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#4711
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Thanks, Marissa and Dani!
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Quote:
I spent last summer living with 4 high school friends, and one of them had developed serious mental problems since we graduated. I strongly suspect she was either a pathological liar or had a delusion disorder--she told so many bizarre lies that by the end of summer, we didn't trust even simple statements. Literally, if she announced, "it's raining outside," we would have to check for ourselves. Quote:
And the Playboy thing reminded me of an argument with another roommate. This one I still adore, but she can be very rigid and overly demanding of people. She recently told me that she could never date a guy who looks at porn. No Playboy, no internet porn, not even occasionally. Like, do these men exist? And aren't there worse things in the world? But she was adamant that she would dump a guy if she didn't like his browser history. We spent literally five hours arguing about this.
__________________
"Just to hear Lindsey's voice with mine and Stevie's, I get goosebumps the size of chicken eggs." --CM Last edited by mezzoforte; 03-10-2011 at 02:09 AM.. |
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#4712
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Van Gogh's relatives
After much careful research it has been discovered that the artist Vincent Van Gogh had many relatives. Among them were: His obnoxious brother, Please Gogh. His dizzy aunt, Verti Gogh. The brother who ate prunes, Gotta Gogh. The brother who worked at a convenience store, Stop'n Gogh. The grandfather from Yugoslavia, U. Gogh. The brother who bleached his clothes white, Hue Gogh. The cousin from Illinois, Chica Gogh. His magician uncle, Wherediddy Gogh. His Mexican cousin, Amee Gogh. The Mexican cousin's American half-brother, Grin Gogh. The nephew who drove a stagecoach, Wellsfar Gogh. The constipated uncle, Cant Gogh. The ballroom dancing aunt, Tan Gogh. The bird lover uncle, Flamin Gogh. His nephew, psychoanalyst E. Gogh. The fruit loving cousin, Man Gogh. An aunt who taught positive thinking, Wayto Gogh. The little bouncy nephew, Poe Gogh. A sister who loved disco, Go Gogh. His Italian uncle, Day Gogh. And his niece who travels the country in a van, Winnie Bay Gogh. |
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#4713
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#4714
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I am living dead. I've got shin splints, I think the arch in my left foot has fallen, I've got a cough and a runny nose, I banged my elbow (funny bone) about 10 mins ago and the muscles in my back are constantly knotted.
Yet all I can do is laugh. My life is amazing at the moment ![]() |
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#4715
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Viv, nice signature!
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#4716
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I just listened to Adele for the first time, & this is amazing!!!...........yesh, I don't watch Much Music much, so she has been a mystery to me for a while.
ALSO, I finally got a copy of Rumours I'm so happy I got it from Dad, he also has a Bob Welch album, but I'm not gonna take it from him.![]() ![]() Last edited by TerraRhiannon; 03-10-2011 at 04:20 PM.. |
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#4717
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Uck. I'm getting mightily sick of sixteen hour days at Uni..
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#4718
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That is one helluva long day, Bee!! Oh, and I adore your signature!!! I'm not very creative at the moment & can't even think of anything :/
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#4719
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Love your new sig, Bee!!!
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#4720
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#4721
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Quote:
Those are seriously funny. Thing is though, in England we don't pronounce Gogh as "Go" ! |
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#4722
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Quote:
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#4723
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I've just become an addict ![]() |
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#4724
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Quote:
Jtis. It's past midnight and yet again sleep is nowhere in sight with me. The walls are beating as though in distress, the computer screen I'm staring at burning brightly with luminosity of ever changing colours. My skin is crawling, my eyes bulging with the threat of bleeding and the sound of my breathing in this otherwise silent room is threatening to shatter the fragile glass of my rained out window. I am omniscient. Omnipresent. Oblique. I need to sleep. There are too few hours in the day for so many hours I must fill in order to garner the least amount of success I am capable of. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months even. Awake in silent, lonely contemplation of my failings. What I lack and how what I strive to achieve is affected and adversely suffering because of it. I am a painter. But blind to life's colour. I am a friend. But most often happier in the company of I alone. I am a writer. But lazy to the point of destroying any evidence of my meagre endeavours. I am a trusting soul. But paranoid of everybody and in a constant state of fear of how they feel about me. I am a person. But annoying as ****. I am family. Yet I hate the one I came from. I need to sleep. I am lonely. Yet it is the fault of I alone. Bus stop beds. Park bench homes. A nightly ritual in hiding from that which makes me miserable. An act which only serves to send me to a newer level of purgatory. Rambling. It's what I do best. I speak. Because I can. I argue with myself. Because with me I don't agree. I rant and I rave. To an audience of one. I write bull**** posts while half asleep because sleep deprivation makes me even ****ing crazier than the usual recipe. Should have shut up a while ago. Yet I'm still typing. I need to sleep. Shut up Bee.. |
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#4725
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Our language has wisely sensed the two sides of being alone. It has created the word loneliness to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word solitude to express the glory of being alone. Astonishment is the root of philosophy. Decision is a risk rooted in the courage of being free. Faith is an act of a finite being who is grasped by, and turned to, the infinite." Paul Tillich
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