דפוק אותי ביי סקס

דפוק אותי ביי סקס

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I can make your basic web page, but not much more; so every attempt to do anything web-related is a challenge, and I enjoy arguing with the code so much that I wish I could be a programmer only I can't for the life of me wrap my head around programming, no matter how much I tried, which really makes me feel like my cock is three inches shorter than I'd like it to be, if I had an actual cock, that is.

But nitpicking the so-called HTML code and managing to brutally kick it into doing what I want is very rewarding, and I even managed to cheat some javascript code into not displaying some stuff I didn't like I'm as fluent with Javascript as much as I am with ancient Persian. So the page works, even if the code is ugly as crap, and it even has Lightbox on it that gig that makes a picture pop up in neat window when you click it. I totally cheated with that one and got a code-generator to make it for me, but there were a fun couple of hours of negotiating terms with said code, alongside rampant copy-pasting and a lot of good will.

Wednesday, 23 October Late night ramblings turns early morning junk. This six in the morning gig is awfully familiar by now, but that's because I totally chose to flip my sleeping cycle, because mornings suck.

Things are much nicer when I get up at four in the afternoon, when I can rejoice in the fact that I'm not hungry yay opium , drool by the keyboard for half an hour, pretend I'm going to paint something and then pester Waits, who's a good company no matter what we talk about. After that there's a small amount of time to burn before the evening, when I can log in and roleplay, which is not the best pass time in the universe but it sure takes your mind off things not bad and sometimes gives you painting inspiration fucking awesome and the main reason I tolerate the endless amounts of shit this puts me through.

Honestly, the more I do it the more I think it's counterproductive and that I should pick up a healthier hobby like, say, drinking acid or raping plush kittens. I'm writing because it's six in the morning and the bed is boring and my head is full of - wait, that's not the head. I'll call it 'the temper' which organ is the one we store the temper in? Someone has to assign an organ for temper storage; that way I can have it removed and simplify life.

Can the womb be temper-storage? That would be awfully handy. Perhaps I shouldn't be writing at six in the morning. Anyway, I'm not longer full of temper tonight, because I had a huge tearfest and then a long chat and miraculously ended up painting two characters whose players didn't make me want to die yet, and then a long, relaxed chat with Fei, who is, by now, as homey for me as an old sock.

I know it doesn't sound very flattering, but it's a good thing, really. Fluffy and dusty and the kind you never bother to wash because nobody check on it anyway. I'm writing because it's a good passtime and because I miss doing it.

And because I'm kind of scared of going to bed where all the thoughts come. And because if I stay up half an hour more I'll get to see my husband stumble his way out of the bedroom wearing nothing but a drowsy smile, and there's really very few things prettier than that. I really miss writing, I realize now. I've nothing to say, no stories or interesting; it's the craft of writing I miss, the spilling of words and placing them so they sound intelligent and bullshit people into thinking there's real content there.

And I have no excuses to write; the best writing time was a million years ago with this chica who'd say 'right, it's a Harry Potter fanfic and it's Sirius Black and an original character,. But I'd give a lot to have an excuse to write again. It's just that I really have no interesting stories to tell. Or zero confidence that I can come up with a good one, or Poems are the same. I don't care what I write about, it's just the riddle of words in the boundaries of lyrics and rhyme which I enjoy solving; but there's very little good excuses to write poems lately.

If anyone needs a bored musician who wants a bored lyricist, let me know. I lied about the six in the morning. I should go to bed. But I'm not tired and my temper-organ is wavering between three different things, none of them healthy, one containing another tearfest and the last is probably just needing to go to the loo. And I don't want to lie there in the dark who am I kidding, dawn's close and think about what I told Switz today.

The things I can't express in text, etc. Anyway, it's that tone of voice which makes me think I wish I did believe, or possibly that Switz is the next reincarnation of said Son, but that anyway I'm pretty happy we met. It's six and three minutes and then we'll get to discuss it at last and then she'll make me read some other horrible thing.

I'm almost hoping she will; I've five well-written, intelligent, high-quality new books on my Kindle, but in my current mood all I want is horrible trash that's only digestible enough for me to tolerate and entirely lose myself into. When you're seventeen, you think about suicide and write bad poetry. When you're twenty six you support The Church of Euthanasia and save up for helium. When you're thirty five you eat yourself stupid, and when you're thirty six you expose yourself to people in Warcraft and read romantic trash.

