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Jun. 20th, 2002 12:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7i gotta get the hell outta here. in this house i can't get a damn thing done. i've been trying to change the oil in my god damn car for three weeks now and haven't even managed that. everything i do here i fuck up, and i can't even find where i packed my postcard stamps. i don't even have anything to be melodramatically depressed about. And mom keeps getting books for me to read from the library, which is awful, because i'm a binge reader and i can't stop. it's like alcoholism, only it sucks my entire consciousness. thank heavens i'm a fast reader so i only lose like three hours on a novel. but then i have to pick up another one, and another, until they're gone! It's such an unhealthy environment. I need a twelve-step program to get me off cheap detective novels!
ah well. there are worse addictions. At least they're well-researched; I learned all about search dogs today, and yesterday I read all about cattle ranching. AND solved the mystery of the revenge kidnappings.
Yeah, send help...
really, a shitty day. i mean, it was mostly fine, but then we all, all the sisters, went clothes shopping.
oh dear.
see, fiona's a size six. katy and ann are both size eights.
well, i'm a size fourteen, but sometimes size sixteen fits me better.
yep. twice their size.
fuckin' depressing.
i'm one of those sad fat chicks that you see browsing the rack looking for the largest size. just small enough to fit into normal clothes, but only if the largest size happens to be on the rack. and of course all clothes are designed to fit a size 4. so by the time you tack ten sizes on there, they don't look quite right. by the time i get a button-down shirt that'll go around my boobs, the shoulders are scaled for someone twice my width. I look like I'm missing shoulder pads, or ready to sprout wings or something.
it doesn't help that i haven't been lusted after in months now. Panda was the last one who expressed any sincere lust for me (which sounds crude but was remarkably refreshing. one thing i really miss about having him around was just how honest he was. and how hot he thought i was. you never realize how important that is until you don't have it.), and he's been gone for how long now? I don't remember. i last saw him in April. Not that long, I guess, but I hadn't seen much of him before that, and I've been through a lot of boring shit since then.
anyhow. not like having a Somebody would make my life all better, but at least it'd be distracting. I'm bored senseless, which means i'm incapable of independent thought, which means I'm not getting anywhere in my job search. And whenever I ask my mom or dad to let me help around the house so i can feel like i'm at least getting something done, mom just tells me to go clean my room. noooo, mom, you don't understand, that is something I never managed to complete in seventeen years of living here. i need something i can do and get done, so i can feel like my life has some meaning. fucking around and trying to fit three thousand cubic feet of crap into a space that's 480 cubic feet is about as satisfying as trying to define Pi. Sure, you can do something, but in the end, there's always more, so what's the fucking point?
the fucking point, ladies and gentlemen, is that life is meaningless, nobody really likes you that much, you're fat and weak, and too lazy to fucking do anything about it.
Is it funny?
To other people, yes. But you can't laugh at a joke when you're living it; you just can't see it as funny. Maybe later. At the moment, it just feels a little sick. Mostly, it feels fat and useless.
The moral of the story is to never, ever, attempt to buy yourself clothing. No, wear gunny sacks. The discomfort they cause is more than adequate to distract you from what is essentially a pointless train of thought. Why? Well, if you're going to feel sorry for yourself, you'd best have something that you can really feel sorry about. And being god-damn stupid enough to let gunny sacks anywhere near tender flesh; well, obviously, if you're that dumb, God has it in for you.
Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for your time, and I will go feel pointlessly, meritlessly sorry for myself elsewhere for a little while.
:-D
ah well. there are worse addictions. At least they're well-researched; I learned all about search dogs today, and yesterday I read all about cattle ranching. AND solved the mystery of the revenge kidnappings.
Yeah, send help...
really, a shitty day. i mean, it was mostly fine, but then we all, all the sisters, went clothes shopping.
oh dear.
see, fiona's a size six. katy and ann are both size eights.
well, i'm a size fourteen, but sometimes size sixteen fits me better.
yep. twice their size.
fuckin' depressing.
i'm one of those sad fat chicks that you see browsing the rack looking for the largest size. just small enough to fit into normal clothes, but only if the largest size happens to be on the rack. and of course all clothes are designed to fit a size 4. so by the time you tack ten sizes on there, they don't look quite right. by the time i get a button-down shirt that'll go around my boobs, the shoulders are scaled for someone twice my width. I look like I'm missing shoulder pads, or ready to sprout wings or something.
it doesn't help that i haven't been lusted after in months now. Panda was the last one who expressed any sincere lust for me (which sounds crude but was remarkably refreshing. one thing i really miss about having him around was just how honest he was. and how hot he thought i was. you never realize how important that is until you don't have it.), and he's been gone for how long now? I don't remember. i last saw him in April. Not that long, I guess, but I hadn't seen much of him before that, and I've been through a lot of boring shit since then.
anyhow. not like having a Somebody would make my life all better, but at least it'd be distracting. I'm bored senseless, which means i'm incapable of independent thought, which means I'm not getting anywhere in my job search. And whenever I ask my mom or dad to let me help around the house so i can feel like i'm at least getting something done, mom just tells me to go clean my room. noooo, mom, you don't understand, that is something I never managed to complete in seventeen years of living here. i need something i can do and get done, so i can feel like my life has some meaning. fucking around and trying to fit three thousand cubic feet of crap into a space that's 480 cubic feet is about as satisfying as trying to define Pi. Sure, you can do something, but in the end, there's always more, so what's the fucking point?
the fucking point, ladies and gentlemen, is that life is meaningless, nobody really likes you that much, you're fat and weak, and too lazy to fucking do anything about it.
Is it funny?
To other people, yes. But you can't laugh at a joke when you're living it; you just can't see it as funny. Maybe later. At the moment, it just feels a little sick. Mostly, it feels fat and useless.
The moral of the story is to never, ever, attempt to buy yourself clothing. No, wear gunny sacks. The discomfort they cause is more than adequate to distract you from what is essentially a pointless train of thought. Why? Well, if you're going to feel sorry for yourself, you'd best have something that you can really feel sorry about. And being god-damn stupid enough to let gunny sacks anywhere near tender flesh; well, obviously, if you're that dumb, God has it in for you.
Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for your time, and I will go feel pointlessly, meritlessly sorry for myself elsewhere for a little while.
:-D
