hobbit_feets: (Bosh a Nonce)
I just found a porn video on my brother's camera.  Porn.  Brother.  Younger brother.  Ick ick ick ick.  Gahhh... my brain does not approve of this, not even a little.  *claws eyes out*
hobbit_feets: (Bosh a Nonce)
I just found a porn video on my brother's camera.  Porn.  Brother.  Younger brother.  Ick ick ick ick.  Gahhh... my brain does not approve of this, not even a little.  *claws eyes out*
hobbit_feets: (Fuck)
Some inbred wanker nicked my crescent rolls from the fridge.  Wtf?  And it's not as if they'd been made, and then disappeared, no; somebody took the tube and actually went to the bother of making them.  Where is the logic in that?  I understand nicking a glass of milk or something, but something that you actually have to bake?  That is very obviously going to not be there once you've finished?  *flails*  Argh.  Bloody dorm living.
hobbit_feets: (Fuck)
Some inbred wanker nicked my crescent rolls from the fridge.  Wtf?  And it's not as if they'd been made, and then disappeared, no; somebody took the tube and actually went to the bother of making them.  Where is the logic in that?  I understand nicking a glass of milk or something, but something that you actually have to bake?  That is very obviously going to not be there once you've finished?  *flails*  Argh.  Bloody dorm living.
hobbit_feets: (Quite Clever)
I sometimes think I should just run away.  Just pack a backpack and get on a Greyhound, and just run.  I've got nothing to run to, though, and really, nothing to run from, either.  I just... feel so static.   Nothing's in motion, nothing's going anywhere, I just exist, and there's not enough motivation to make me move forward.  But the problem is, I'm content with it.  I'm content to do nothing, and I don't want to be.  I wish it was thirty or forty years ago where you could just run, find a job in a pub or a diner or something in some random town, but you can't do that now, not really.
hobbit_feets: (Quite Clever)
I sometimes think I should just run away.  Just pack a backpack and get on a Greyhound, and just run.  I've got nothing to run to, though, and really, nothing to run from, either.  I just... feel so static.   Nothing's in motion, nothing's going anywhere, I just exist, and there's not enough motivation to make me move forward.  But the problem is, I'm content with it.  I'm content to do nothing, and I don't want to be.  I wish it was thirty or forty years ago where you could just run, find a job in a pub or a diner or something in some random town, but you can't do that now, not really.
hobbit_feets: (Do Not Fuck With Me)
What the hell is wrong with me?  I skip class or don't do homework, write papers, in favour of staying in my room online writing porn.  Not that there's anything wrong with porn, but... fuck it, no.  I am not going to do this.  I'm not going to let myself fail classes because of something as utterly stupid and pointless as that.  Fuck it.  I've been acting like a div.  I'm writing my papers, and going to classes, and being a good student, because I know I'm smart and there's no good reason in the world for me to do poorly.  Fucking hell, I hate myself sometimes.  
hobbit_feets: (Do Not Fuck With Me)
What the hell is wrong with me?  I skip class or don't do homework, write papers, in favour of staying in my room online writing porn.  Not that there's anything wrong with porn, but... fuck it, no.  I am not going to do this.  I'm not going to let myself fail classes because of something as utterly stupid and pointless as that.  Fuck it.  I've been acting like a div.  I'm writing my papers, and going to classes, and being a good student, because I know I'm smart and there's no good reason in the world for me to do poorly.  Fucking hell, I hate myself sometimes.  
hobbit_feets: (Do Not Fuck With Me)
Snow?  Wtf?  It's bloody April, and yet it's sodding blizzarding outside!  Grey and wet and windy and huge fuck-off flakes of the stuff.  Not that I've anything against weather of this variety, quite the contrary, but one can't help feeling that it's a bit unseasonal, what?

In other words, this is me looking at whatever deity is in charge of weather for Morris and telling them to bugger off, if they'd be so kind.
hobbit_feets: (Do Not Fuck With Me)
Snow?  Wtf?  It's bloody April, and yet it's sodding blizzarding outside!  Grey and wet and windy and huge fuck-off flakes of the stuff.  Not that I've anything against weather of this variety, quite the contrary, but one can't help feeling that it's a bit unseasonal, what?

In other words, this is me looking at whatever deity is in charge of weather for Morris and telling them to bugger off, if they'd be so kind.
hobbit_feets: (Facepalm)
My parents are complete mentalists.  Four days I don't talk to them, and they become convinced that a) I've died or otherwise been horrifically injured in some way, or b) I'm ignoring them on purpose because I'm a negligent daughter and I hate them. 

What?

