I love records and boys with beards and miniature anythings and shaking my ass to the rock & roll and learning new things and making stuff and never, ever stopping.
I hate candy.
The roommates and I are planning a cookout, and I’m already having visions of photoshopping our faces onto the cast of Three’s Company for the Evite.
I probably get a little too excited about shit like this.
I’m alright with that.
supernice:
This morning is not one of them. This is a shoelace dragging in the puddle, dog-shitty, spilt coffee, wet newspaper-y, cigarette butt-y, chewed up cigar-y, broken trash bag-y, umbrella poke in your eye kind of morning. Argh.
Couldn’t have said it better myself.
The one bad thing about working in Soho (okay, besides walking down crazy crowded Broadway) is that I can’t stop shopping.
I love that you can be Norma Rae one night, and Edith Head the next day.
— Boy I work with to me, after I complained about the (poor) quality of the thread I was sewing with.
I may have just peed into a pitcher because I got home and my roommate was in the bathroom taking a shower. People, I was full of celebratory drinks. I can’t be faulted.
No worries though. The pitcher has been bleached AND discarded.
Also, 2 nights in a row of drunken Crispy Crowns? Is there anything better/worse?
I think not.