kestrel

I hope you all caught the Kestrel Friend List Catastrophe of '04 (is it still '04? Thank goodness for PresidentNumber2, keeping me straight on these things) the other day, and laughed heartily to yourselves. Except for Scopitone, who had to include me in his shock at the fact that my friend list was, in fact, befucked.

I killed my web site the other day.

My work may actually be done within a week.

Did someone say side show? I'm there.

Awesome pictures this weekend.

When CaseLogic moves away, I'm going to be such a shut-in.

I will not stop wearing my sunglasses at all times. Who would?

My mom's going to leave her dead self to me as a Life Gem in a tiara.

Mentionion.

Soon, I won't just be around all the time. What then?

Last night: I was shopping with Geraldine when I decided to stop in and get a tattoo of this. My tattoo artist, who looked just like ThePirate, was amused that I'd forgotten the design for the Boingo guys I've actually wanted in reality, and was about to start my biohazard symbol when someone came in and shot him four times in the chest. The guy then held the gun to my head, and said that I was really hot as a zombie. I wanted to rush ThePirate to a doctor, as he obviously was NOT dead, but Geraldine wanted to shop for new shoes and a fancy bedspread. When I became angry, and cut off the shopping, we stuffed ThePirate into our van. Geraldine and Steven said we couldn't take him to a hospital, because we were actually con artists on our way to Texas. I was flustered. At this point, ThePirate gets up, obviously fine, and says that he, too, is a con artist, and we all drove off, listening to the Metric song currently stuck in my head, to live happily ever after in Texas.

Uhm... this is all true.