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GET OUT THE LAMPSHADES 2003-03-27 | 1:01 p.m. Here I am still sitting on my bedroom floor, now listening to Interpol instead of Joy Division (same feeling), typing on the damned computer. I am so over this illness as of 3:30 this afternoon. I’ve just decided I don’t have the time for it anymore. So you might ask yourself why on the floor? Why doesn’t that chick get a desk? Well to answer your question I have a desk but it’s currently occupied by my sewing machine. We’re all anxiously awaiting the arrival of patterns so the computer has been relegated to the floor. It’s actually pretty good to sit with my legs crossed. It makes me feel like maybe I’m doing a little yoga stretch or something. Well not really. The only problem is that I’m within Steve’s reach now. Before he used to just sit at my feet and meow for attention. Now the fat fuck walks all over the keyboard and my lap. His favorite thing is to walk around me about three or four times and then fall with the weight of an elephant right onto the keyboard. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something. Umm Steve do you need something? What is it boy? Timmy’s trapped in the well? Oh you’re just a lazy obese cat. I see. Cats are so odd. People who are obsessed with their cats are also odd. I hate it when I remember that I’m one of those pathetic women, ahem, excuse me not women, chick, bird, dame, girl, lass, lady, female, anything but woman. It makes me feel really old and I’m not SO NEVER USE IT AGAIN! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? Um. Moving right along. Yeah, cat people. I’m one and therefore crazy. Ask anyone. I’m over myself. Writing will cease. Bad bye.
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