Note to self: Do not take Lortab with Testosterone before bedtime.
Hydrocodone makes Pooka hyper.
Hyper is not conducive to sleep.
Had to leave bed before DG tried to smother me with a pillow.
I'm talking to the big purple Cheshire Cat on my monitor ... and I think it's answering me.
Can't sleep, clowns will eat me.
Hair has finally gotten longer again. Makes trying to brush or wash it with my shoulder all hose a real bitch. Had the temptation to hack it off again, but after some of the reactions I got last time ... I may just shave it all off, hah!
Harley has assassinated Batgirl again. Out of all the action figures and toys on the shelf above my desk, Harley has singled Batgirl out for termination.
Giger is doing ... things in his cage. I think it's the rodent version of Tai Chi from what I can see of it. Man, he's tall when he stretches up on his hind legs.
.
.
.
.
Black hole.
Dammit, out of all the injuries from the fall, my knee is the only one that looks cool. Still haven't seen a bruise come up on my arm (apparently they're hiding deep inside the muscles so they can taunt me), and only mild bruising on my face. I mean, what the hell? Here I go and do this great fall, only to not get anything usuable out of the damage pics.
Mark ... finally got your email about the project. As I am a doofus, I'd been forgetting to check that one. Yes, I'm interested. Sounds fun. I like fun. Let's talk.
My new client for the second album cover is a riot. I swear, if this guy perks and bounces anymore, I'm going to be very very scared. I mean, with "Antipathy" as the band name, he's entirely too excited. :) They're wanting t-shirts out of whatever designs I come up with for them. Must get to work there.
Though can you see my fat wounded ass in their mosh pit? Don't think so.
Why is it 4:30 in the morning?
I'd like to go to sleep now. Can someone please page the Sandman? He missed part of this house.
Still no word from Compaq. Tommorow I call and the blood-feast will begin.
Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.
Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.
Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
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