Well, now that last week is finally over (seriously? thank god) it's that time of year where I have nothing to do for three weeks. Which is perfect, because I'm broke after this weekend and that whole spectacular shots-for-everyone production.
Detox January is an excellent idea, don't you think? Time to catch up on Netflix, and Battlestar Galactica starts on Friday, and then Dollhouse in a couple of weeks, and then Watchmen comes out, and all I really want to do for a little while is just completely nerd out.
Besides, I have to pay rent and then wait for my next paycheck before I can afford the bars and hang out with the cool kids anyway (you know the ones I'm talking about - the beautiful ones, who are loved by men and don't watch shows that take place on spaceships), so until then, sober fun and designated driving.
Ready for something you don't care about but I'm saying anyway? I need a new pair of shoes for work. God fucking dammit, I hate buying shoes. I can't ever afford what I want and end up buying some that are ugly as fuck, but cheap and functional. This is also why I hate dresses, coats, pants, and you know...fucking clothing.
Finally, inspiration to conceivably, perchance, maybe someday get in better shape: living in a thread-free nudist colony, and never torture myself over stupidhead clothes again. Ever. I should take up yoga.
We all know that is never going to happen, so I guess I'm going to Village Discount this week.
And three weeks from now, you know. Birthday season starts up again at the end of February, and then the train trip to New Orleans for volunteering (you know that the entire time I'm on that train I'm going to be singing "Midnight Train to Nola" and annoying the crap out of everyone).
And I've got like, all these things I'm supposed to sew on Unofficial Back Order.
Maybe I could make myself a pair of shoes out of like, an old leather coat and ripped tire rubber. Does anyone know of a vacant apprenticeship with their local cobbler? Perhaps a Danish one with a bisexual son who writes depressingly fanciful children's stories about mermaids and match girls and dreams of being a famous soprano? No?
Crap. I have no future.