They're calling it Snow-pocalypse...because the Illinois media are clever like that.
Yeah, there's snow. Lots of snow. Also wind, and lightning. The house is shaking and the back deck has a four foot high snow drift on it. I dig it. I feel like I'm in Little House on the Prairie (well, On the Banks Of Plum Creek, if we're going to be anal about it) and I need to bring in more logs from the wood pile. Weather is much more exciting in this country than it is in the motherland. Also more solid.
I got mercilessly jostled by a savage gust of wind while walking from the gym to the red line, which caused me to slide about six feet across State Street. It was rad. I squealed, cussed, and was complimented on my antics by another girl crossing the road.
Brick wanted me to come over tonight, but I was all like, hell to the no! This was on account of a) I didn't want to die a lonely, frosty death at the bus stop, and b) I don't want him thinking he can just wiggle his nose a la I Dream of Jeannie and have me magically appear at his house, ready to fuck, cuddle, and listen to him endlessly talk about "his guys" at work. Brick is short for Brick Shithouse, btw, because the lad in question is built like one. He was a selection from the OKC Buffet and looks set to become a regular in Iphigenia's Super Fun Happy Harem. He's three years younger than me and I can't decide if he's genuinely stupid or if he smokes too much pot or if all those concussions from his football days have finally caught up with him. Or maybe I'm just a judgmental troll who shouldn't be some mean about someone who has been nothing but nice to me. Who knows? He's working from home tomorrow because of the blizzard and I have the day off school (ditto), so I might go over to his and study while he works.
I need to study more, I think. I need to read more at the gym and watch less silly music videos. I swear, if I have to watch that "Dutty Love" clip one more time, I'm going to put my foot in Sean Kingston's big fat ass. Not even Nicki Minaj can save that steaming shit-pile of a song. Anyway, I should be absorbed in gendered Spanish nouns, Latin American history, and anxiety disorders while getting my sweat on.
Or, you know, I could spend less time chasing boys and more time with my books. Yeah, right. Because that'll totally happen. *snort*
I have a burlesque show on Thursday that I sort of forgot about. I've kind of dropped off the face of the burly-Q earth since I started school and began getting more regular gigs. It's too much work for too little pay-off, and let's face it, there's only so many ways you can take off your clothes in front of an audience before that shit gets old. This week's effort should be reasonably straightforward. Pick song, pick moves, pick costume, combine all three. Take equipment and costume to venue, perform act, try not to knock anything over, and remember to smile. Use drink tickets, avoid creepy dudes at the bar, get paid, take cab home. Or take cab to Brick's house still wearing costume and blow his sheltered little mind. Hm.
I could use the money. This shoulder issue is lingering far longer than it should have, so I'm teaching less and getting prodded and poked by Dr Jack more than I'd like. It'll be ok eventually, I suppose.
Maybe Burn-out can recommend a physical therapist. Burn-out is this damaged fire fighter I've been out with a couple of times. He's about a million feet tall and walks with a cane because he fucked up his leg...fighting a fire, I suppose. I'll write a full description of him and our rather diverting first hang-out some other time. Right now, though, it's time to hit the hay. Peace, suckahs.
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