Jecca Mehlota (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jecca_mehlota) wrote2007-08-03 12:34 am
jecca_mehlota) wrote2007-08-03 12:34 am
Entry tags:
- arg real life,
- car stories,
- i do not approve!,
- i refuse to be held responsible,
- in ur bakry,
- it is late and i am tired,
- righteous indignation is /righteous/,
- she never shuts up does she?,
- slaggit brain!,
- the readers all think i am insane,
- these tags are redundant,
- this must be what going mad feels like,
- too many tags arg!,
- transformers,
- work,
- writing,
- wst-live!
We have no phone. The phone rings anyway.
They stole our phone. I WILL NEVER FORGIVE THEM. To add insult to injury, despite our lack of phone, we still receive calls, and so must run across the store like useless twits, looking for the nearest available phone. Often only to run back to check the cakes in the display, or to rummage through the bins of decorations to see if we have Cinderella, or whatever it is they want.
I wonder what they are going to take next. There are not many things left - we are mostly limited to the oven and the counters. If they do not finish these renovations soon, I fear I shall go insane.
Saw three Corvettes, today, though! Two different black ones and a red one. They are such pretty, pretty cars. bwee!
Not sure what else I need to do to convince people to write me letters. Writing to them doesn't work, writing back to them on the very, very rare occasional that they do write doesn't work. Perhaps it is all of the ridiculous doodles I put throughout. Guys! If you do not want to write me letters, please just say so and stop claiming you are really, really going to (really), because it makes me sad then, when you do not. I am starved for any kind of social interaction, and it is not fair to hold out such a tempting morsel and then draw it back away as you are. Fiends, the lot of you. (To be perfectly fair, I do have one person I have a sort-of-fairly-regularly-almost letter-writing thing going on with. Long live snail mail!)
This song is annoying. No, no, it is not tricky to "rock a rhyme that's right on time." How could that possibly be tricky? Better yet, why are you bothering to sing about how it is tricky, as opposed to just attempting it? Unless this song is supposed to show us your cleverness. NOT CLEVER. Also, ANNOYING. Certainly not tricky, though, I concede that we are, perhaps, working with different definitions of the word, "tricky."
Meanwhile, in the ongoing saga of, "I'm Not British, I Swear," I was apparently adopting some sort of accent this evening. I was unaware of it until my mother asked about it. I hold no delusions that it actually sounded even remotely British (though that is what she called it), as I am Not British (and should I ever find myself on the other side of the ocean and am struck by one of these apparent vocal glitches, I am quite sure I would be laughed off the land mass. This same idea is what kept me from attempting much Japanese while in Japan), but it was a bit disconcerting. Where was it coming from? Why? How did I not notice my manner of speech changing? CURSE YOU, BRAIN. (The other possibility, the one I favor, is that the ninety-plus-degrees-plus-humidity weather has fried her and she was experiencing auditory hallucinations. Or, my father was watching Doctor Who recently. Maybe she was hearing some of that somehow.)
Could this entry be any more random? (Perhaps the heat has gotten to me.) I think it could. Aniko and I should never be allowed to speak to each other after 11 pm. I end up helping her transform her Alternators (long distance! It is a good thing I have a digital camera, or else I'd never have been able to film Wheeljack's transformation for her!) though she does not need help with her really small ones (she has the same two as me, and I call them WSTs, even though it is wrong!), and then she ends up telling me what she is doing with them (that is most of the really short story behind this picture and all its relatives), and then she convinces me I need to write stories about it. So we get things like this:
He wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation.
The sudden proximity of another had caused him to glance up from his work, but it was his visitor's appearance that had caused him to stop altogether.
The similarities were startling. His build was similar enough, though that didn't necessarily mean anything: the unfamiliar markings certainly detracted. Something about the way the other was moving, though, as he picked himself up from where he'd somehow fallen sprawled out on the floor...
But it didn't make any sense. Prowl scanned the room, wondering if this was just another prank, albeit one a bit more elaborate than most. Nothing else seemed obviously amiss. The other stretched a bit and started to look around, seeming a bit dazed, and as Prowl caught a glimpse of his face, the similarity struck again, too much to ignore this time.
