blustocking | why don't you go play in the street

Driving in moderately heavy snowfall is like playing a game, a fun game which could end in red snow. Ahhhhh, I exaggerate because it's all I know how to do anymore.
I'm a writer. I'm a liar.

The snow won't pack well yet. I cannot make a snowman. I already tried. And it's blowing so much frome (Yes! Like Ethan! I hated that book.) the North, that it's not conducive to melancholy and wallowing wandering. I already tried. Though I did sit in my car for a few minutes after going to get gas-o-leen, just watching the large, white flakes fall with quiet RAGE. Oh the rage those snowflakes have. I could never be a poet. I'd just end up mocking myself or cracking a joke.

I'm not supposed to be feeding the fish (sickly) for 48 hours until he "relives" himself.(Oh for...yes, "relives himself". He's going through his re-birthing. Hippie.) However, I'm finding it very hard to sit here and have him starve. I might break down soon. They need to make fishy laxatives. Tomorrow, I will see what the store has in the way of treating this.

Staci found a roommate. I'm happy for her. I'm now making mental bets on how long this chick will stand with her. Who knows maybe she's very tolerant and LIKES TO LIVE WITH A CLINGY HOMEBODY IN A FILTHY PARADISE. Who knows, maybe I'm the asshole. *shrugs*

I want chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven.

I stayed up, well, my computer stayed up, but I crashed on the bed, until about 4 am last night, just to download this. (It's Johnny Cash, just to let you know. And it took a long fucking time on a dial-up.) Thanks to