Apologies. Sometimes, I go on those stupid internet "Personality Test" benders.
You know what I mean. You get intrigued by a Quizilla test, and end up stuck there for two hours, learning shit about yourself that you probably already knew. Either that, or the questions are so obvious that it's easy to manipulate the answers into usually getting the result you want. However, I'm usually brutally honest when I do them, so sometimes the test has pretty surprising results. Like, that I'm respectable, or a role model and some shit.
Plus the ability to copy and paste that GDHTML into a website comes along with the territory, leading to some font being smaller, when it's supposed to be normal sized. I always end up getting frustrated because apparently Blogger needs about THREE THOUSAND font opening and closing tags, to work properly. My mouth could make a sailor blush when I'm fucking around with HTML coding, and it's giving me the shaft.
Happy Easter, to all you Catholic and various assorted Christian-oriented religion goers out there, and Happy Cheap Chocolate Day to the rest of you heathens. Myself included in the latter.
Can you tell that we follow a Roman calendar, since they decided that the day the holiday would be on, is the day that Jesus DIED, and not the day he was resurrected on? I still get four days off, so I really don't give a damn either way. Sorry, J.C.
I just spent my afternoon and evening in the company of about 20 assorted relatives circling about the kitchen and dining area like so many starving Nigerian children, gorging themselves on turkey and everything else under the sun that we had stacked on the table. (I'm not joking, there was about 25 assorted dishes on the table not including appetizers, and assorted sweets.)
Man, I'm going to hell for that Nigerian children comment, aren't I?
And your ALL coming with me!
Hey, the majority of us are French-Canadian and Nova Scotian in background, I think we were lucky that the table didn't break under the weight of the grub on top of it. Us east-coasters and subsequent hatchlings (My dad is fond of telling me that I was hatched, not born... Gee, thanks Daddy.) of east-coaster transplants LOVE to cook and eat. Our ever widening arses thank us for it, I'm sure.
And now you're going Aaaahhh! NOW I get it, she's a trollop because she's FRENCH! NOW it all makes sense!
Yes, and not only was I stuffed to the proverbial gills with poultry and such of the same holiday fare, I was hung over to boot.
Okay, hung over... Not so much. I only had four drinks over an eight hour span and drank water in between those drinks. However, I think I pulled a few muscles that haven't been exercised in the past while from dancing so exuberantly in my gothic knee-high boots, Fishnets and mini. Yeah, that's right, you read it. No shirt, just tattoos and piercings.
Fetish Night (a.k.a. The Body Perve Social Club) at the Lotus Sound Lounge, is a much more relaxed event than SinCity, at Club 23 West is. I had scads of room to dance like some sort of E-tard. (No, I don't do that shit, though some chick thought I was SELLING it for some reason, the ditz.) Zoning out to the beat of heavy deep haus, trance, and cheesy 80's hair metal songs that had been covered by bands like Groove Coverage doing a version of Alice Cooper's "Poison" (being sung by a girl, which makes it eminently HOTTER in content.) and SNAP! Singing whatever the hell it is that SNAP! sings. (Usually, crap.)
I do, however, have a gripe. I fekking HATE the fact that strippers have decided that Fetish events are the hip thing to attend, when they aren't even into kink in the first place. Go practice your pole dancing moves at the Drake, instead of prancing your obviously fake titties around The Lotus. First it was this group of wannabe "swingers" (Usually, horny men that think women that attend fetish nights are whores) and now, it's strippers.
To the gorgeous male stripper that looked at me, sneered, and told Allison and I, in an atrocious FALSE French accent "Toi Fumez Pas."
Fuck. You. It was such a poor attempt at ACTING like you could speak French, that I had to ask you to repeat yourself three times. It sure as hell wasn't because the music was thumping. Go back to Studio 54, and work on your linguistic technique. I'm only half French, and my accent could kick the shit out of yours.
Granted, you were pretty damned hot. That is, until you opened your mouth. The next time, only open it if you're going to put it to good use. And for fucks sakes, get your grammar right. Maudit Anglais.
What you should realize, is that my friends are fairly well acquainted with the people that arrange The Body Perve Social Club, and that we've been told that unless a security member asks us not to smoke in the club, they honestly don't give a shit. Stuff that in your pipe and smoke it, you pretty asshole. The next time you prance your arse off to Velvet Steele to tattle on us big, bad smokers, realize that she doesn't give a flying fuck, and that perhaps you should go stand somewhere else and attempt to look pretty. Just don't SPEAK and it should work fine.
On another note...
I've been talking to a few employees of a Street Youth Service volunteer organization, called "Dusk Till Dawn" that helps Street Youth find employment and quite simply, basic human necessities like blankets and some food to make it easier to bear the horrors of living on the streets. I've come to the conclusion, (and I've known this for a while now...) that I'm so damned priviledged, I've got it SO easy, compared to others, and it's time I started helping the community on a more one-on-one level.
Unfortunately, I don't have the education background (ie: Psychology, Social Worker status , etc...) to actually WORK for Street Youth Services, but I'm sure a sympathetic ear, as well as someone that will give them a bit of a boot to the bottom when they are down in the dumps, will be beneficial. I'll manage to fit it into my schedule somehow.
I hope you guys got enough chocolate to kill someone. I was pretty disappointed that I didn't get a single item of my favourite treat, not even a hearing impaired bunny from my mom. (She eats the ears before I even get the damned thing. It's tradition, and I plan on inflicting the same annoying form of torture on my OWN kids some day.)
Okay, this is a horrifying long entry. I'm going to shut up, and go read my new fantasy novel now. (Mercedes Lackey -- "Phoenix and Ashes")
Ta!
*kisses*
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