I tried to post this last night, but Blogger was being bitchy:

9:14a.m.
Someone on the Internet thinks I am interested in tents. But they are also very sorry to have bothered me, in the case that I am not interested in tents. It’s the nicest, most apologetic spam, ever.

9:22a.m.
Huh. How sorry can they be? I just received my second tent spam in 10 minutes, from the same people. Best part? The subject line: “slaapzak franch.” The hell?

Do you have secret little things you take pleasures in? Not like that, I mean. Just little things. Like, two days ago, I was wearing my turtle underwear: blue, boy-cut underwear with cute little turtles printed all over.* And today, I’m wearing stripey underwear and what seem like boring black socks, but up near the elastic, they have penguins and igloos printed on them. Most of my socks have something on them: dogs, cats, frogs, giraffes, monkeys. No one knows but me, but I can’t help grinning every time I think about the fact that my ass is nestled in turtle underpants.

*If you haven’t already guessed, I’m not a Victoria’s Secret girl. I don’t have the personality required to deal with butt floss.

2:11p.m.
Hate. Don’t need a tent. Don’t want a tent. Didn’t ask for a tent. But I do have these tent stakes. Wherever shall I shove them?

2:30p.m.
Fucking Gmail. Fuck fuck fuck!

11:15p.m.
One might go to a Pie Party and not eat any pie, because one might've decided to lie down for a bit and therefore missed all the pie. One might, then, decide to eat too much ice cream and experience an exhilarating sugar high. One might now be crashing. Zzzz...