Each age with its own self harm. Where are those plush kittens? It's not nearly winter, not remotely; outside it's all gold and light breeze, a weather as perfect as a pre-raphaelite lips. But I had to make tea, first because I got the craving for it a week ago, and second because I'm trying not to smoke today and I need something to keep my mouth busy. I could pin that on the Endometriosis, or I could admit that it's prolly the smoke.

I'm hardly crap-free because I'm deep in the opium den; the last couple of times things hurt so much ended up in the hospital, but I already know the drill. And dad, who's a good sports when you don't tread on his ego by skipping holiday dinners, tells me what antibiotics to take. So I started on that last night and hopefully this wave will end soon. Until then - opium! I vaguely remember it had side effects that made me swear I'll never touch this stuff again, but my current point of view states that, unless it's raping puppies, I'm willing to take whatever this brings as long as it does what it's meant to, aka killing pain.

The tea is brewed, the day is golden, I'm not drowsy and the pain is bearable; I have a painting or three in mind, everything seems lovely and ready, and I'm sitting here and procrastinating because after all this time I have no idea how to start a painting without a smoke. Sunday, 13 October Wednesday, 9 October Winter, Opium, Neville. It's not that there's rain or anything - the sun is still shining gloriously and out side it's warm - but I don't have to have the air condition on, and last night I actually put on some socks because I was cold.

This will be nice for two weeks, until winter's nasty parts hit - the cancerous gloom and the cold, with me having a heater at my feet at all times. I get burns on my shins every winter; red lightning shapes, growing darker as the months pass, because I essentially cook my legs over low heat for hours on end.

But, as Joel says, it's better than drinking alone. It's the bad ten days of the month and I spend them mostly in bed, but a week of not doing the dishes means a very nasty kitchen so I went 'fuck this' and had a nice opium pill and now I'm high and cheerful and totally stoned, and the dishes are gone and I'm not in pain.

I know there's retribution coming in the form of side effects, but at least from my current point of view it's worth it. And that surgery on January 19th is coming closer every day, although whenever I think of dragging three more months like this I get kind of militant.

I'm on a roleplaying peak the likes of which I don't remember for a long time, and that's one of the best things ever. Hyped, high, excited, eager, it makes me feel alive, filling my days with inspiration and nullifying the need for a book before bed because the thoughts in my head make a much more interesting story.

Things in the guild are much nicer now that all the people I didn't like left, and I'm hoping for a winter of awesome roleplaying with many nice people, of good stories and a lot of inspiration and I think I'm rambling because that pill really got to me so perhaps I should stop. But stopping is for the weak there's the Neville gig - I went on an on about that when it happened, over a year ago - we were friends, we fell apart, all that.

Saint Switz sort of got us talking again, and it's good that it's been so long because there was no anger left, no hurt; we had a three hour long chat, which was nice, and GODS he's 19 now, how did this happen, he's still 15 in my head - and he's healthy and communicative and happy, and I'm a little sorry I don't have the blazing love for him again, because I'd get all hyped at knowing he's doing so well if I did. As it is, all emotions have been healthily subdued - so I'm just pleased to hear that.

I wish I could apply this calm, non too-emotional attitude to everything else in my life. I get the feeling that if I only loved people a little less passionately, life would be so much nicer. Thursday, 3 October Fei.

This deserved an entry a good long while ago, yet I feel it's only ripened now. See, I met Fei a year ago in Warcraft and our characters became friends and later more. She also paints, and her style differs enough from mine to eliminate any looming competition. It wasn't the booming love in first sight bells I had with another girl, a million years ago in another lifetime; it wasn't the electric addictive chemistry I got used to, not was it high-end emotion. I'm not sure the Friendship of the Century exists when you're no longer a teen or a teen in mind; I was a teen up until 27 ; be that the reason, but I think the people I need around me now are inherently different to the ones I used to, to the kind I fall in love with in first sight.

