2005-02-16
I still Snore. AND I'm boring. God.
Everyone should check out my pal Rhi's site and wish her a happy 50th! Besides, she's really cute and funny and writes-like-I-wish-I-could and best of all, she loves me even though I snore.
Which, I have to say.... I re-watched my husband's film masterpiece again, and I decided exactly WHOM (who? WTF) I look like: Camilla Parcer Boils, or whatever her name is. Yes. And not even on a GOOD day, like on a day after Camilla's been kidnapped by one of those relentless Estee Lauder Makeup Technician's for 3 hours.
No, instead I look more like the "Camilla! Caught! Without Makeup" in an Enquirer article. You know the ones -- where even Jenifah Anizton looks a little tired. (Wait, she looks good even tired. I hate her. Wait. I love her. Wait, no. I just want to look like her. Wait, forget that. Brad left her. Oh shut UP, already.)
To summarize: the video of me sleeping is a very scary thing.
I tried to get T, The Wonder Dog sleeping as a test for getting HB in action, because T kinda whines while she sleeps, as if to say "Gee, why aren't you feeding me/touching me/walking me/giving me a milkbone?" kinda way. Listening back to my little "Taylor: Dog at Rest" video helped me understand just how LOUD *I* was snoring because I couldn't hear a peep from her on the film. Nada.
And, dammit... I had the perfect opportunity to catch HB on film last night as he snorted and thrashed around, but I was too friggin tired.
Enough about the snoring thing already.
IN OTHER NEWS.... (Cue up "Love, love, love...", John Lennon style)
Judd is in love and no one writes about love more eloquently and no one deserves it more. Good on ya, matey. Aaar aar aar and a bottle of ru... wait. I need to work on that Australian accent thing. Judd, please start writing in Australian. I'm sure Aussie babe won't mind.
SPEAKING OF "LOVE"
I saw a discarded and I'm assuming used condom next to the ashtray outside of WorkPlace today. I'm in facilities but even I have my limits.
And it makes me just kinda wonder the story behind it.
The ashtray is up against the building, next to a green metal bench, out in the open facing a busy street and a very well-lit parking lot, so in a place which could only mean that someone (1) had hot monkey love on the bench sometime late last night and is roaming around at large with diagonal-shaped bench-marks embedded on their ass; (2) someone has a pretty good throw and whipped it out of the car window while driving past; or (3) it's part of some "Punked!" plan on my staff's behalf and refuse to get sucked into it.
So I just smoke and gaze at it, making up increasingly dirty stories of how it came about to be there.
SPEAKING OF CONDOMS
Actually, this has nothing to DO with condoms, but I'm at the console and I have The Headset on, and feel like Calvin playing Air Traffic Controlller.
"1-9er 9er 2-ster Charlie Echo Jitterbug, you're cleared for landing on the M-180 sixty-9er runway, and don't worry about that cow -- should be about meandered out of your way by touchdown, copy that?"
Y-A-W-N.
Posting now.
bye.
xquzme at sometime today