And suddenly, it roars back into life! Loljk, FG's still dead. Pass the eye of newt and the defibrillators and we'll fix that, though

LEAH: You should look at adoption ads. I see them all the time in the PennySaver.
JUNO: They have ads for parents?
LEAH: Yeah! "Desperately Seeking Spawn." Right next to, like, terriers and iguanas and used fitness equipment and stuff.

Hehe, Juno. -adds to list of Movies Chronos Must Be Made To Watch By Force If Necessary- It ain't an awful long list, though, since I'm usually the one with the pushy well-cultured friends who find my utter lack of an education in good taste somewhat downright appalling and a little exceedingly unladylike. Well boo hoo to you too. Scout Finch wasn't no lady neither and she's a gawdam goldarn goshdang [Ed. If you must swear, at least swear properly] literary icon for it. -wrinkles nose-

That aside, how are things going? It's been a while since we've posted--nearly a week, actually--well, six days since I last wrote and e-l-e-v-e-n days since that other random girl who runs this ship dragged her exam-ridden arse to a keyboard and feathered off a funny little suicide note about term assessments. One that I have neglected to update in regards to Biology Also, ~*~*~Edward Cullen~*~*~.

Fk you Chronos. Fk youuu. Mostly for the eyeslappingly flamboyant glitterification, but also because you hotlinked the original image and rehosting the thing on Tinypic requires that a copy of the picture in question be uploaded from a computer to the website itself. So I actually had to have Mr ~*~*~Edward Cullen~*~*~, Sparkleface Twithead Extraordinaire, on my hard drive. -sob sob sob- NO AMOUNT OF ANTIVIRUS WILL GET RID OF THE SHAME. NONE. SO THANK YOU. THANK YOU FOR THAT.
AND NOW I WILL GO CRY IN THE CORNER ALL BY MYSELF, IF YOU DON'T MIND.

Mad: -head whips around-
Mad: -SHING-

...or maybe I'll just shelve the pain and continue with updating the blog.

Mad: -head retracts, disappointed-

Well, while I'm sure that some of the fine readers of this equally fine periodical exploded from the perceived testosterone in that picture, it seems far more likely that a substantially greater percentage of the audience quite frankly imploded from the total and utter lack of any such chemical compounds present in the person of ~*~*~Edward Cullen~*~*~. Think of it as a testosterone vacuum--not the hoovering things but the voids. Actually, think of space. Lack of testosterone. Lack of air. Lack of anything. ~*~*~Edward Cullen~*~*~ (and yes this is getting tiring) is outer space: cold, dead, and something that should be stayed away from until further notice. (Take that, Twihards!)

... huh, I've spent the better part of half an hour on my back with the laptop tucked up on my abdomen typing and then deleting snark against an imaginary vampire. (Yeah, I binned one paragraph about the ethics of the situation since I figured that me... talking about ethics... um... not quite appropriate, shall we say.) The pillow ends an inch below my shoulder blades and my neck is pressed hard up against the headboard of the bed and it will hurt like hell quite soon (I predict) and the warm heat of the motherboard whistling along belies the staggering doses of radiation which are apparently boring straight into my innards and frying all the little cells into a state of perfect non-vitality. So yes, I am destroying my ovaries and setting the scene for the biggest goddamn neck crick in the past half-century because I just love you that much. Enjoy it. Bask in the adoration. Feel the warm glow of appreciation bathing every inch of you from head to toe and back again. Happy? Yes? Good. Now get me an ice cream and take out ~*~*~Edward Cullen~*~*~ with a sub-machinegun or I sic seventeen penguins on you and Lord knows that won't be pretty for anyone involved.

~Mnem