דפוק אותי ביי סקס -

But she's very gentle. It has been explored and found that people who actively exercise happen to be found to think more clearly and less vulnerable to getting tension. I'm not sure the Friendship of the Century exists when you're no דפוק אותי ביי סקס a teen or a teen in mind; I was a teen up until 27 ; be that the reason, but I think the people I need around me now are inherently different to the ones I used to, to the kind I fall in love with in first sight. דפוק אותי ביי סקס I get the feeling that if I only loved people a little less passionately, life would be so much nicer. I don't want to live in an environment surrounded by such a mentality. Where are those plush kittens? However, how could we communicate? In the taxi back from daddy, headed back home and to the regular nightly brush with European mentality, I just started crying. Poems are the. Not sincesince L.

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Hi, just wanted to tell you, I loved this blog post. Wow this is a invaluable webpage. Thanks intended for giving these sort of awesome subject matter.

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I will send this information to him. Fairly certain he's going to have a great read. Thank you for sharing! That's a nice post. Hello there, There's no doubt that your site may be having internet browser compatibility issues. Whenever I take a look at your site in Safari, it looks fine however, when opening in Internet Explorer, it has some overlapping issues.

This has been grinding me very badly lately. Or maybe I'm just even more sensitive than usual because of the constant physical discomfort; I guess I'll know better in a couple of months. But daddy was a breath of fresh air, and Fei does that daily; I had Ghoula over - we study drawing together now, it's great fun - and Waits somehow always manages to set my head straight and make me feel better.

So many good things all around; and that's a nice thing to bask in too. But the best of all is my husband don't get me started talking about my amazing husband I'll stop now. Posted by Belvane at Monday, 28 October The joys of instant black death. Being out in the sun felt good.

A short, 40 minutes walk to a shop, buy the necessaries, return home; no music player, just me and the sun and the thoughts. It was nice to meet the old man and his two sons in the hardware stores, to catch up on how their family is doing; to bask in the promised joys of tools and assure myself I'll get to all that fixing and crafting soon I finished fixing and painting those two chairs I found on the street, but I never finished the upholstery ; it was nice to see the pretties store recently opened nearby is there a better name for one of those shops where you find filigree bird cages which are also candlestands and cutesy metal buckets with an old fashioned print of roses on them?

Just nice, homey, real-life things in the nice, homey neighbourhood. Then getting home and chilling some I realized it's been a while since I visited the Black Plague.

Enjoying historical novels is a problem; I want immersion and realism, but without focusing on the uglier parts of the human behaviour, which leaves both Mika Valtari and J. Martin out of my preferred list, no matter how good they are. Last week I missed pirates so I'm giving Michael Crichton's Pirate Latitudes a chance; but today I wanted narrow, filthy alleyways and the fear of an unseen killer you can't fight; medieval medicine or what they thought of as such and psychology during times of disaster.

It's so fantastically cozy, and it means that if I miss some good old Bubonic Plague fun I can have it right now. So if you'll excuse me, I think I will. Today was a grind. It's getting harder and harder to function even in a remotely normal way. The body, as expected, developed some immunity to the pain killers and if I want them to be really effective I need to up the dose, which I refuse to do.

Getting off this shit will be hard as it is, I know it, and I refuse to get my body used to mg a day. I thought I could use this to lose some weight if I only added some walking, but walking hurts. And it's a bummer, because the pills really kill the appetite; I remember I haven't eaten anything for twelve hours when I get dizzy.

The only think remaining from my diet-training is the bottle by be computer and being trained to drink a full one every day, so at least that's sorted. Add to that a lot of tension from the usual social circle; not good at all. I don't want to write about that because it will just push me into a place I don't fancy being burrowed in, so instead I'll talk of Fanart It's been anything between five to eight years since I bumped into the concept - there are a hundred set titles, and the artist picks a fandom and has to paint or draw, or even simply doodle art according to the titles.

The point is not to paint a woman wearing blue for the title Blue , but to give it an extra meaning, to make sure that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. L, the no-less-mythological artist and very close friend; painting sessions together were awesome, lots of good art, good talks and good silences, and much hilarity thanks to her kickass sense of humour.

Campaign ended and years passer - we never finished a hundred drawings - and I got into Warcraft and started a Fanart dedicated to that, along with a lovely guildie. That dwindled into nothing as well, and currently there's only 44 drawings there, most of them with backstories so obscure no random viewer has any chance of getting them anyway.

It was thanks to this friend - Fei - that I got back to sketching by hand, which does wonders to my art; and so I introduced this Fanart concept today and it was received with enough cheer to fuel me on.

