Hear why I’m so tired and puffy. (And why I keep going on breakfasts and lunches and hikes and sometimes hide out in the library for hours.)
and other excuses
I tend to let all of my work slide until Friday. I think it comes from back when I worked at an office, and I’d give myself all sorts of things to do on Friday to make the weekend come sooner.
Now it’s just a pain in the ass.
Thursday night pamie.com got hit with trolls. I found their source, banned them, banned their IPs (not that it makes a difference) and generally had things under control within an hour. But if you were around at that time, thanks for not giving me more things to delete. Ignoring them is the best thing to do.
Thursday night was spent like several of the nights around here lately: we play the Playstation 2 until our fingertips are bleeding.
I am truly amazed at the ability I have to sit in front of a screen for several hours on end and not even notice my entire life just wasting away. I find it rewarding to get to the next level, even if I could have read a book in the time it took to get there. It’s sad. I don’t like it. This is why we haven’t had a gaming system in the house for about a year.
But these games are rented, which is really the way to go. In five days we can’t play it anymore, so we just play it hard for as long as we have it, and then we move on. Without that due date, I could repeat 1991: The Year of Tetris, and I really don’t ever want that to happen to me again.
We’re playing these games even though we can’t save them, because the Playstation 2 memory cards don’t save Playstation 1 games, and we don’t have a Playstation 1 memory card. We just start over each and every time.
My hands are sore. My fingers hurt. I have blisters. It’s dumb. But there’s something very refreshing when you kick the shit out of someone with your Kerry Strug-looking Japanese girl in Tekken 3.
There’s another side effect to playing these games. Sometimes you get up in the morning, put on the game, and the next thing you know it’s been all day long and now it’s the evening and you haven’t eaten or had a cigarette (one benefit) and you haven’t washed your face or even put on clothes.
And if you live with Ray, this means your evenings look like this:
People. This is no way to live.
“Hey. He’s not nekkid. Gyp.”
“YM Girlz Rule!”
When you leave a salon, you want to look like a vixen, not a victim. So heed these tress tips:
- Hate layers? Don’t like to spend more than ten minutes on your hair? Have clear ideas about your preferences, and communicate them to your stylist.Who wouldn’t have thought of that on her own?
- Find three photos of locks you love, and three of locks you loathe. Your stylist will get your goals.Why do writers think teens want to read and talk in this half-assed rhyme thing all the time? All the alliteration and shit. They’re girls, not Star-Bellied Sneeches.
- If too many strands start hitting the floor, speak up! You call the shots.Not at some salons, man. Those stylists work so fast that one minute you’ve got hair, and the next second you’re GI Jane. And you have no control over how much color you’re getting. Oh, and here’s a free tip: if you’ve got long hair, don’t ever let them try and color your hair with the hat with the holes? You know that thing that looks like a colander that they pop on your head and pull pieces of your hair out with a rat-tail comb? Good golly, that’s some pain right there.