I got up this morning and vomited, even though there was nothing in my stomach... and now six hours later I can't get the taste out. I have no appetite, but wish I did so that I could eat something to get rid of the taste.
I slept so hard that the phone didn't wake me up. (And it always does, I am the master of light sleepers. Open a door and I wake). I slept until four when my mom opened the door and asked me if I wanted soup or something.
I said no and I put on my tinfoil helmet and came onto livejournal, where I realise I have no icons where I'm smiling or look like I'm having fun. That is kind of sad.
I will have them though. You know why? Because my new helmet makes me happy. I want to wear it all the time. It looks like the one Joaquin Phoenix wears. Yes, he's great. One of those American dream types.
Too bad the American dream types usually aren't my taste at all, but lately, I've been foaming at the mouth for some normalcy in a male.
Do you think it's possible to fall in love with someone through their art? Or at least something that feels similar to love? Because I am hopelessly intrigued by the guy. The director of The Sixth Sense. I know his name but I am too afraid to spell it out, as if spelling it out would make my obsession hideously bold, and he might somehow discover it and put me on some sort of blacklist. He is currently on the cover of Newsweek and I need a copy. He's funny and attractive, he's smart, he writes, he directs. He's a winner. He's like the next Stephen King. He makes cameos in his films.
Movie star crushes can blow me. I wonder if married women torture themselves like that?
I wonder how much Donny Osmond's tithing is?
My brother is trying to convince the family to get another kitten. Like that will happen. My father hates cats, Eli's kittenhood destroyed my room about a year ago, our old cat Maggie is thoroughly pissed off that we got another cat besides her, my mom wants one but doesn't realise how much trouble they are until she has to scoop out the litter box.