zinzinish

I have no desire to post lately as a result of the fact that I will never ever aspire to be even a fraction as cool as she is:

http://cuteboysmakemenervous.blogspot.com/

cute boy

All I really want to do is sit and hit refresh for hours into the night, gazing furiously into my computer screen, while my vision plummets to hell. The fact that I’ve temporarily lost my brain and cannot spot the “insert link” button within a 12 inch screen doesn’t much help my blogging confidence either.

I’ve been having nightmares lately, and I tend to blame everything that’s wrong with my life either on lack of food or lack of sleep, so there’s another excuse for the lack of posts. These nightmares consist of ex-boyfriends, which is unfortunate enough. But instead of lasting the standard minute, these drag for hours, with twisting plots involving disco balls and coming out stories. Good thing I good riddance all of my ex’s so I have no way to, how did she put it, “resolve the deep seated, disturbing issues causing these dreams.” Yes, I have an aunt who’s a Buddhist psychic. I won’t write ‘thinks she’s a psychic’ because I like her too much, and I’d personally like to believe she does have some sort of ESP, and maybe if I stare at the Buddha statue living in our guest room long enough and learn to love the smell of incense, this could become a career path in my non-committal, directionless life. I think she might be right about the issues thing, although God knows I don’t have the cojones to email/phone ambush some guy whose face is still pasted onto a popsicle stick voodoo doll smeared with blood/red marker. Puh.

Worse than the ex attack are the bunnies (more like one particular giant, yellow, furry bunny head attached to the body of a business-suited man). It was a few nights ago, talking on the phone with Paul, and I’d closed my eyes to doze off when the image of this ungodly creature came creeping around the walls of a cubicle. Aunty didn’t tell me this, but I’m pretty sure bunnyman is a product of my loathing for my corporate-bullshit-overly-air-conditioned internship and those 13 times I watched Donnie Darko when I was a sophomore in high school because I thought it was sooo sooooooo deep. The sad part is that the only reason I keep thinking about bunnyman is because I keep reminding myself not to think about it. And the more I think about it, the more I’m afraid I might legitimately go crazy. Okay, I mean, I like the crazies. They generally seem to be a lot more passionate about life than your average soccer mom working her way through 20 years of polite PTA meetings and a sexless marriage. But if I’m crossing over, that is so NOT the imaginary friend I’m bringing. Can’t I at least delude myself into thinking I’m Elizabeth Taylor, circa 1964, so I can drape myself in crystal droplets I’ve torn from the chandelier in the vestibule, and go around cooing alluringly and burning men with my impossibly long cigarettes? I would SO get my ass kicked if I brought bunnyman to the crazies playground! Boy has got to go.

Oh and I can’t go to Paris. My laptop is broken and I haven’t packed at all and even if I did I wouldn’t be able to bring half the clothes I needed and I can’t afford to buy new ones and I REALLY REALLY like my friends and I heard that sometimes French men make orgasm noises when you walk by them on the street(this one really isn’t much of a problem considering my voodoo skills). So I’m officially freaking out.

EVERYBODY DIES ALONE waaaaaaaaah *cue the Who