Not that it's helpful to you at all, but I wish my fits of self-rage turned into cleaning or walking. They just turn into ice cream.
I don't think grey eyeshadow looks good on any fair-skinned person. It just makes us look slightly dead.
Oz ,'Beneath You'
[NAFDA] Spike-centric discussion. Lusty, lewd (only occasionally crude), risque (and frisque), bawdy (Oh, lawdy!), flirty ('cuz we're purty), raunchy talk inside. Caveat lector.
Not that it's helpful to you at all, but I wish my fits of self-rage turned into cleaning or walking. They just turn into ice cream.
I don't think grey eyeshadow looks good on any fair-skinned person. It just makes us look slightly dead.
Since my hair is such a bright purple, I think I need to work with pinks and such so my hair doesn't eat my face.
{{{Gloomcookie}}} I'm so sorry to hear about your grandmother.
Vibing hard for Aimee's friend.
I went on two rage burning walks, and then washed the floor again to burn off self-pity
I'm with Zenkitty -- all my self-pity turns into massive comfort eating and curling into a fetal ball. Good for you with the walking and the mopping. Your floor must be pristine.
Awww, Allyson, why ya gotta whack at your bangs when you're distraught?
Fortunately you look good with Betty Page bangs.
Speaking as a former teacher, group projects are... but even that frustration can be educational.
Yeah, I didn't need a teacher to tell me that my classmates didn't like me. And I certainly didn't need my Social Studies grade to reflect that fact. And I most deffinately never needed to build a Lincoln's Memorial out of sugar cubes.
I understand the intent, but I suspect there are non-gpa reflective ways to teach the same sorts of things.
I've learned to NEVER. TOUCH. MY. BANGS. It only ends in tears.
{{{{Gloomcookie}}}}
The cupcakes went over very well at the punkymoms playdate today. As did Owen's "They Shake Me" t-shirt.
I'm tired and DH is probably in Chicago by now. Enjoying a free cocktail reception by the Casualty Actuarial Society. And he'll be sleeping in a Westin bed tonight. The bastard. *sigh* It's all for the job. He's promised me unlimited foot rubs when he gets back home.
I've learned to NEVER. TOUCH. MY. BANGS. It only ends in tears.
I'm actually quite good (or, at least, not cringe-inducing) at trimming my bangs. Though I try not to, b/c my stylist is better, obviously.
I have to go attack the sentient bathroom mold with bleach, and I don't wanna. The sentient mold scares me.
I'm actually quite good (or, at least, not cringe-inducing) at trimming my bangs. Though I try not to, b/c my stylist is better, obviously.
I don't think I have sharp enough scissors.
If we don't hear from you before bedtime. Steph, shall we send a rescue party?
If we don't hear from you before bedtime. Steph, shall we send a rescue party?
Send them with torches. I think the sentient mold fears open flame.
Now stop right there, missy. You are not, I repeat NOT, to clean your bathroom by means of arson!