Alright, now Diaryland has apparently decided to only show my pic up top and my Sark Fan pic at random. What the hell? Smarten up, D-land, or I'm moving to LiveJournal. *shakes fist* I mean it...

Insomnia is just kicking my ass lately. I've got class in the morning, but do you think I can get to bed at a decent hour? Hell no. That would make my life bearable. And we can't have that. I am Jack's cruel private joke .

Watched Alias tonight. Pretty good, I'd say. Highlight of the evening? Gratuitous Sark crotch shot. Because I'm twelve. Also, who knew that a knife threatening his groin could be so... erotic? Shut up. That's not weird. [...] Ugh, what can I say? I must be some kind of deviant. I'm glad to see that he's starting to grow his hair back. The fuzzy buzz cut he's got now is all kinds of sexy, but I miss those roguish curls.

My weekend pretty much sucked. Went out to the bar, but was broke, so I only had a few drinks. And let me tell you, you need to be deeply inebriated to enjoy the bars in this town. We couldn't go to our usual haunt, because there was a multiple stabbings incident (yeah, eight people. Needless to say, I don't feel like frequenting there much anymore), so we went to this crap one down the street. I got IDed, took five steps, got IDed again (I get it people! I look fifteen! But give me a fucking break!) then was subjected to three hours of mainstream pop, ranging from the eras of 1985 to 2003. Seriously. They played "RaRaRasputin". Yes, Miss Black was pretty fucking peeved by the time we left.

Then, THEN, the guys we were with had the brilliant idea to stop in at the cowboy bar next door before we went home. Now, let me preface this by saying that I hate everything cowboy. I hate the jeans, I hate the hats, I hate the pick-up trucks, I hate hate hate the music. I just don't get the cowboy culture in my city. We live in CANADA people, not the South. Add to this the fact that I was wearing pinstripe pants with a studded belt, black leather boots, an old Peacekeeping shirt my dad had from Austria as a jacket with a pink T-shirt of a black cat underneath that said "I do bad things", and my best smokey-eyed-temptress make-up. So, it was not a good idea for me to be in there to begin with.

Not five minutes after I'd entered, my ass had been grabbed three times, and some jackass dropped his whiskey on the floor, causing it to splash up and all over my boots, pants, and very favourite corduroy bag. When he didn't turn around to apologize, I tapped him on the shoulder. Drunky McFuckwit turns and eyes me up and down and I can practically hear the lecherous thoughts running through his head. So I give him my best sneer, put my hand on my hip and cock it, and say "Oh, please. You didn't have a chance BEFORE you spilled whiskey all over me. What makes you think being sprayed with alcohol is going to change my mind?" And I sashayed right on out of there.

Does it make me a bad person if I sometimes revel in the opportunities I get to be an absolute bitch? I mean, it's just really fun sometimes.

Miss Black

Listening to: "Delicate" by Damien Rice. Newly discovered, but I am now obsessed. Must Google him sometime. Heh. That sounds dirty.

Reading: "Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About" by Mil Millington. Again.

Watching: I watched this movie, "Naked Tango", with Vincent D'Onofrio. I think it might be my new favourite obscure film. Has anyone else seen this? I'm no tango movie afficianado, so I don't know if they're usually this cheesy, but I was honestly laughing throughout it. My favourite line? "Oh, Charlo. Don't you ever get soft?" Hee!

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Miss Black also contributes to a David Anders/Sark site under the name Chaton Espion. Feel free to visit her there if you'd like to witness the terrifying depths of obsession.