In school-related news, AAAARGESAASFUCKINGDIAADFNRLLL.

*cries*

listening to: "In Other Words" :: Ben Kweller

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Holy shit, I'm tired. Went out tonight with J and B and had an awful time. I had a bit of fun flirting with B's friend who bought me a beer, but I got dragged out of the bar by J, who was upset that B was acting like a prick to her. I'm like 'Dude. You're fucking SURPRISED by this?' How do you tell a friend that your sloppy seconds are just not worth her fucking time? I mean, I had a bit of a thing for B at one point, but the guy is a frigging idiot when it comes to girls. I wouldn't wish him and his mixed goddamned signals upon anyone.

So, the guy from last weekend never called, and I know I said that I wasn't going to call him, but I think that I will. I don't know. He was really cute, and part of me is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and another chance. I think I'll phone tomorrow and ask if he wants to go for a drink sometime. Because guys don't usually give you their number unless they're really interested and want you to call them, right? Part of me thinks, 'Sarah, you are not the type of girl to call a guy. You let them call you.' And then another, slightly louder part of me says 'Hey, you've been playing the same strategy for years, and where has that gotten you? Nowhere. Fucking CALL him, woman.' I don't know. I'm very confused right now.

Why do I always have the urge to write when I've had too much to drink? Please forgive my spelling, vocabulary, and grammar. I"m going to go to bed before I write something really stupid or fall asleep at the computer. G'night, all!

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Check it out, bitches. I'm indie as fuck.

*hides Black Eyed Peas album*

Dudes. Family Channel is running episodes of My So-Called Life. I shit you not. I was flicking through the channels late last night, and stopped upon a young and painfully angsty Claire Danes with that really terrible scrunchy face she gets when she cries. I about died. And then Jordan 'Fuck me hard and dirty' Catalano walked onscreen and I DID die. Then I was resurrected and I watched the rest of the episode. Omigodsogood. Are there DVDs? Because I could hit that.

My imaginary boyfriend, David Anders, got cast as a toxicology guy on the original CSI. Part of me is happy and looking forward to imagining working late nights with him at the lab, seductively letting my hair down, whipping off my glasses and taking him there and then on the table. The other part is afraid that I'm not going to be happy if there's no shooting or torture involved. Christ, what does that say about me? In any case, heads are going to fucking ROLL if Sark is written off of Alias permanently. Who the fuck will be left for me too lust over? That no-good pussy Vaughn? Please. Mr. I'm-gonna-fucking-sit-around-and-mope-and-be-an-ineffectual-fucking-lump-all-fucking-season-until-the-very-end-when-the-writers-will-try-to-spice-up-my-character-by-handing-me-a-set-of-prosthetic-balls-and-tell-me-to-go-to-town-on-poor-Mr. Sark's-face? I think fucking not.

I think I'm still mourning the loss of the Olympic swimming. Oh, Phelps. You made me think sinful, wrong things about your delicious, perfect, too-young-for-me body. And I loved every minute of it. Le sigh.

Enough now.

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Dear Pizza Shit (Home of the Fucktards),

Attention whoever keeps screwing up my order. The last FIVE fucking times I have ordered pizza from you, I've asked for goddamn DIET Pepsi. And four out of those five times? You've sent me motherfucking REGULAR Pepsi. That one fucking miraculous time I actually got what I asked for was only because you only had diet and nothing else. Listen to me, you assbag: I don't ask for Diet Pepsi because I think it will counteract the effects of my medium Cheese Lovers' with green peppers and onions. I ask for it because it tastes better. So don't think you can fucking give me anything you goddamn want. I ask for diet for a fucking reason. The next time your driver shows up at my door with a bottle of regular, I'm gonna drive down to your store and cram that 2L of regular up your dumb ass, you fucking fuck. Sideways.

And tell the driver not to carry the box sideways while we're at it. It makes the cheese all slide to one side of the pizza. Next time he does that, I'm gonna beat his face with my stillettos.

Get it together,

Miss Black

Fuck, I'm PMS-y today. Which is a good thing, actually, because I haven't gotten my period since the end of June. Which would be a concern if I was getting laid. But I'm not. Though, hopefully that will be resolved sometime before the END OF THE GODDAMN YEAR.

Miss Black saw a little bit of action Friday night of the dancing/groping/vodka-fueled tongue tango/number exchange variety. I wouldn't normally be so trashy, but the guy was really cute and was really good with his tongue, so I figured why the hell not. Although, now, a part of me is hoping he never calls, because maybe I was too drunk to notice that he was a total creepshow (though my friends reassure me he wasn't). And another part of me is thinking "He'd better fucking call me. I'm goddamn amazing and pretty and fantastic. He'd be stupid not to." and trying not to drive my friends nuts with moanings of "It's been three days, why hasn't he caaaaalled meeeee?".

He gave me his number, but I'm not calling him. Nope. And I don't care that he was asking my friend about me when she saw him the next night. Pick up the effing phone if you want to see me, numbnut.

Is this what happens when you start buying grown-up shoes with proper heels, and cute, little purses that you don't really need? You turn into a big fucking GIRL? Because I could have done without this shit.

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I bought some grown up shoes the other day, in the city on my way back from Cold Lake. Black leather ones, with pink contrast stitching and little ties with rivets at the toes and three inch stilletto heels. I love them. Alas, they do not love my feet, but I shall wear them all the day anyways.

I also bought the matching bag.

I am so effing over summer. Bring on the fall, baby. I've got a craving for chunky sweaters and long scarves. The leaves on the tree in front of my apartment building are already starting to turn.

My brother turned 17 yesterday. So weird. Makes me feel old.

I'm looking for a new job. Convergys can kiss my shapely ass.

Off to eat some pie.

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Holy hell. I suppose it's about time I updated, if only to let people know that I'm still alive. I'm sure you've all been in a frenzy, awaiting the day that you would bring up my site in your browser and see something other than the scrolling birthday greeting for my sister. Well, today is your lucky day, my kittens.

So what have I been up to? Nothing, really. Work. Which I loathe, by the way. Every day, I become more and more convinced that I work for the Devil himself. How can you not garuantee your product? How? How can you say 'Okay, we'll set you up with this cell phone, but if it ever comes to the day that you're phone won't work because we've torn down the cell towers in your area (and believe us, it will come to that day), you're still going to have to pay an early termination fee for cancelling service before your contract end date, because the contract states that we don't garuantee service. Even though it's 100% our fault that your phone won't work. Because, you see, you signed the contract, and thus sold your soul to us, demon spawn that we are.' Revolting. So yes, I think a new job is in order. But where can I go that will pay (almost) as well as where I work now? Nowhere. And I am a whore and will do anything for a decent paycheque if it means I can support my unhealthy shopping habit.

In other news, I have blonde hair now. Yes, and I'm disturbed by how much I've been hit on at the bars since making the change. Honestly. I'm the same girl, you fucktards, only with lighter hair. What is the big effing deal? Boys can be so stupid.

Obviously, I'm still the singlest girl in all the world. Still working on that one.

Is it normal for a cat to sleep on it's back, front legs straight up in the air, back legs spread eagle for all the world to see? Because that's what Frida is doing and it's really, really weird. What a freaky cat.

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Miss Black also contributes to a David Anders/Sark site under the name Chaton Espion. Feel free to visit her there if you'd like to witness the terrifying depths of obsession.