Oh dear, the date charges onward leaving a trail of heartache and nervous twitching. Yes, it is once again time to embark into the wilds and camp. And fish. And read. And play Harvest Moon. It wouldn’t be so bad if, for example, I actually wanted to spend days outside in the bright, with the bugs and dirt. But I don’t- and trust me- that’s sad. Alright, I leave in two days and need some ideas in how to keep sane (beyond playing Harvest Moon, which is quite the opposite of sane for the obsessive tendencies it brings out). Mom is snappish, Aunt has decided to go into a technologic panic, Nannie is disapproving in our lack of preparation this year, and Pop-pop is telling the same seven stories and three jokes I could dictate verbatim when I was eight.

Gosh, I need to get Mars’s oil changed, cleaned and vacuumed. I need to be up tomorrow at bright:thrity to load the camping gear into Pop-pop’s beast of a truck. I need to call work. I need to do massive amounts of laundry. I need to clean my room (alright, maybe not need, but sorta-possibly-might-have-to in order to locate everything needed to this ‘vacation’) and program my iRiver and find batteries and headphones and happy blue pills. I need to respond to a wedding invitation (which I managed to miss the bride-to-be's girl's-thing-thingy, also known as a Bridal Shower) before the RSVP deadline comes and I'm SOL. I need to call some wacked-out campus security number on account of an idiot losing a laptop with my blasted social-security number and all manner of other assorted identification information (this is why we’re supposed to be using only our Z-Number, morons!) and switch banking accounts or move all my money under a mattress I wont see in weeks! *wails*

Thusday. I leave Thursday afternoon.

This isn't going to be fun; pass the aspirin.

Edit (because I'm to lazy to hit the post button, yeah, I know) 1:16 Wednesday:
A rec of sorts. Potter Puppet Pals, because I've apparently degraded to a five year old boy...

Me: I had no idea that pixilated manslaughter was paramount to your mental health.
Mom: Where've you been the last twenty-odd years?
Me: Playing with my cardboard box.
Mom: How's that working for you?
Me: Well, I've made it to Pluto but due to a misunderstanding at Planet-Side Border Patrol my passport's been confiscated and The Man's after me for being an illegal alien.

Mom: Try Neptune.

(pause)

Mom: Naw, go for Saturn. You wouldn’t want to spend the rest of your days working in a bar.

Me: (thinks) Oh, as long as they’re not sexually challenged saxophone players, I’d be shinny.

I stumbled upon something rather hilarious earlier today. The ‘thing’ in and of itself was actually rather innocent in nature. An icon. Of Professor Snape. With the catchphrase: Secret Agent Man. The laughter was loud, long, and didn’t go unnoticed in the library’s dungeon. The specific reason for the humorous (rather gleeful) moment of insanity is still unknown. The oddity of coming across such an icon isn’t.

Yes, yes. I’m rather an icon whore, supposedly, peeking under the unsuspecting LJ’ers profile for the immediate gratification of ogling a person’s iconage.

But why should I go looking through the profiles attached to communities belonging to characters of a book I’ve yet to actually design to read? It is quite simple (and possibly as hilarious as the icon); I have somehow grown quite fond of Harry Potter fanfiction.

Le Gasp!

In the movies I’ve always found myself quite drawn to the character of Processor Snape- a man of quick wit, sharp tongue, and rather awkward persona when exposed to children, with heavy shoulders of self appointed sense of duty and brilliant intelligence (it is of course, my opinion that he is, in fact, not dead- though I won’t ever read the book with the purpose of compiling proof for such a belief). In fact, if there was any other character I enjoy as much as Severus, it’d have to be Neville (and I can’t quite explain that one either).

And so I’ll leave you with this:

Secret Agent Man ::hums::



 

Also; I've cut my hair- good buy braid, good buy tension headaches, good buy paint brush... 

               (".)  wait, where'm I gonna put my writing implements of destruction now...?