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Update: This post was only temporary because I decided that I don’t want to use this blog for pictures of me and that it all reads best when it’s anonymous. Well, relatively anonymous…when you can’t pin a face to all the writing. Plus, as Erika always reminds me, Q-94 is a dead giveaway to where I live, and I don’t think I want to run the risk of being kidnapped, et cetera. So. Let’s keep it this way.
EDIT: I’d hate for you to think it’s some fat, obnoxiously outgoing gothic/emo/mainstream chick writing with her ugly friends commenting (not that there’s anything wrong with that…but it bugs me how opinonated some fat gothic/emo/mainstream chicks are…and unrealistically idealistic, especially when their friends encourage them to date someone/commit suicide (damn, that was mean…sorry)), so I’m going to inform you that it’s not. I’m not fat or gothic/emo/mainstream (compared to many). Neither are my friends. We are suave, but not photogenic.
Except like Derek, but that’s only on Artpad. Otherwise, his face is the colour of we.
Owned. Pwned. “Pooned.”
Sorry for the inside joke. Explanation: One day, Derek wore a shirt that said, “The Colour of We,” and we (as in me and “the” guys, not “our” men–two completely different groups of people here) were looking into the meaning while I kept being immature and saying, “Your face [fill in the blank],” and then he pwned me with some “Your face” insult, and then I super-pwned him with “Your face is the colour of WE.” I meant wee. As in camel piss. Not really. It was one of those “you had to be there things.” Yeah, be ashamed that you weren’t there. Whatever.
I’m joking. I need to stop hanging out with underclassmen so much. They’re warping my mind into the Land of Incessant Bad Jokes.
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