Sep. 30th, 2002

rockettqween: (Default)
I just ate a king sized butterfinger bar. I'm now a bit cracked out.

I went to the Vogue. It had a strange vibe to it tonight. Couldn't find my angry divorcee dancing groove. Bummer.

Snippits of conversation:

"You know, from reading your live journal, I'm under the impression you have, like, 20 orgasms a day."
"That's only on a good day."

"If I were to tell you I had a boyfriend, would you still want to talk to me?"
"Well, yeah, sure but now I'm not so interested. At least I tried."

"Everyone is hitting on me. Can't cope."

"I feel kind of trashy today. I'm not sure what it is."
"Well, you don't look trashy."

"I know you! We met a long time ago."
"Funny, I don't remember it at all."

"I'm going to go home and play with my toys. I have lots of batteries."

"You can think about me while you masturbate if you want to. You don't really need to ask my permission."
"But I'm a gentleman."

"What if I really start to like you?"
"If you really start to like me that's your problem."

I was just remembering the other day that when I lived alone with my son as a single mother, I had (and still have) this signed framed Bettie Page Klaw studio bondage photo. It was hanging on the wall, Bettie in high heels, holding a bull whip. My son looked at it, pointed and said, "That's Mama!"

Why is it when you tell someone that's hitting on you that you have a boyfriend they always ask, "is it serious?"

Well, no, we're not serious all the time. We do laugh and fool around occasionally. Geez. What if I were to look at them and suddenly launch into this rapturous diatribe about how we're talking like, five children and a mortgage and how I make a lovely lovely cook and only set things on fire once a week cause I get distracted watching Jenny Jones? Do you think they'd still be interested?

Or I suppose I could always deadpan, "Oh. You don't know how serious. It's more serious than my love for Jesus Christ and the Mormon church."


Eh. I don't know.
rockettqween: (Default)

Today I ate ribs. Pork ribs. Workout partner made ribs. Marinated them over night. And the next day. Baked them for three long painful hours as the smell of claim jumper barbecue sauce filled the house. I ate a half rack. I want more. My workout partner must love me very much to feed me RIBS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



Hungry now.

Blood sugar crashing from Butterfinger Crack Fix.

Mmmmmmm..... Need more ribs.

Have 7 more half racks waiting for us.


rockettqween: (Default)

Do you give a fuck?

This quiz style was designed by alanna, adapted by Batfish Designs, and created by Missanthropy
rockettqween: (Default)
I'm having internet trouble right now. To the point that I don't want to write anything of substance for fear I won't be able to post it and all will be lost, lost, lost.

Its Monday night. I'm off to go get some corporate coffee and integrate my shadow.....


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October 2002

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