cimorene

i didn't write my dreams down soon enough upon waking. now i can't remember them well enough. there may have been a plane trip and a car trip and being locked in the bathroom at an airport and my friend brooke. oh, yes, and trying on a hideously ugly black dress sprigged with daisies, long and rayon and layered, in front of those slatted doors with no windows, in the dark by flickering candlelight. i was tying those waist-ties behind my back in a very detailed manner. i got every struggling finger-movement in this friggin' dream. why can't i have dreams this detailed about interesting things, or even about nice clothing?

i wrote a nice long email to my betamander and deleted some spam, and read my friends list, which is thankfully not a lot longer than it was last night. my mother apparently will be personally insulted if i don't get a job. just disregard the fact that i've already registered at two temp agencies. apparently that doesn't count. and working occasionally for $6/hr isn't good enough even though that's what they would pay me. someone call and tell my mother she's a freak? and like she would really make me pay her back for her college loan. yeah. right. ...*thought* like she even could make me.

yeah, i'm pissed. that's because i itch. we ate dinner outside last night. damn mosquitoes.

there's a new part of "void" up, everyone. go adore