O.M.G. WANT

o.0 Do I need these shoes?

You know, after I went on and on about how I have all the (two) shoes I need and the ones I have are perfect and shoes are a pain in the ass but...

0.o wouldn't they be great with a tea-length skirt? Aren't white boots delightfully eighties? Aren't the buckles delightfully punk? AND DON'T I NEED TO WEAR A SKIRT TO A WEDDING ANYWAY? And wouldn't green doc martins be totally inappropriate, especially really old ones?

I'm sure they'll be filthy within a few days, but I really only need to wear them once... and I could probably clean them, you know, when they do get (immediately) dirty...

See, this is what happens when you don't drive and you live out in bumblefuck Nj: You make the shopping come to you!

Stuff And Whatever: Friday Night Edition

The letters have worn off the s, d, n, m, k, l, and e on my keyboard.

It's cool, though, obviously I am surviving... maybe I can write them on with sharpie?

Now ALL of my kitchen is in my living room... this is a good thing, although irritating.

There are four pairs of white boots on their way here. I want to make sure I get the right size, see :P

I am in a mood. What kind of mood? I don't know. I'm not sure. I'm not feeling like myself. I'm not really sure why.

I am the worst lesbian in the world, that much is certain. That's one of the key things I identify myself as. Maybe that is my problem. Maybe my problem is that I should never have let my sexual orientation define me as much as it has.

I've known too many girls who have been all "yeah I'm such a lesbian" and then the next thing you know they've got a boyfriend. I look down my nose in scorn at those girls.

Somewhere, somebody is out having a really good time. Somewhere, someone is realizing something for the first time. Somewhere, someone is deciding to change something. Somewhere, someone is doing exactly what they did yesterday and loving it. Somewhere, someone is totally, completely happy. Somewhere, someone only has a minute more to live. Somewhere, someone is dreaming something they'll forget upon waking.

Maybe somewhere, someone is thinking about me.

Wondering what I'm doing.

Wondering if I'm okay.

Wondering if I ever think about them.

Wondering what would happen if they tried to find me.

I don't fuck things up on purpose, you know. Somehow it just seems to happen, I don't know.