Jan. 17th, 2005

silverfae9: (Default)
I am totally in the middle of slow-cooking a pot roast. Steph and Ryan will be by soon enough to assist in the consumption. I imagine that the usual amounts of copious alcohol consumption and general hilarity will ensue. This is, you know, my first pot roast. We may -need- all the alcohol to get it down.
Dear boys in Seattle: I am such a catch. Please react accordingly. Not that I have any free time for you.
Have I mentioned recently that Douglas Coupland will be here in 2 1/2 weeks to be lovely and canadian and totally fucking awesome? Because he will. Anyone want me to throw their underwear at him or anything?

It's raining and homey and only 3:30. It smells like pot roast in here, and I can't decide if I want to spend the rest of my afternoon knitting or gluing things together. I have medicated my headache into submission. This one's been going since Friday, and it's probably a good thing I'm going to the doctor on Wednesday to see what is up.
silverfae9: (Default)
Alright, so most of you missed this on Thanksgiving, but it appears that, when drunk, Steph and I are attracted to hunks of meat. Seriously. There is no longer any meat left in this apartment when the two of us are drunk.
I only say this because the pot roast is gone. Totally. And at 7:00--two bottles of wine and a quarter of a bottle of Malibu ago--there was half of it left.

Not that I'm drunk. Or that it's taken twice as long to type this post as it normally does.

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