We already have ideas for a few good bits of art, and I hope to get that going soon. The completionist in me cringes at all those empty spaces. But the best part about this wasn't the art, which I'm yet to see if we manage. The best part was spending a few hours wrestling with fucking HTML, which I understand about as well as I understand European mentality hint: I can make your basic web page, but not much more; so every attempt to do anything web-related is a challenge, and I enjoy arguing with the code so much that I wish I could be a programmer only I can't for the life of me wrap my head around programming, no matter how much I tried, which really makes me feel like my cock is three inches shorter than I'd like it to be, if I had an actual cock, that is.

But nitpicking the so-called HTML code and managing to brutally kick it into doing what I want is very rewarding, and I even managed to cheat some javascript code into not displaying some stuff I didn't like I'm as fluent with Javascript as much as I am with ancient Persian. So the page works, even if the code is ugly as crap, and it even has Lightbox on it that gig that makes a picture pop up in neat window when you click it.

I totally cheated with that one and got a code-generator to make it for me, but there were a fun couple of hours of negotiating terms with said code, alongside rampant copy-pasting and a lot of good will. Wednesday, 23 October Late night ramblings turns early morning junk.

This six in the morning gig is awfully familiar by now, but that's because I totally chose to flip my sleeping cycle, because mornings suck. Things are much nicer when I get up at four in the afternoon, when I can rejoice in the fact that I'm not hungry yay opium , drool by the keyboard for half an hour, pretend I'm going to paint something and then pester Waits, who's a good company no matter what we talk about.

After that there's a small amount of time to burn before the evening, when I can log in and roleplay, which is not the best pass time in the universe but it sure takes your mind off things not bad and sometimes gives you painting inspiration fucking awesome and the main reason I tolerate the endless amounts of shit this puts me through.

Honestly, the more I do it the more I think it's counterproductive and that I should pick up a healthier hobby like, say, drinking acid or raping plush kittens.

I'm writing because it's six in the morning and the bed is boring and my head is full of - wait, that's not the head. I'll call it 'the temper' which organ is the one we store the temper in? Someone has to assign an organ for temper storage; that way I can have it removed and simplify life. Can the womb be temper-storage? That would be awfully handy. Perhaps I shouldn't be writing at six in the morning. Anyway, I'm not longer full of temper tonight, because I had a huge tearfest and then a long chat and miraculously ended up painting two characters whose players didn't make me want to die yet, and then a long, relaxed chat with Fei, who is, by now, as homey for me as an old sock.

I know it doesn't sound very flattering, but it's a good thing, really. Fluffy and dusty and the kind you never bother to wash because nobody check on it anyway. I'm writing because it's a good passtime and because I miss doing it. And because I'm kind of scared of going to bed where all the thoughts come. And because if I stay up half an hour more I'll get to see my husband stumble his way out of the bedroom wearing nothing but a drowsy smile, and there's really very few things prettier than that.

I really miss writing, I realize now. I've nothing to say, no stories or interesting; it's the craft of writing I miss, the spilling of words and placing them so they sound intelligent and bullshit people into thinking there's real content there. And I have no excuses to write; the best writing time was a million years ago with this chica who'd say 'right, it's a Harry Potter fanfic and it's Sirius Black and an original character,.

But I'd give a lot to have an excuse to write again. It's just that I really have no interesting stories to tell. Or zero confidence that I can come up with a good one, or Poems are the same.

I don't care what I write about, it's just the riddle of words in the boundaries of lyrics and rhyme which I enjoy solving; but there's very little good excuses to write poems lately. If anyone needs a bored musician who wants a bored lyricist, let me know. I lied about the six in the morning. I should go to bed. But I'm not tired and my temper-organ is wavering between three different things, none of them healthy, one containing another tearfest and the last is probably just needing to go to the loo.

And I don't want to lie there in the dark who am I kidding, dawn's close and think about what I told Switz today. The things I can't express in text, etc. Anyway, it's that tone of voice which makes me think I wish I did believe, or possibly that Switz is the next reincarnation of said Son, but that anyway I'm pretty happy we met. It's six and three minutes and then we'll get to discuss it at last and then she'll make me read some other horrible thing.

I'm almost hoping she will; I've five well-written, intelligent, high-quality new books on my Kindle, but in my current mood all I want is horrible trash that's only digestible enough for me to tolerate and entirely lose myself into. When you're seventeen, you think about suicide and write bad poetry.

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