Codeine is my hero. Fuck the doctors. I heart the left overs in my family's medicine cabinet.
Last Saturday night I hung around home, drank a few beers, watched Independence Day and packed. I decided that THAT was the only way to pack. I tried to do the same thing on Monday night, but I had one too many and somehow decided my time would be better spent reorganizing my shoe collection. Yeah, cool, but . . . not so productive.
I love Paul Pierce. Next week my love. Next week.
I don't care if Amy Winehouse is a cracked out mess. Valerie.
And sure, maybe Michael Jackson liked little boys . . . a little too much. Doesn't change the greatness of this song.
I had dinner with a nice boy last week. I wore my gross old lady sweater (along with the inside of my quesadilla that fell all down the front of said old lady sweater). He still wanted to see me again . . . either men are seriously lowering their standards or my apparent lack of shame is somehow endearing.
I am so tired, but so nervous/excited for Illinois.
I want to take my Dad's smelly, old flannel jacket with me. It's my favorite cozy thing to wear. But I know he'll miss it too much because it's his favorite cozy thing to wear.
I'm so excited to spend a few days in Chicago. I don't care if I have strep throat, I'm dragging Nelly to a hundred things.
I feel like it's 3 in the morning.
That nice boy that didn't seem to mind that I'm a little rough around the edges (and late, no matter what I seem to do) has never seen The Goonies OR The Karate Kid. Nor had he ever played hang man. But we bonded over The Mighty Ducks which is the only hockey I can stand to watch.
ahhhh, the in betweens
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