Four days, I ask you- four tiny little days, not even a week, and already they're leaping to all sorts of mad conclusions.  I'm off at uni, yeah?  You can't monitor my every move, you do realise.  This weekend, Mum and Dad?  I was at a party, imbibing all manner of illicit substances.   And guess what else?  I wasn't raped, I didn't cut somebody up with a broken bottle, I didn't go outside and make an arse of myself prancing about blazed out of my skull.  I went to sleep, walked home next morning, talked with some friends, did some homework.  Next day, classes and rehearsal and a bit of grocery shopping.  All perfectly bloody normal.   If I do these things, it's not because I want to rebel or make some kind of statement; it's because I enjoy it.  If I don't call you- whoops, I left my mobile at a friend's house.  Bugger.  I'll have to wait a day or two to get it back; surely you can fucking wait, without calling my friends and my RA, whom I would very much like not to look like a prat in front of, to make sure I'm alright.  Your baby's left the nest.  Let's see if you can deal with it.
hobbit_feets: (Facepalm)
My parents are complete mentalists.  Four days I don't talk to them, and they become convinced that a) I've died or otherwise been horrifically injured in some way, or b) I'm ignoring them on purpose because I'm a negligent daughter and I hate them. 

What?

Four days, I ask you- four tiny little days, not even a week, and already they're leaping to all sorts of mad conclusions.  I'm off at uni, yeah?  You can't monitor my every move, you do realise.  This weekend, Mum and Dad?  I was at a party, imbibing all manner of illicit substances.   And guess what else?  I wasn't raped, I didn't cut somebody up with a broken bottle, I didn't go outside and make an arse of myself prancing about blazed out of my skull.  I went to sleep, walked home next morning, talked with some friends, did some homework.  Next day, classes and rehearsal and a bit of grocery shopping.  All perfectly bloody normal.   If I do these things, it's not because I want to rebel or make some kind of statement; it's because I enjoy it.  If I don't call you- whoops, I left my mobile at a friend's house.  Bugger.  I'll have to wait a day or two to get it back; surely you can fucking wait, without calling my friends and my RA, whom I would very much like not to look like a prat in front of, to make sure I'm alright.  Your baby's left the nest.  Let's see if you can deal with it.
hobbit_feets: (Chris and Sue)
Having to call an ambulance for a friend who's just that fucking drunk= a rubbish way to end a party.  Having then to walk home in the freezing bloody cold, worrying about said friend and about the other friends- also all off their respective tits- who are there with him, having called the ambulance is not particularly enjoyable either.  The cold isn't too kind on my asthma either.  Oh well.  I shall survive, I'm sure.  
hobbit_feets: (Chris and Sue)
Having to call an ambulance for a friend who's just that fucking drunk= a rubbish way to end a party.  Having then to walk home in the freezing bloody cold, worrying about said friend and about the other friends- also all off their respective tits- who are there with him, having called the ambulance is not particularly enjoyable either.  The cold isn't too kind on my asthma either.  Oh well.  I shall survive, I'm sure.  
hobbit_feets: (Not a Preacherman)
Why on earth do people insist upon having serious, private conversations in the kitchen, of all places?  It is a public area, people walk in and out of there all the time- it's not the sort of place one would exactly want to spill one's soul and all the rest of it!  Furthermore, if you're not the person having said conversation and you want to use the kitchen for something, it becomes incredibly awkward, and immediately you biff off and don't get done whatever it was you wanted to do, because you don't want to intrude on a couple having a serious moment. 

Wtf?  Just... use your room!
hobbit_feets: (Not a Preacherman)
Why on earth do people insist upon having serious, private conversations in the kitchen, of all places?  It is a public area, people walk in and out of there all the time- it's not the sort of place one would exactly want to spill one's soul and all the rest of it!  Furthermore, if you're not the person having said conversation and you want to use the kitchen for something, it becomes incredibly awkward, and immediately you biff off and don't get done whatever it was you wanted to do, because you don't want to intrude on a couple having a serious moment. 

Wtf?  Just... use your room!
hobbit_feets: (IAMX)
Just a fluke.  That's all that was.  'I dunno.'  Apparently I'm not even worth explaining.  I suppose he was thinking with the wrong head.  Fucking hell.  I did not want this!  I didn't want to be the example of why floorcest is a bad idea; I didn't want to be the girl you mess around with until you realise who it is.  And worst of all, I still find him incredibly attractive.  I'm fairly sure I blush every time I meet his eyes.  I want to return to that; that feeling of being sexy, of being wanted.  Fucking cuntshagging whoremothering bollocks.  
hobbit_feets: (IAMX)
Just a fluke.  That's all that was.  'I dunno.'  Apparently I'm not even worth explaining.  I suppose he was thinking with the wrong head.  Fucking hell.  I did not want this!  I didn't want to be the example of why floorcest is a bad idea; I didn't want to be the girl you mess around with until you realise who it is.  And worst of all, I still find him incredibly attractive.  I'm fairly sure I blush every time I meet his eyes.  I want to return to that; that feeling of being sexy, of being wanted.  Fucking cuntshagging whoremothering bollocks.  

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a little bit wildean

February 2014

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