Woah. The mailman just scared the shit out of me by suddenly being at the front door, all sneaky style. Here I am blasting Body Count (All Love is Lost) and I don't think he'll like me anymore. Not that he ever did to begin with. All postal workers hate me, on the grounds that I procrastinate getting my mail. I get a lot of passive aggressively worded notes.( Collapse )
Now that I've collected you all here (did you know you were being collected?) here's a little more about me and an awkward crop of my face:( Collapse )
A thing just happened.
My mother most unexpectedly gave me a dolphin shaped car air freshener.
I was suddenly propelled backwards in time. (Like, Not literally. Wouldn't that have been a trip?)
I'm eighteen. My cousin and I are walking around Gilroy, California. It is midnight. We decide that we must go to Jack-in-the-box, because honestly that sourdough grilled chicken club is KILLER. Maybe some shitty tacos, too, who even knows.
Problem — there is a sign, and it informs us that we may not go through the drive-through without a vehicle. (drive-through was the only option, just to clarify. we didn't just say, "fuck it we're not GOING INSIDE" and give up) In fact, we did not give up at all.
Being probably maybe slightly intoxicated, we came to the immediate decision that we should pretend to be driving an invisible car. We stopped aforementioned invisible car in front of the menu — my hands on the invisible wheel, both of us in a difficult to manage sitting position.
"Um...ladies" said a voice from the speaker, "There's a camera...we can see you. You need a real car."
Okay but honestly, what kind of snatch adheres to rules. We were clearly doing our best and deserved food.
We walk off a bit and ponder our predicament. Then, to our rescue, KNIGHTS ON WHITE HORSES ARRIVED! Well, in the form of a Saturn and the two guys barely spoke English so there were some communication errors, but they told us to get into the back of their car and we could get our food.( Collapse )
I have disappeared from both Facebook, and Instagram.
MOST UNFORTUNATELY — I decided to finally join TikTok, and an entire three hours of my life was wasted today.
(But — lol — there's a lot of cool creative weirdos out there and I like that)
I then wasted another hour watching Weird Al music videos and interviews on YouTube. To say that today was successful would be a lie. Hell, this isn't even going to be a good post.
Let us now detail an extremely stupid current problem of mine, so that you will feel better about your life. You're welcome!
Over the weekend, I may have...kicked open a locked door. Though I did indeed successfully open said door, my ankle did not really appreciate the attack. I woke up to an ankle that looked like half of a baseball was possibly stuffed under my skin.
I do this awful thing where I say to myself, "Does this hurt worse than child birth? No? Okay, fuck it I'm not seeing a doctor." which has never once worked out in my favor and I always regret it.
My baseball ankle and I made it until yesterday, at which point my children (yes — the very ones that hurt me far more than kicking a door) said, "Okay mom, really. This is dumb, please go see a doctor."( Collapse )
The world is currently too bizarre for Facebook. I cannot. Zero percent of me wants to see any of the shit that any of you post anymore.
I'm going to take it back (way back...all the way back...to the time of witches!..which is where you are from) to a simpler time when all I had was a LiveJournal account, and MSN Messenger. (I do not think that the latter will be making a comeback in my life, unless we can all collectively agree to meet up there. Is that still a thing? Does it exist? Can we find seedy chat rooms? ASL?!)
My name is Mallary. Within the last few years, I have been able to trick everyone into shortening my name, so now it's Mal. Aw. It's sounds like we're now close enough for you to refer to me by my nickname. We're friends! *insert beaming face here*
Who am I? (If you're a fan of Les Misérables, you already just sang the answer in your head. Alas — I am not Jean Valjean) (probably for the best)
At age 17ish I thinkish, I was walking around town. Downtown, rural Oregon place, midnight. I am in front of a movie theater. A quite scruzzly man is limping toward me. He's singing. He is clearly heavily intoxicated — he seems pretty happy about himself. Ultimately, I end up taking some swigs out of whatever is hiding in his brown paper bag. We chat about the meaning of life.
"I have to go now", he slurs in a singsong fashion, "But we will meet again on the other side, and we'll all sing Pearl Jam together!"( Collapse )