On my twitter, I stated that in the event that Sierra ever turned Ike against me I would put NAIR on her scalp.

I stand corrected.

If either of the liars ever come near me again, I'm putting bleach on their heads instead.

"Ashley, calm down. I don't understand why people are telling me that you think that I'm blowing you off for Sierra [on my one week back in the states before I leave to Kuwait for 400 days]. Thats stupid and I don't want to hear about it," he says.

He fails to mention the fact that he was totally blowing me off for Sierra... while she was blowing him off, of course.

I don't have time for whores, but I'll cut them both.

Fuck off.

Tonight was dumb as fuck. Why exactly was it necessary for me to drive all the way over to Larae's house, waste my gas, time, energy, brain functions on talking to Larae about nothing? Oh, my bad. To sit around and listen to her rant about "doing me" and her also not giving a grain of shit about my life either? I was fucking fine before this little pow-wow, and so was she!

I don't have the ability to strongly dislike someone for months on end, have a conversation with them for 20 minutes and then turn out to be best friends. My brain isn't wired like that. After a certain period of time, I'm just stuck. I'm not angry anymore. Hell, half the time, I don't even remember what I was even mad at. But the simple fact that I was mad at them for as long as I was means that I don't know how to be friends with them anymore. And that's whats happening here. I don't know how to be friends with Larae. It's done. The bridges were burned.

Do what you want, Chelsea. You guys can have fun with your Hasbro Family Game Night in the living room sitting next to Sierra, the girl you thought of as the spawn of Satan not 2 days ago, and you all can point your fingers and hiss at me for being so cold and unforgiving.

I'm going to ride off into the sunset STILL not giving a single fuck.

Pass Go. Collect $45.00 from Amazon.com for being a good person and selling a textbook. Feel smart.

Roll dice. Move 3 spaces. Land on Chance.

Police officer asks you, "What is the speed limit on Covington Highway?" You see sign in front of you. You reply, "45mph." Police officer laughs at you and says, "Wrong. It's 35mph." You can't possibly understand his reasoning.

Chance: You Are Assessed for Doing 52mph in a 35mph zone.

Give $192 to Bank before January 11, 2011.

Gahdammit!

Have I ever made a post about strictly pictures before? I don't think I have.

Be prepared for a whole lot of bad photography... and some decent ones too.

After spending what felt like a KABILLION YEARS in this one store with Dana looking for clothes [I had no problem with helping Dana find clothes of course, but seriously. A Kabillion years.] I looked directly across the walkway of the mall and found... Bakers! It was wonderful. There, Celeste tried on the worlds most comfy heels and I put on the worlds most fuzzy red hat. Smexy.




We went into H&M and tried on a bunch of clothes that didn't fit at all because Ian neglected to tell anyone that you had to size up because Europeans are all anorexic and shit. Whatever. The dress technically fit, but my titties were too big. I don't know how to feel about that, really.



Santa didn't need any of this shit. He wasn't even there. Don't leave the workshop unattended, son!



Okay, but for seriously? The ugliest hat I have ever placed my eyes upon. I couldn't NOT take a picture of them. Really, [blogspot consumer], would you have forgiven me if I never made you look at this picture? Would you?!





....Hi, Chelsea. Isn't she pretty? She so pretty.



Not to say that I'm not pretty or anything, but in all honesty, I just wanted a picture wearing the greatest shirt of all time. The band isn't even good anymore. Who cares? Look at that shirt!


Hey, Babeh! I'm telling you. If Allen slips up, I'm taking her. Celeste will be MY woman. No lie. I'll learn to like the cooch... ew. Well, maybe not. But the point is I love the mess out of her.


Okay then, Ladies and Dogs, this is Marquis. He's my friend, and a rather good one at that. In 50 years, when he's dead from... whatever he's going to die from in the future, I'm going to be really happy that he was my friend.

And yet, I'm not.

Shit, right?

I have a paper due tomorrow that I haven't even started. I just don't feel like it, really. I want to go out dancing. I want ... something.

Whatever.

