Kisses are nice. Ever notice that? Like, even on telly and that. They're just lovely. Smiley kisses especially. It's just all so beautiful and cute and love. Not lovely but love. I'm smiling and I technically don't have much of a reason to.
I got my hair done today. It was disgusting. The colour is grand; I'm blonder, like. Poor Lisa attempted a loose upstyle. She succeeded in turning me into a very nineties clichéd prom freak, with most of my hair scraped back into a tight bun and my fringe hanging drearily in front of my eyes. I thought I was going to get sick all over her face. But I didn't. I just went home and tried to brush it out. The sheer amount of hairspray she used. My hair is straw-like and dry now. Oh, how I hate that Lisa. Oh well. I'll do my hair myself on Monday. Literally all I wanted was for her to throw it up any ol' way to get the loose, girly, pretty look I was coveting to contrast with my harsh dress. The silly bitch. The little bitch. I'd have looked more normal this evening if I'd been dragged through a ditch backwards and someone had put a few ribbons in my hair. God, I hope Lisa doesn't scour the internet after each appointment looking for people's opinions on her treatment of their hair. She probably doesn't. But I know if I was her, I would. But that would be the narcissism etc. Ughh.
I had a nap after my dinner. Doesn't that sound like the cutest thing ever? I think it does. Makes me sound like a baby. In a nappy. I don't know; I'm weird. Nice nap though. Unfortunately, can't sleep now. Which is why I'm still awake this hour of the night composing utterly dull blogs. And filling in utterly time-wasting surveys. Why do I still copy and paste those? They bore me senseless at this stage. I dread to think what other people reckon if they even bother reading them anymore. Though it'd say more about them if they were still reading them at this stage than it would about me still filling them it.
That '(500) Days of Summer' film looks amazing. I really want to see it! I don't get the parentheses though...
I have an itchy foot. I always get itchy feet. Not in the metaphorical way, in the literal way. Very irritating.
Ever think you'd love a butler or a maid or something? I do. All the time. But I am pretty lazy. If I had a butler now, he'd make me some noodles, and quietly read poetry to me while I drift off to sleep. Doesn't that sound utterly amazing? Maybe it's just me. Hmm. He'd also scratch my feet.
I don't know what the plan is for tomorrow. Sort out school stuff, I suppose. And brown myself up a bit more. A daunting task. Monday will be epic. I never did change that corsage. I'll be ate. But fuck it. Diamonté is a girl's best friend? Anyway, pearls always remind me of... someone. Eww. Think I might do some German oral work tomorrow. (I must spend too much time talking to boys because I just got a kick out of the word 'oral' there. Or maybe I'm just a filthy bitch.) I have thirty yo-yos for the Debs. Sufficient? I've gotten shitfaced on a whole lot less. I've gone out with a fiver and come home with a fiver and still been legless. I should probably be ashamed of myself.
By the way, while I think of it, Alcohol Tip #1: Red wine and Coca Cola makes a nice pre-pub cocktail, but it messes with the bowels in a serious and rather disgusting way. You have been warned.
I tweet far too much. About nothing at all. Where did I read that about 40% of tweets are actually worthwhile? As in, not just drivel from the masses about tea and stuff. Whoever wrote it wasn't impressed that a whole 40% is important/ commercial stuff and, to be honest, neither am I. The whole point of Twitter is mindless rambling, surely? Brief rambling, but rambling all the same. I'm enjoying it. But probably over-indulging. But, listen, follow me anyway: http://twitter.com/emmanorrisbbz And get on board. You may as well.
Andrew Lawrence literally has the nicest smile in the world:
I don't know if I'm actually able for those conversations anymore. I thought that it was what I wanted but I'm really not so sure anymore.
I just lost the flow. Damn.
However, I quite liked the anger in this post. Maybe you didn't get it. Maybe I still sound like a miserable bitch. But that was actually me being angry at Lisa for essentially ruining what was supposed to be not only a good hair day, but an amazing hair day. Bitch. :)
I feel like I need to end on a good note. Weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's those blasted conversations. I wonder do people ever read my blog and know that I'm talking about them when I rant on about people vaguely and ambiguosly? I don't think I'd like to be reading about myself in somebody else's blog but not knowing for sure if it was me they were talking about. It'd feel so strange. And, I dunno, like as though they were broadcasting something about me that they couldn't even say to my face. But isn't that exactly what I do? :/
Comment the blog. I love comments.