Running out of pudding.
To answer zolora, my job has always been to test my employer’s patience.
Paul Biedermann, the 22-year-old German who just beat Phelps in the men’s 200m freestyle final.
I would like to see him beat Phelps without the suit too.
Baby, my baby
It’s written on your face
You still wonder if we made a big mistake
I tried to go on like I never knew you
I’m awake but my world is half asleep
I pray for this heart to be unbroken
But without you all I’m going to be is incomplete
I don’t mean to drag it on, but I can’t seem to let you go.
One of my sisters and her two boys are flying back to Montreal today.
So. I. Am. Sad.
Tell me nice things?
I think there’s something in my eye.
No. It’s just TEARS.
The blobert roadshow enters Singapore for a two-day tour. Hide your liquor and crabs.
UH OH. I have to hide too!
On Aug. 6, 1945, the first atomic bomb was dropped on my hometown, Hiroshima. I was there, and only 7 years old. When I close my eyes, I still see things no one should ever experience: a bright red light, the black cloud soon after, people running in every direction trying desperately to escape — I remember it all. Within three years, my mother died from radiation exposure.
I have never chosen to share my memories or thoughts of that day. I have tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to put them behind me, preferring to think of things that can be created, not destroyed, and that bring beauty and joy. I gravitated toward the field of clothing design, partly because it is a creative format that is modern and optimistic.
I tried never to be defined by my past. I did not want to be labeled “the designer who survived the atomic bomb,” and therefore I have always avoided questions about Hiroshima. They made me uncomfortable.” —
Wow. Pretty damn inspirational.
Also, I love L’eau d’Issey.
- H: (complaining about her skin)
- H: I look at FB pics of people on my list, they all seem perfect.
- H: Even you!
- Me: Oh please.
- Me: My blemishes wish they were Michael Jackson.
- H: Hahaha.
- H: Are you going to twitter that?
You think you’re so damn cool, huh? Just hanging out, chillin’, above all those vowels. You’re all, “Ooh, look at me, I’m a chic umlaut. I make girls’ names look modish, like Zoë and Chloë, and I rock with strung out ’80s metal bands!”
Well, guess what? You’re only an umlaut if you’re modifying the pronunciation of a singular vowel, like in “Führer” or “über.” If you’re stressing the second of two consecutive vowels or one that would usually be silent according to common English usage, you’re just a plain old boring dieresis. How ‘bout that, you naïve jackass? God, you’re such a poseur, umlaut. You’re nothing but two measly dots. You’re a Eurotrash colon lying down. Nobody thinks you’re cool.
Kew Gardens, NY
- I’m alive.
- I have shelter and food.
- I have a job.
- It’s a new day, a new week, filled with new opportunities.
- Creative ways to bitch about all of the above.
Give it up for the 90’s, Daddy Mac.
(I really did miss the bus.)
Hat tip to @biorhythmist. Or really, damn him because I have obsessed over it since.
Also, I’m up at 4.20am.
- Me: (to 3-year-old) Okay, sing your Bla Bla Black Seep for me.
- 6-year-old: No! It's Baa Baa Black Sheep.
- Me: No. Our song is Bla Bla Black Seep.
- 6-year-old: No. I'll sing it for you. Baa baa black sheep. Have you ever know.....