Orchid has her rhymes, I have my doggerel.

In London-town did Dreva-khan
A flimsy pleasure dome decree,
Where Thames, the filthy river ran
Through teahouses measureless to man
Down to a mostly bright sea.

So twice five feet of cut-price ground
With twine and ribbons were girdled round
And Dreva can't remember more,
Anyway, this parody was starting to bore.

==============================

A wave of lust has gripped the world,
I sit and watch the hormones swirl.
Some are breeding, some are seeding
Innuendo and glands do the leading.
Now I'm no prude or puritan
And I know the ways of girls and men,
I don't care if your mind is dirty,
But keep your hands to yourself
If you're over thirty.

==============================

More later!

Why do I drink?

Seriously, why? Whhhhhhyyyyyyyyyy?

Orchid had a gentleman caller last night. He didn't know about the "placate the roomate" ritual, where you bring them an offering, usually vodka, to sedate them and make them docile so that they don't start shouting and pounding on the floor/ceiling when you're, well, you get the idea. Ignorance is a sad thing, particularly when it means a Dreva has to pay for the vodka herself. Which she did. To be fair, since she paid for it herself, she drank it herself. The whole bottle. Feeling bad about having poured too much of the bottle into her stomach, she tried to pour some back out. Wanting to make sure she did it right, she spent an hour or so hunched over the "Epicurean Bucket." Mind you, the conversation she was having with Ralph on the big white phone (okay, not *technically* accurate here, but I like the phrase) did do a lovely job of drowning out what she believes was the second and third instances of not doing anything (she was making out with a charming Russian for the first.) But the two times in the morning. Hungover Dreva. Noises. Sober Dreva doesn't like noises. And I...she couldn't find her sunglasses.

I finally went down to make breakfast and see if putting something in my stomach would make me feel a little less like a wolverine had crawled down my throat and was giving birth in the neighbourhood of my precious internal organs. As I crawled about the kitchen, I noticed Orchid's gentleman caller making his ungentlemanly escape. You can tell because they're carrying their shoes. Anyway, I felt it was my roomately duty to make a halfhearted attempt to delay him, so I fed him breakfast. Pancakes and hash browns. And I had my revenge for the noise! I gave him the one slightly scorched pancake. I'd mention his name, but I don't feed and tell.

My stomach no longer feels as though...yeah, the wolverine thing. But my head hurts, and light is painful. And sound. Why would it betray me so? I have always been good to it! I think I am going to wrap this up and go wash my face, where I shall hope I drown.

It works!

I have titles! I've never had one before! Wheeeee heeeeee!

Maybe I'll actually say things later. Who knows. But a Dreva fixed it! *squeal*

Also, an Orchid has helped a Dreva make the site look nice and pretty now. Yay greenthings.

There are times in one's life where, for one reason or another, people think you slept with somebody. Perhaps they crashed out at your place the other night, perhaps you both left a party at the same time, perhaps you are just the sort who constantly has their poor, helpless reputation constantly impugned despite the fact that you are sweet and innocent and pure. It's an unenviable position, but there are worse.

Per example, the reason people think you slept with someone could be that they said so, despite the fact that they've never seen you with socks on, let alone naked, let alone slept with you. Now, not only do you have a bastard on your hands, but your protestations of innocence have a little snake working against them. This is what has happened to Orchidfriend, except in the oddest way possible. Some person has claimed that she has slept with them in the future. Or so it sounds. I was arranging my closet at the time.

While I've helped defend her reputation where applicable, I find that people who claim that they will sleep with me are best dealt with by making them change their mind about my appeal (assuming I don't agree that yes, they are going to sleep with me and I am going to love it.) My personal taste tends towards trying to fit Cthulhu into every sentence. Most people who love a Cthulhu joke are people that I like anyway, and the creeps tend to...well, get creeped out.

So, Friend Orchid, if you want him to go away, then you need to go on and on and on about that Great Old One, Cthulhu, who lies dead and dreaming in sunken R'lyeh (save for Wednsdays, when he makes his way over to Westminster for a few rounds of squash.)

Orchid's blog is prettier than mine now! *cry* I really should convince her to teach me how to make these things look like more than, erm, what they come like. But, you see, I have this problem with devices. I can't make them work. Well, I can, but only when you can make them work by creative application of the kick.

In actual news, I am doing my twitchy little best to smoke less an' less an' less an' less. Only three cigarettes in the ashtray next to me little blankie pile. Yayfor that. But I dun think it makes me any less sad about Orchidfriend's much, much better blog. *mope*