My baby blogs about me.
I blog about him, too.
If I ever told you bout Boo Boo,
You'd only say I don't know what I do.

I am watching When Harry Met Sally. I do not know what exactly, but I know it means something. Something about my mental state.

I fall to pieces.

I am getting sick again. This is bullshit.




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What is not bullshit? NYE was legit. I didn't see everyone, but some people saw everything, if you know what I mean. Here's some free association about said last day of the year:

Champagne
Peter-Pan-haircut-having-bitch
Overly hoe-like dancing in the windows of said Peter Pan's house
Bernard the elf
Barefoot walks
The psychology of low self esteem
Magic Gas


Thanks.

Oh, and here's how we looked:


You can't see it, but I'm wearing the last croptop of the year of our lord two thousand and nine.

Things I said I'd leave behind in oh-ten:
Beards
Booze
Facebook
Anything smokeable
My overwhelming attachment to stuff

Can you guess how I'm fairing?

Maybe it's my love for Bill Murray(s)...

I have written a script. I plan to play the lead role in Groundhogs Day 2.

Look. There's that purse. That red floor. That girl and her croptops.




How boring.

I carry it everywhere

I've had it like three years and it's in most photos that I'm in.

It's contents on any given night:
*Seven lippies (chap/lipstick, lip balm/gloss/plumpers)
*A tattered red wig
*12 reciepts from various classy establishments (7-11, the DMV, Garage Pizza, the 99 Cent Store, Fix, CVS, etc)
*At least one chamera
*A to do list with items no one should have to write down to remember (Shower, Go to Work, Try Not To Die in Sleep)
*A bottle of Vueve (this is a good night)
*28 pens


Thanks.

Merry Cropmas

From the Gepson sisters.