the everyday adventures of sabrina

Next to a mere ‘Drug Box,’ labeled further with ‘10 cc syringe #1,’ ‘5 cc syringe #1,’ ‘3 cc syringe #1,’ ‘18 g needle #5,’ and ‘21 g needle #5.’ I don’t know how large a 21 gauge needle is, but i’m pretty certain nonetheless that I prefer it in a box than in my arm. oh, also, in case you couldn’t tell: i’m bored to death at the (new) oral surgeon’s. which is at least better than terrified.

HAN SOLO
Uh, everything’s under control. Situation normal. VOICE
What happened? HAN SOLO
Uh, we had a slight weapons malfunction, but uh… everything’s perfectly all right now.
We’re fine. We’re all fine here now, thank you.
How are you? He winces. VOICE
We’re sending a squad up. <HAN SOLO
Uh, uh, negative. We had a reactor leak here now.
Give us a minute to lock it down. Large leak, very dangerous. VOICE
Who is this? What’s your operating number? HAN SOLO
Uh… He shoots the comm. HAN SOLO
(mutters)
Boring conversation anyway. HAN SOLO
(shouting)
Luke, we’re gonna have company!

i feel like shooting a comm center. no real reason, not having a bad day or anything; it just sounds like it’d be fun.

i am so grateful that someone found out how to make kevin spacey even more hot: shave off all his hair. i mean, leave it to bryan singer, right?

*obligatory fangirl squee*

S00per sekrit door!

‘Sabrina,
‘I know you like whiney stuff like Patiohead [sic]. So enjoy this crap too! ‘love,
‘Dan’

i think the best and most accurate way to sum my current state up is “sincerely and severely hung over.”

so. last night. ladytron at metro. fabulous show, really good music. the openers, the presets, were excellent as well. we rocked out a lot. few people in the crowd deigned to so much as shift their weight from one hip to the other, much less actually dance, which i find completely mystifying. (for the record, i feel obligated to clarify that i have no idea why my complaint about that situation expressed itself as “friggin’ Americans,” but it was probably some sort of combination of british people talking and my belief that people actually dance in clubs in .uk, and did i mention that i drank a whole lot last night so i might not have been really making a whole lot of sense? you know, “no drunkblogging” always seems like such a sensible rule when sober; i just need to figure out how to make it seem sensible while actually drunk.) anyways. we danced. a lot. i had a blast until the ignominious conclusion. i think r. got some cute girl’s phone number. the #22 took forever to show up, followed by the #72 taking forever to show up, followed by me taking off my shoes on the corner of north and ashland because my feet fucking hurt and then walking home barefoot from there. then there was sleep. glorious, glorious sleep. which really should have been preempted for at least a few minutes to swill half a gallon or so of water but having broken the no drunkblogging rule already i suppose that i was not in a following-the-rules sort of mood. and now, fortified by multiple coffees, unhealthy breakfast food, and aspirin, i’m feeling ever so slightly human once again. well, human enough that every word out of my mouth isn’t “ow.”

goddammit. My feet hurt.

m. got kicked out of metro. For committing the sin of dancing, apparently. Well, god forbid we enjoy the dance music. Jeez. Friggin’ Americans.

Cat’s sacked out and comfy: I must be done moving.

‘And what makes your bank different from the rest, Mr Marketing Executive?’ ‘Why, we’re financial, of course, Mr Advertising Executive!’ ‘BRILLIANT!’

Think we’re close to wrapping this up. Next task: unearth a freaking *chair*.

yikes. everything’s packed up, shoved into boxes and taped within an inch of its life. cats are locked in the bathroom (and they are VERY unhappy about that). and i’m off to go get the freight elevator keys and await the movers showing up.

wish me luck!

would it be petty to, on this, the eve of my getting the hell away from her, write a letter to the subwoofer neighbor that just says “I FUCKING HATE YOUR FUCKING SUBWOOFER (AND OH BY THE WAY YOU MOSTLY HAVE SHIT TASTE IN MUSIC)”?

for pity’s sakes, she’s playing enya and rattling my walls with it. enya! there’s no bass in enya! she must have the bass turned up to 487! less than twenty-four hours left sharing a wall with her. i can get through this. i am strong. i can do it. but… goddammit… enya!

music indulged in (thus far) to keep spirits up whilst cleaning, painting, and packing:

• !!!, louden up now
• bloc party, bloc party ep and silent alarm
• the bravery, the bravery
• broken social scene, broken social scene and feel good lost
• deee-lite, infinity within, sampladelic relics and world clique
• the go! team, thunder, lightning, strike
• kaiser chiefs, employment
• krs-one, keep right
• lcd soundsystem, lcd soundsystem
• new order, substance
• pet shop boys, discography
• the pixies, bossanova, doolittle, death to the pixies, and surfer rosa
• britney spears, my prerogative (well, selections off of it, anyways)
• steely dan, a decade of steely dan and countdown to ecstasy
• sufjan stevens, illinois
• weezer, make believe
• yeah yeah yeahs, fever to tell
• and last but certainly not least: THE SUBWOOFER NEIGHBOR. one more day! one more day!

guess you decided to not give me another opportunity to mock you about the royals. well, this evening anyways. awesome.

i have to say: tadahito iguchi’s flying throw to first saturday was the stuff of which legends are made. seriously. i’m bummed i didn’t get to see it, only see pictures and video clips after the fact.

then of course there were mark buerhle’s slip-and-slide rain delay theatre antics on sunday: okay, okay, okay: i don’t want our COMPLETELY FUCKING MOST AMAZING STARTING PITCHER to injure himself doing something stupid like sliding on a tarp in the rain. but, i ADORE that shit-eating grin on his face. it’s just happy! how can you look at someone doing that and not be happy too? he looks like a little kid. he makes me want to get a tarp and a torrential downpour of my own. i love my guys.