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Has it struck anyone else as ironic that the Holiday of Love can be shortened to VD?
O_o
It continues to be more depressing that, even though I know I won't get a card or anything, tomorrow (and I know there are some w00bs on here who would consider plying Interflora with the cold, hard stuff to make friends feel better, so let me just say don't unless you have a motive less atruistic than plain generosity), I don't even have a crush on a real person (Patrick Stump, at this point, does not constitute a 'real person'. Give me a couple of hours to hang out and tag-quote The Lost Boys with him and maybe, but right now? No. Nonononononoonnononononononononotwatnononono. NO. He's just a little chunk of pretty in a slightly ill-advised hat) and won't be sending or even considering sending any.
My life is so bereft of excitement in the realm of inter-personal communication that I can't even muster the interest to send a Valentine's card. Has it really come to that, man? *head desk*
Once upon a time, it would actually have been a sense of depression I could at least wallow in and write wistful drivel about. Somewhere along the line I got too bored (dare I say, mature?!) to deal with the emotional side of Emo. Instead, I have apathy. Which is worse.
*kicks nearest bin over*
Oh, look! And get to deal with comic pretense of rage at the situation, as well, when in fact I couldn't bring myself to care enough to lift a foot far enough to bother kicking a bin over if you fucking lined it up in front of me.
Me: [urge to be angry. spot bin. lift foot half a centimetre. grumble, ruffle new hair.] ehhhfuckit. [wander off.]
I'm surprised I found the impetus to write that.
Dear Universe:
Happy fucking Valentine's Day. Next year, I want the receipt or just about anything else, including syphillis, instead.
No love,
Rosie.
(Is being 24 supposed to feel like this, man? Because I'm bored already.)
O_o
It continues to be more depressing that, even though I know I won't get a card or anything, tomorrow (and I know there are some w00bs on here who would consider plying Interflora with the cold, hard stuff to make friends feel better, so let me just say don't unless you have a motive less atruistic than plain generosity), I don't even have a crush on a real person (Patrick Stump, at this point, does not constitute a 'real person'. Give me a couple of hours to hang out and tag-quote The Lost Boys with him and maybe, but right now? No. Nonononononoonnononononononononotwatnononono. NO. He's just a little chunk of pretty in a slightly ill-advised hat) and won't be sending or even considering sending any.
My life is so bereft of excitement in the realm of inter-personal communication that I can't even muster the interest to send a Valentine's card. Has it really come to that, man? *head desk*
Once upon a time, it would actually have been a sense of depression I could at least wallow in and write wistful drivel about. Somewhere along the line I got too bored (dare I say, mature?!) to deal with the emotional side of Emo. Instead, I have apathy. Which is worse.
*kicks nearest bin over*
Oh, look! And get to deal with comic pretense of rage at the situation, as well, when in fact I couldn't bring myself to care enough to lift a foot far enough to bother kicking a bin over if you fucking lined it up in front of me.
Me: [urge to be angry. spot bin. lift foot half a centimetre. grumble, ruffle new hair.] ehhhfuckit. [wander off.]
I'm surprised I found the impetus to write that.
Dear Universe:
Happy fucking Valentine's Day. Next year, I want the receipt or just about anything else, including syphillis, instead.
No love,
Rosie.
(Is being 24 supposed to feel like this, man? Because I'm bored already.)