If you loved me, you'd medicate me I'm hurting. Not some sappy emotional hurt either, I'm talking serious physical pain. I was up until 6am yesterday because my head was throbbing. Not a migraine, something different. Painful none-the-less. The upside of the owie head was that I got to watch Dracula: Dead and Loving It on TV followed by a horrible movie called I'm Dangerous Tonight. Anthony Perkins was in it though. I can't remember the main actress' name, but she was way too good to be in the film. One of the guys who played Peter on Days of our Lives was in it too. Anyhoo, that was last night. I felt pretty good today until around 5pm. I was at Wal-Mart when I broke out in a drenching sweat. Not an exaggeration. Sweat was dripping from my forehead, my shirt was clinging to my back, etc. Not fun. I felt all ichy and dizzy headed. Mom had to drive home. I came home, took to my bed, and watched Return of the Living Dead Part three for the second time today. Now the small of my back aches, my head is hurting off and on, and it feels like some on has my stomach in a vise. I'm not fairing to well. Wait. No more vise. Now it feels like someone is sticking pins in my tummy. Stop that invisible pin-sticking man. Tylenol isn't helping much. Hopefully I'll be 100% better by tomorrow when I have to doggie sit 6 pooches for my cousin. I don't want to be sick in a strange house. I'd rather be sick in my own bed. posted by Beth 1:49 AM . . . Monday, August 18, 2003 Satan says you need more color That's one of my favorite lines from Cecil B. Demented. Looks like all those Goth kids have it wrong, eh? Apparently satan is more interested in a rosy glow than a pasty mug. Of course the Goths don't worship satan (for the most part.) I know this because I used to be one of them. I knew a girl years ago who dressed all in black, black hair, black lipstick, the works. She said she dressed this way to be different. To stand out. She wanted to be an individual and not look like everyone else. Oh please. Tell me another one. She seemed to not understand that she looked exactly like every other disgruntled teenager who dressed all in black. She looked like and was accepted by the other goth kids. She wasn't different. She was just part of a different crowd. A crowd who dressed the same, talked the same, and generally thought the same. Black just happened to be my favorite color. That's why I wore it so often. It just so happened that my attitude made everyone think I was one of the goth kids. I suppose I was. Years later I worked with a guy I called Freak Boy. He was a wonderfully pierced overall nice guy. He inturn called me Goth Girl. By this time I was actually wearing colors and even a little makeup now and then. I asked him why he called me that. He said I was undercover Goth. I looked unassuming, happy even, but he said he never knew when I might just blow up the building. He said I masked my gothness with normalcy thus making me all the more dangerous. I refused to wear the uniform so no one would ever see me coming. I would be all happy one day, the next day I just might come in with an AK 47 and take out the whole department with a lovely smile on my face and wearing a bright peach shirt. My point is never judge a person by their apparel. That goth kid all clad in black just might be working on the next great American novel when he's locked in his dark, dank room for hours. That preppy kid in the polo shirt next door who volunteers at the Red Cross just might be mutilating small animals in his daddy's workshop. You just never know. posted by Beth 4:37 PM . . .
Satan says you need more color That's one of my favorite lines from Cecil B. Demented. Looks like all those Goth kids have it wrong, eh? Apparently satan is more interested in a rosy glow than a pasty mug. Of course the Goths don't worship satan (for the most part.) I know this because I used to be one of them. I knew a girl years ago who dressed all in black, black hair, black lipstick, the works. She said she dressed this way to be different. To stand out. She wanted to be an individual and not look like everyone else. Oh please. Tell me another one. She seemed to not understand that she looked exactly like every other disgruntled teenager who dressed all in black. She looked like and was accepted by the other goth kids. She wasn't different. She was just part of a different crowd. A crowd who dressed the same, talked the same, and generally thought the same. Black just happened to be my favorite color. That's why I wore it so often. It just so happened that my attitude made everyone think I was one of the goth kids. I suppose I was. Years later I worked with a guy I called Freak Boy. He was a wonderfully pierced overall nice guy. He inturn called me Goth Girl. By this time I was actually wearing colors and even a little makeup now and then. I asked him why he called me that. He said I was undercover Goth. I looked unassuming, happy even, but he said he never knew when I might just blow up the building. He said I masked my gothness with normalcy thus making me all the more dangerous. I refused to wear the uniform so no one would ever see me coming. I would be all happy one day, the next day I just might come in with an AK 47 and take out the whole department with a lovely smile on my face and wearing a bright peach shirt. My point is never judge a person by their apparel. That goth kid all clad in black just might be working on the next great American novel when he's locked in his dark, dank room for hours. That preppy kid in the polo shirt next door who volunteers at the Red Cross just might be mutilating small animals in his daddy's workshop. You just never know. posted by Beth 4:37 PM . . .
