Sound; I found my copy of the Depeche Mode greatest hits while cleaning out my trunk. We won’t even talk about what else I found lurking back there.
Sight; My once sparkling clean apartment dwindling back into shambles before my eyes. The one thing Adam was supposed to do, dishes, hasn’t been done in three, yes three, weeks.
Taste; Taco salad for kunch for downstairs. They give you four or so ounces of lettuce and a tablespoon of beef. Stingy old bitches.
Touch; I read that it isn’t necessary to wash your hair everyday. Since we were out of shampoo this morning I thought I’d give that theory a try. I guess I’m greasier than those other women who can get away with it. But it LOOKS good.
Smell; Patch Oil.
A flying leap…year.
I don’t have much to say about my life lately, other than I’ve been enjoying the hell out of some people that I’ve met through my journal. So much in fact, that I used all of my journalling energy talking to one in particular...I’ll call him The Drunken Inker (T.D.I.), all references to identity will be removed.
Today’s entry is sort of an experiment. I’m going to take parts from my emails, which will need background information, which will lead me to writing. I’m almost tricking myself into writing today’s entry. Shhhhh, don’t tell me though, I don’t think I’ve caught on yet. My email will be in black, and my babbling today will be violet. It’s a little odd without the replies, but you’ll just have to use your imaginations out there.
From: Sarah
Sent: Tuesday, February 22, 2000 9:00 AM
To: The Drunken Inker
Subject: Morning Delight
Morning T.D.I.!
I'm delaying my start of the workday...and how better to do so than to write to my favorite neighborhood --------? I spent all day yesterday drinking Gatorade (I had a quiche on Sunday night, and apparently didn't cook it quite long enough, so let me be the first to let you in on a little secret, always, always, cook your quiche thoroughly) and revamping my site.
Always cook your quiche thoroughly, always. My father called me on the 17th and told me that a few case loads of spinach and cheese quiche had “fallen of a truck.” When I was younger, things were always falling off trucks. Odd things though, never toys or clothes, but cases of Arid Extra Dry, tube socks or Cup o’ Noodles. Not that I was complaining. Free is free.
In this case, it turns out that it hadn’t really fallen off the truck at all. There’s one driver that my father sees on a regular basis, who delivers contributed perishables to local shelters. For some reason or another, after filling all the shelters, he still had many many cases of quiche left. My father just happened to be there. So don’t start thinking I got sick off of stolen quiche. Okay, I’d eat the stolen quiche if you put it in front of me. But this time I’d cook it long enough.
I think I'm going to die laughing...Back Fat was just talking with another co-worker and they were discussing the effect that watching talk shows before bed has on one's dreams.
Back Fat; "I fell asleep watching Jerry Springer and dreamt that I was in some hotel room, and there were all these guys taking turns with me."
God, and I thought I was sick on Sunday evening!
Lucky me, it turns out this was the least of the disgusting things she had to say. For the sake of your stomach, I’ll refrain from adding the rest.
Well, I've considered getting on the mailing lists and stirring up some trouble, there hasn't been anything that I'm interested in talking about lately. What do you think I should get on there and rant about? Oooooh, abortions always a good one..."Do you consider your journal pro-family? Why?" Religion never fails to piss some people off..."Is your journal in accordance with God's laws?"
Sarah
If you read diary-l, you know that this was accomplished. For the sake of my sanity, I’ve decided it really isn’t worth the time spent anymore.
From: Sarah
Sent: Saturday, February 26, 2000 5:06 PM
To: The Drunken Inker
Subject: The food of the gods…
Arby's is my favorite food group. After Adam and I got married, we spent the night at the Ritz, courtesy of my father, which included dinner from the five star restaurant downstairs.
My father and his wife really are the best, even though we only went to the courthouse to get married, they acted as our chauffeur, they had flowers, and champagne, a night at the Ritz with their wedding package, dinner, the whole shebang.
Instead, we went and brought two five for fives back to the room.
We sat on the bed and watched the sun go down from our spectacular view while Arby’s sauce dripped down our chins.
How country does that make me?!?
I’d say pretty fucking country.
Sarah
From: Sarah
Sent: Monday, February 28, 2000 9:37 AM
To: The Drunken Inker
Subject: The seX-Files
I watched the first fifteen minutes and then put it on The Sopranos. X-files wasn't half bad, I just like the whole cursing smoking and wire wearing bunch on HBO too much for my own good.
Note here, we the ultimate geeks, lapsed into discussing video games and the large breasted women who reside in them.
It doesn't piss me off. In fact, they're the only characters I'll play with. I don't talk about it much in my journal because I'll look like a big fat girl geek, but I'm a survival horror game addict (and most use big breasted completely nonrealistic women.) I used to play in Mortal Kombat tournaments (using Mileena, Jade and Sindel), AND I used to work in the arcade to support my habit. If I'm going to be playing video games, my character better be a 46DD. I refuse to play men, although I did resort to Sub-Zero because someone told me that because I was a girl I could only play girls, then I beat his ass six ways to Sunday..
There, I admit it. I am a closet gamer. Not even my closer friends know about my addiction. Consider yourselves closer to me now.
Big fat geek playstation playin' Sarah
From: Sarah
Sent: Monday, February 28, 2000 10:48 AM
To: The Drunken Inker
Subject: Insert gamer joke here that no one else would get, so I’m not using it.
Once, lord this is embarrassing, I met a guy who thought that I was the end all be all for being a cute girl gamer, and we went to "his" arcade. I didn't know he wanted to show me off, but he did, and once I learned that little fact, I couldn't win a game to save my life. THEN after that little fiasco, I found out he was four, count them, four years younger than me. I never tried to meet anyone in an arcade again after that.
Alright. This seems to be the entry where I tell you all the embarrassing facts about my adolescence. Yes, I can’t even remember his name now, but he was four years younger than I. Yes, I kissed him. He even almost got to third, but the stupid little prick did it while I was driving and I missed the turn and almost flipped my mother’s minivan trying to correct the curve. Needless to say, he didn’t last long.
The worst thing is, that it isn’t the first time I’ve fallen for this. I don’t even have the nerve to describe the other time here yet. Just know that it was worse, much much worse.
From: Sarah
Sent: Monday, February 28, 2000 3:12 PM
To: The Drunken Inker
Subject: Rub it and find out.
It's been years since I though about this but in 1994 or 1993, I would skip school every day to see Adam. Keep in mind this was when I was 16, and very high maintenance. We broke up for some reason or another, and I had two hours to waste before anything opened or my other friends would be waking up. So at like 7:00 am I would go to the 24 hour bowling alley and get them to turn the arcade power on, and they would let me play Street Fighter for free all morning.
Isn't that like a weird depressing gamer Oliver Twist story? It's not as sad as it sounds. Adam and I got back together after awhile and I continued to throw rocks at his bedroom window in the morning. And I got really good with Cammy in the meantime.
Every morning I would leave my parent’s house like I was going to school, then flick pebbles at the window next to Adam’s head so I could come inside and we could climb back in bed.
I’m not even sure I’ve ever mentioned that I skipped three years of school straight, being kicked out of a handful. The public schools here were a shame. I couldn’t bring myself to take them seriously. I just didn’t go. After a while, I ended up buckling down and doing three years at once. I graduated the year I was supposed to, I’m damned proud of that. It was like a finger in the face of each and every bitter teacher I ever had.
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