"Jazz?" he finally asked. The mech turned and looked up at him expectantly. No, certainly no denying it now.
... Except that the last time Prowl had checked, Jazz had come up past his knees.
I am going to bed now.
I wonder what they are going to take next. There are not many things left - we are mostly limited to the oven and the counters. If they do not finish these renovations soon, I fear I shall go insane.
Saw three Corvettes, today, though! Two different black ones and a red one. They are such pretty, pretty cars. bwee!
Not sure what else I need to do to convince people to write me letters. Writing to them doesn't work, writing back to them on the very, very rare occasional that they do write doesn't work. Perhaps it is all of the ridiculous doodles I put throughout. Guys! If you do not want to write me letters, please just say so and stop claiming you are really, really going to (really), because it makes me sad then, when you do not. I am starved for any kind of social interaction, and it is not fair to hold out such a tempting morsel and then draw it back away as you are. Fiends, the lot of you. (To be perfectly fair, I do have one person I have a sort-of-fairly-regularly-almost letter-writing thing going on with. Long live snail mail!)
This song is annoying. No, no, it is not tricky to "rock a rhyme that's right on time." How could that possibly be tricky? Better yet, why are you bothering to sing about how it is tricky, as opposed to just attempting it? Unless this song is supposed to show us your cleverness. NOT CLEVER. Also, ANNOYING. Certainly not tricky, though, I concede that we are, perhaps, working with different definitions of the word, "tricky."
Meanwhile, in the ongoing saga of, "I'm Not British, I Swear," I was apparently adopting some sort of accent this evening. I was unaware of it until my mother asked about it. I hold no delusions that it actually sounded even remotely British (though that is what she called it), as I am Not British (and should I ever find myself on the other side of the ocean and am struck by one of these apparent vocal glitches, I am quite sure I would be laughed off the land mass. This same idea is what kept me from attempting much Japanese while in Japan), but it was a bit disconcerting. Where was it coming from? Why? How did I not notice my manner of speech changing? CURSE YOU, BRAIN. (The other possibility, the one I favor, is that the ninety-plus-degrees-plus-humidity weather has fried her and she was experiencing auditory hallucinations. Or, my father was watching Doctor Who recently. Maybe she was hearing some of that somehow.)
Could this entry be any more random? (Perhaps the heat has gotten to me.) I think it could. Aniko and I should never be allowed to speak to each other after 11 pm. I end up helping her transform her Alternators (long distance! It is a good thing I have a digital camera, or else I'd never have been able to film Wheeljack's transformation for her!) though she does not need help with her really small ones (she has the same two as me, and I call them WSTs, even though it is wrong!), and then she ends up telling me what she is doing with them (that is most of the really short story behind this picture and all its relatives), and then she convinces me I need to write stories about it. So we get things like this:
He wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation.
The sudden proximity of another had caused him to glance up from his work, but it was his visitor's appearance that had caused him to stop altogether.
The similarities were startling. His build was similar enough, though that didn't necessarily mean anything: the unfamiliar markings certainly detracted. Something about the way the other was moving, though, as he picked himself up from where he'd somehow fallen sprawled out on the floor...
But it didn't make any sense. Prowl scanned the room, wondering if this was just another prank, albeit one a bit more elaborate than most. Nothing else seemed obviously amiss. The other stretched a bit and started to look around, seeming a bit dazed, and as Prowl caught a glimpse of his face, the similarity struck again, too much to ignore this time.
"Jazz?" he finally asked. The mech turned and looked up at him expectantly. No, certainly no denying it now.
... Except that the last time Prowl had checked, Jazz had come up past his knees.
I am going to bed now.
no subject
no subject
Also, speaking of Red, I mailed your money. So, uh. Hopefully the postal service doesn't steal it.
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w00t at the sending of money stuffs ^^.
no subject
I fear, though, that if this keeps up, you and Riona both will ruin me forever, and then I shall do naught but sit around all day scheming up deranged ideas even more so than I normally do. Possibly with more writing than occurs now, but that is not necessarily a good thing, really.
YES MONEY. In an envelope. With stamps. Please tell me when it arrives so I do not fret unnecessarily over it any more than I am already sure to.