Uncle Alan wants to get his hands on Darkside and corrupt the boy good and proper for me. As long as he's still my friend at the end of it all, I'm cool with it.
Apparently there's this certain town on the border...
...Sis says Absolutely Not -- Darkside is too pure for this. Hell, even I'm too pure for it.
Of course, since I was practically raised in a nunnery until age 18...
...but Darkside still lives in the monastery.
I have been searching for about eight years for a particular book. Until this moment, I thought it possible that the book had only existed within a particularly vivid dream I had, one of the type that hits you where your sensitive emotional buttons are, and then gets mixed somehow into the mythos of your life...
...I found it, finally, after having given up the search several times, having resumed it several times...
...this over the period of several years...
...and now I have found this book.
The objective value of this book, a teenage romance/detective story, is probably less than the $10 I am paying for it.
The confirmation of reading it again, the Holy Grail of my book-hunting teenage years...
I hope the hero of this tale is just as I remember him... ...this, after all, may be the seed of my later obsession with blond computer-nerd types...
Sis has honed her rage and, cheating like hell, has *won* FF5, thus freeing up Dude's computer for other uses.
She'll be able to accomplish things now, which is a good thing.
I am *so* dragging Darkside to see Final Fantasy. I don't care if it sucks or what -- I just want to see that movie with him.
If it's bad enough, we can MST3K it, and throwing popcorn is always in season.
Last night Dude ordered pizza, pepperoni pizza.
Normally I would have danced and cheered, but for the fact that Nephew is presumed sensitive to pork... and pepperoni has pork in it, at least most of it does.
Sis let him eat a slice, though. He woke up in the night and felt lousy, but as there was only a little pepperoni on the pizza, he did not blow chunks, for which we are all profoundly grateful.
Got some clothes in the bathtub in a plastic tub filled with black dye. Black clothes, or formerly so -- some were attacked by bleach, others have just faded. Some were navy blue. I need more black clothing.
I tend to wear all black: black pants, black shirt, black socks, black shoes, black bra... in fact, the only thing I routinely wear that isn't black would be my underpants...
Sis says I am in all likelihood what she calls a "mod" ... this being a goth, before goths were quasi-cool. I'm not a goth, really. I don't wear makeup, hardly at all, and definitely don't go in for the whole paleface/eyeliner/black lipstick thing. I don't do too much angst anymore, and I don't wish I was born a few centuries earlier. I got in the habit of wearing all black and only black back in 96/97, when it became apparent to me that if I didn't wear black to remind myself what kind of frame of mind I was generally in, I would be dead in short order: unless I watched myself carefully, I would try to kill myself. Since I had no real wish to actually die, I had to remind myself to stay alive.
Now that I'm staying alive automatically, I still like to wear black because I look damn good in it, and also because it's what I'm accustomed to, and it's the color I'm happiest in.
...is getting slightly tipsy off of vodka-soaked cherries. Chick is drinking a glass of rum and Sprite, heavy on the Sprite, and Dude is drinking ... gods know what.
They Might Be Giants on the CD player, and clothes rinsing in the bathtub.
Little Sister (that would be Chick; she's become a little sister to me) is getting smashed. Has gotten smashed, correction.
She's giggly and has a cold washcloth over her eyes.