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Resting heart rate:  98.

Once again my obtuse agoraphobic sense has hit me, though the feeling is a little weaker than I will allow myself to believe.

I'm terrified of leaving my house for reasons not entirely known to me at the moment.

It's four in the morning and I can't sleep.  I've tried to lie down and force myself to sleep, but every time I close my eyes I can see my pulse thumping fast and hard against the lids of my eyes.  Don't worry - I'm not trying to be poetic here - anxiety is anything but poetic most of the time.  

On the subject of poetry, I have to admit that I doubt I could write a good piece of it, even (and especially) if I tried.  Now that we've cleared that up ...

Resting heart rate:  77.

Perhaps if I focus everything I've got on this, my pulse will slow.  Maybe if I could just remember that all is right I wouldn't feel so overwrought at the trifles that only exist at four in the morning.  What would be a useful expedient for sleep?  I wonder if I ask too many questions.

Think poetry...  Think long, mundane, wildlife poetry.  Perhaps something written about birds....

Resting heart rate:  71.

That feels much better. 

Random Ramblings...

I am absolutely bewildered at the way that sugar substitutes never seem to completely dissolve in iced beverages.  You end up sucking bland coffee through a straw one minute and a hefty mouthful of much-too-sweetness the next.  It's nothing short of a perplexity.

A woman sitting at a near-distant table had her tea served to her a few moments ago.  A smile on her face, the cup set in front of her, then she claps, following her applause with a meek "Yay!"  Perhaps we shouldn't give something as insignificant as a cup of hot tea an audible ovation?  Perhaps I should tell her that there is something outright creepy about a forty-something-year-old woman clapping at her tea?  I'd offer her a popsicle if I had one.

I feel vulnerable and a little paranoid being out after dark without wearing bug spray.  West Nile and all.  I kinda feel ballsy, like I'm living on the edge.  I'm also beginning to feel a little pathetic about the whole thing - that I even worry about such things.

You know you're from way out-of-town when you describe your tattoos as being written in "Greek" and the guy you're talking to thinks you said "Green."  You also know you're from way out-of-town when the girl standing next to him asks if you're a teacher because you know Greek.  I didn't feel it appropriate to go into the problems surrounding international language barriers.

I have been seriously considering moving to Africa to do mission work.  I figure I've spread my smug wit more than enough around here.  Why not grace another country with my cheery, sun-shiny disposition, right?

Nothing more runs through my head at the moment.

Talk about beating a once-innocent LJ post to a pulp.  Jeez.

I'm baaaack ....

Hey fuckers!  At long last, I've decided to come back to LiveJournal just to harass all of you.


Eight-inch heel delight.......

My daily zen came from nothing more than talking to my best friend in New Orleans for two hours, deciding that breasts are indeed strange, and realizing while looking over my credit card statement that I have a bizarre obsession with stripper shoes. If only I would have found the ambition to purchase a deadly weapon, I'd say this was one of my better days.

I would elaborate on all of that, but somehow I don't think I have to.
If you woke up and I was in bed with you, what would be your first thought?
So, I've learned a great deal of completely meaningless information about myself today:

1. Thanks to the University of Cambridge, I could move to London if I really wanted to endure the torture that is the UK.

2. Making a promise not to ever ingest anything parasitic is a virtual impossibility.

3. I can make Aussie Chicken without setting myself on fire.

4. Bush really stresses me out (and not that kind of bush, you fucking perverts).

and lastly,

5. Ninjas, though stealthy and a tad bit annoying, always drink for free.


Don't worry...

None of it made any sense to me either.
I thought it would be a good idea to throw a Valentine's Day party.

I was wrong.

I realized the consequence of my decision shortly after midnight when, from my bathroom, I hear a group of people moaning, pounding, and breaking things.

As people began to wake up this morning, I made it very clear to all of them that I wouldn't step foot in my bathroom until someone cleaned the floor, which appeared to blotched with mystery spots.

At this late hour, I still haven't been able to use my damn bathroom.

Un relatedly, I've managed to hit an all time low in healthy decision making:

I put twenty-four sugar packets into my Starbucks coffee this afternoon. And I drank the whole damn thing.

If I happen to develop a terrible case of diabetes and drop dead atop a thirty-pound pile of sugar, just know that I hated you all.



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Why the hell do I always get roped into taking these damn quizzes?

And it was a James Dean one too!

In the past twenty-four hours, I've collectively spent fifteen of said hours doing a 2000 piece puzzle.

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.