiry.
And so it's not this awkward dream come true sort of dream.
It's just an awkward dream.

My sub-conscious worries me.


I can't believe I was like a 50's housewife.












*Allison, was the song, I'm pretty sure. Which, oddly enough is one of my favorite songs.
**A day in the Life, last track of SPLHCB, if you were wondering, which you wern't.