| this one escapes me.... |
[17 Jun 2003|12:57pm] |
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mood |
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 confused |
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music |
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"Prayer" by Disturbed |
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You are: GEORGE TAKEI!
Resplendent with concealed power, you are the tiger
in the grass. Those near you feel the
throbbing waves, and are both drawn and
frightened by your ineffable glory. Keep on
truckin'.
What Psychosexual Symbol Are You?
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| Olga |
[17 Jun 2003|09:49pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 refreshed |
] |
| [ |
music |
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"Fahrenheit 3d3" by Orbital |
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They make fruit-scented deodorant for women now. I have an issue w/deodorant these days.. have for as long as I can remember actually. Or maybe my sweat glands are the issue at hand. Maybe I sweat like an overweight caveman and am just in denial... I've never found an anti-perspirant that stops me from sweating... they do intend it to do just that; don't they? Those white coats at various underarm labs. I'm anal about terms maybe. Anti-perspirant. No sweat. I want no sweat. Or maybe just odorless sweat that the unscented variety promises... doesn't happen though. I grow inevitably pungent. So peach pits it is.
My psych. instructor called me "dear" today. It pleased me a little more than I'd have liked. I'm a twit. But he's my type. Verging-on-a-bit-ugly-to-most and peculiar. Like that French waiter at Whitlock's on Queen East. Pudgy and clumsy. A new crush would be nice. I don't think I have crushes anymore. At least not the manic, intensely embarrassing ones I had as a teen. But you've got a boyfriend, you ninny. He's pudgy and clumsy.
I remember musing in my head when I was around 17, almost prophetic like and channeled, "I'll rue the day when I find stupidity endearing...". And I have. The day is rued. But that's all right. He's my sweet oaf.
It's Polish Day at Ontario Place this Sunday. The only stereotypical icon I can summon at this is a sausage. Polish sausage. Or else overweight blonde women in pigtails named Olga, Zola and such. Clogs? No, that's Dutch.
I need to be eddycated.
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