I'm ranting about shit.

Love, let me sleep tonight
On your couch...
And remember the smell
And the fabric
Of your simple city dress...

Oh... That was so real

We walked around
'til the moon got full
Like a plate..
And the wind blew an invocation
And I fell asleep
At the gate..
And I never stepped on the cracks 'cause I thought I'd hurt my mother
And I couldn't awake from the nightmare
That sucked me in
And pulled me under
Pulled me under

Oh... That was so real

I love you..
But I'm afraid to love you

I Love you
But I'm afraid to love - you...
I'm afraid...

Oh... That was so real
..real real real...

Oh... That was so real

Like in the alleyways in England.
They're fucking beautiful, dude.

"Hey, so were you drinking tonight? Because I'm not sure if you should be driving if you were."

"Hmm? Huh? What was that?"

"Were you drinking?"

"Etz possibleh."

"1. You're not french. 2. It was a yes or no question. Requiring you to only give on of two answers. Yes or No. I didn't ask you any of that stuff."

"Maybe."

"You know what? Fuck it. God."

For taking my money on many an occasion.
You money snatchers.
Currency nappers.
Cash bandits.
BOOTY PIRATES! - wait. That didn't sound completely correct, actually.

You get what I'm trying to say.

As you can see, Bank of America is no more.

Now, put that in your pipe and do pipe smoking shit with it!

Crazy?
I was crazy once…
They put me in a round room.
I liked that room.
They gave me a huggy jacket.
I liked that jacket.
I hugged it and it hugged me back.
One day I died
and they buried me under daisies.
I hate daisies.
One day I sniffed the daisies.
They smelled so bad it drove me crazy.
Crazy?
I was crazy once …

I was cleaning my living room a few minutes ago and making a comment to myself about how many random photography business cards I just have in my possession when I noticed one that I didn't really remember. A small white card with the words

So, why is it that men have such insatiable urges to give head whenever they get excited?

It's like:

"You know, I had a very good time with you this evening. We had a nice dinner and a walk in the park, and at the moment I am greatly enjoying kissing you. Allow me to eat you out as thanks." Head under skirt, mouth on vagina.

 ....WOAH, THERE. I had a good time too, but you know, this really isn't all that necessary. Whenever I get happy that a boy buys me an ice cream cone, I don't grab a penis. Is that the sort of thing expected of me? "Oh [Tyrone], thank you so much for this slice of pizza. Hold on a moment while I dust the floor before I get down on my knees."

Calm down, son.

Frienship:

Value that is found in friendships is often the result of a friend demonstrating the following on a consistent basis:

• The tendency to desire what is best for the other
• Sympathy and empathy
• Honesty, perhaps in situations where it may be difficult for others to speak the truth, especially in terms of pointing out the perceived faults of one's counterpart
• Mutual understanding and compassion
• Trust in one another (able to express feelings - including in relation to the other's actions - without the fear of being judged); able to go to each other for emotional support
• Positive reciprocity - a relationship is based on equal give and take between the two parties.

 What's in bold is what we seem to have a problem with.

So, yeah, I'm over it. This. Us. Whatever our friendship is supposed to be. Although, now that I think about it, it means two different things to the both of us.

I mean, I'm sure you had a reason on your birthday, and my birthday, and that one day I was crying over that stupid Adam idiot, and last week, and the time at the mall, and the day that I drove all the way downtown with pneumonia and nearly crashed on the way home because I was convulsing so badly, and even tonight when you left me alone to wait for you at that club where that one guy had full opportunity to snatch me up and start touching me inappropriately and pulling me on my hair until I was able to run away and go the fuck home.

There's always some excuse or another, and I'm sure they are valid. I have 2 flashing voice mails from you right now probably saying something about your car and why you couldn't make it, and I know as a friend, I should care and I should probably be taking you home right now or some shit.

But, I just don't care anymore, Danny Swain.

I really just don't care.

Never again talk to Paul in regards to photography. Because, I swear, he gets mad whenever you say ANYTHING about pictures he takes.