Monday, December 20, 2004

Puss-hats and so much more.


Kitty needs a puss-hat.

Oh what a frosty morning. It's 12 degrees out and the ground is covered in a soft blanket of moderately evil snow. I have got my big floppy furry aviator hat complete with fur ear flaps and a neck clasp that sometimes gets stuck so that when it comes time to take off my big floppy furry aviator hat it stays on a little longer than necessary leaving me vulnerable to awkward moments of unnecessary hat wearing. Big fat mittens kept my fingerers(*) in check. Set out like a warrior against the cold, the only places that got attacked were my nose and my knees. And my toes but that's all my fault. Me and self-control have a rocky relationship. I love to squish and crush the snow under my boots. And if there's little ice patches on the ground, I simply must step on the patch and feel my feet slide just a little bit, so I get that momentary ice skating sensation. And I have a semi-long walk from the PATH to the office, so all this snow smooshing and compacting tends to leave the toes and feet colder than they would otherwise be if they weren't subjected to my cruel and relentless snow-love.
Dear Toes,
I'm sorry to you as well.
I am a naughty naughty girl.
So naughty. And bad.
Spank me.
-Heather

I am a Heather.
I thought that if I did commit suicide, I could at least make it funny. I could do a "Heathers" spoof, which might be really appropriate. I could drink Drano and highlight the word eskimo in some novel. And Drano is pretty powerful stuff, so it's probably pretty foolproof. Or at least I felt a little inspired when I Dranoed my tub yesterday. I put the bottle down though. I am not nearly famous enough to be committing suicide. I figure that I am only allowed to if and when I am famous and in my prime. And my parents would have to be gone by then. I think it would also be good if I was like in my thirties and unmarried with no kids. Oh, well maybe I would have a husband that I never truly loved. That would work. And some big scandalous secret that only gets revealed to upon death. I'd also have to put together a lot of really great art to be discovered so that I could be posthumously appreciated far more than when I was alive. But I am so not properly outfitted by life to carry out such a plan as of yet.

Taming the Shrew
So with the risk of boys reading this and knowing more about me than they ought to, I am going to reveal a little somethin somethin. I am like crazy crazy afraid of commitment right now. And it's a service to you men, really. I am in no way shape or form over my ex, so the truth is, no matter who you are or how much or little I like you, I am thinking about him at least a little bit when I am with you. So really, why would you want to bother with that kind of baggage? Not to say that I don't want you men. Some of you attract me, some of you are fun, some of you are neat. But I can't be tamed at this point in time. Boys, I like you, I need you for entertainment and companionship, but for no longer than a few hours. Wine me. Dine me. Then give me some space.
Anyhow I am a damn little bitch. One thing I like with boyfriends is to make little demands. Like give me a hot chocolate! It's so luxurious to get away with making demands. But I am a giver too. For every demand I make, I surely compensate wink wink (I have plenty of 10 percent off coupons to Subway to go around, awww yeaah I treat the fellas right mm hmm).


Number Munchers
up in this peice.
And for the real deal I got some mothafukin logo turtle up in here too. repeat 3 [forward 50 right 60] biiiitch. Also, you can't take more than 200 pounds of meat on the wagon you know that, don't you? Fucking Peter's Dyptheria.

Um wow. My boss just gave me a Christmas present. He said he was going to give me an Ipod, but didn't know if I had one. So instead he gave me more than enough cash to cover the cost of one. Being in the workforce is soo cool!!!

*fingerers is a borrowed word first used by someone else

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