Sleep-deprived ramblings of, um, the sleep-deprived.

Sometimes I wander in here and think to myself, "Gee, I should post more."  And then I think, "About what?  You have no life."  "Well, I think...stuff,"  I argue back.  "Whatever," I tell myself.  Then I wander off again and go watch Doctor Who.

So, yeah.  I think...stuff.  Here's some stuff I'm thinking right now, in the hopes that if I type it out here then when I finally go to bed my brain will shut the fuck up and let me sleep.

My beagle has natural eyeliner.  It's gorgeous.  Why the hell haven't humans developed natural eyeliner?  I know you can get that shit tattooed around your eyes but I can't imagine a situation where I'd be desperate enough that I'd allow a heavily tattooed man named Snake anywhere near my eyeball with an electric needle.  Come on, evolution, do something useful!

Windbreakers are a fashion Don't.  You end up with a sweaty torso and cold arms.  What's the point?

I suck at decorating.  We moved into this house last year and all the walls are still bare.  I just have a really hard time spending money on something that serves no function other than to fill up space on a wall and look pretty.  I'm missing the Decorator Gene, I guess.  The one that makes you care if your curtains match your throw pillows (most of my curtains are actually fleece throws, anyway) or prompts you to spend hours in Home Depot earnestly comparing the curved towel rack to the straight one or makes you re-paint a freshly painted room because the ecru paint you thought you applied looked more like taupe after it dried.  The gene that thinks books should be bought with an eye for creating a pleasing tableau and not for reading.  (Bwuh??) Decorating, how the fuck does it work?

Attempting to help a 7th grader do geometry after 24 hours awake and 3 glasses of wine leads to madness.  MAD.  NESS.

I tried to Twitter but found that if I had anything worth saying, I'd already said it on Facebook.  How much social media does an anti-social person need?

Someday, I will wear a tiara.  And I will rock it like a fucking rock star.  Hell, yeah.

My dog is the prettiest dog in creation.  I try not to trumpet it about too much, because I know other people are fond of their inferior dogs and I don't want to hurt their feelings, but it's true.

See?  I'd like to have an adorable cat to go with the pretty dog, but my husband would leave me.  Cat hater.

One more glass of wine and then to bed.  The wine is good; it has a picture of a German midget in Leiderhosen on the label, so you know it's a quality Reisling.  It's temporarily killed my ability to knit, anyway.

Oh, well.  I'll be back.  Maybe.