WoW Related Shit:
- It’s ‘rogue’ not ‘rouge.’ What the hell is wrong with you people? If you actually play a rogue and are still spelling it wrong consistently, you are an ignorant douche, end of story.
- Rotface won’t die.
- Mombank. If you don’t play Horde on Winterhoof, then your personal trade troll of choice can be inserted here.
- It is not fucking “deeps.” Really? Is the acronym DPS really that difficult to just spell out, as-is?! Lazy!
Real Life Related Shit (Because yes, I do so have one!):
- Daddy, I love you. I’d like to have a real relationship with you, but sometimes you scare the shit out of me. Your temper is out of control. I think about how I was always Daddy’s girl when I was little, but how you changed all of that, because you can’t control your temper. I miss being my Daddy’s girl sometimes. Just not enough to put myself in harm’s way.
- E. Fuck you. I mean, really. You talk shit about my “internet friends,” and act like they’re so beneath you because you’re “real life.” Sometimes (read: frequently, most of the time) those “internet friends” that you sneer about are there for me in ways you never are. Pull your head out of your ass, and if you’re so much more real than they are (which you aren’t, I hate to break it to you) then be a real fucking friend.
- T.M. Please stop posting pictures of you in various states of dress (or undress) on your social networking profiles. Both your brother and I happen to check your profile now and then to keep in touch/see what’s up, and both your brother and I have been taken aback and kinda sorta disturbed. Probably him more than me. But still… you running around in your unders in front of me is still a bit different than you posing … like that and subjecting me (and your BROTHER!) to it just b/c I wanna read your blog or whatever!
- Sleep! I wish I could get some.
Here’s a few lessons that I have learned recently, and I want them written down so that I remember them. If you think this is about you, before you scream and yell at me, stop and take a minute please, and ask yourself why you think it’s about you.
A real friend is there for you when you have a hard time. They take the good with the bad. For every time you share a laugh with someone, there is going to be at least one time where you just can’t laugh, no matter how much you want to. A real friend understands this, and will stick by you even through the tears. Even when the tears come hard and fast and they can’t understand you through the sobbing. They’ll still be there to listen – no matter how hard a job that is. Maybe they’ll even “bubble” you. 
A real friend understands when, sometimes, things just don’t work out the way that you want them to. Plans get made and sometimes have to be changed or canceled. Your friends may be very, very high on your priority list, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t certain things right up there with them on that list, or maybe even, slightly higher. If plans get changed or canceled for something else that is important, too, a real friend is understanding, and doesn’t make you feel guilty or judge or condemn you for it.
A real friend doesn’t say one thing to your face and another behind your back.
A real friend worries about you when you are sick. Not just because of how it might affect them, but because they actually care about you.
I was having a conversation with some of my girls last night, and while we meandered over all sorts of topics there was one that totally stuck with me…
Ya know how girls in movies or on tv or whatever will wake up with a nasty hangover and have no idea whether or not they had sex the night before… ?
Yeah, I don’t get that. I get how it’s possible to not remember the events of the night before, but I always, always know whether or not I have had sex.
If there has been penetration, that’s the very first thing I know when I wake up. You know what happens? My little inner voice starts yapping at me… “Mornin’ Shelbs! Yeah, this is your cooch speaking. I don’t know what all you remember about last night, but just so ya know, you had sex!” Once, I woke up the morning after an obscene amount of drinking, naked in bed with a boy that was infinitely important to me, who I was once in love with, in fact… but I knew – because my cooch didn’t start yappin’ at me right away – that however it was that I got naked, there was no sex that night.
Now, maybe it’s me that’s weird. Maybe not every girl has that little inner voice that informs them about this type of shit. Maybe I’m crazy. Whatever the case, if I’ve had sex, I always feel the physical aftermath. Even if it was so completely lackluster that I don’t remember it. Even if my raging hangover makes me wish I would just go ahead and die…. and I don’t remember it. 
So I had the worst day today.
I got a new hard drive (with an orgasmic 500gb more space). This is not the bad part. I installed it, and then a fan in my case (spare fan, not vital one) decided that it was going to start rattling and shit after I put the side of the case back on. This is still not the bad part, although that fan is driving me batshit insane.
Ok, more batshit insane than I usually am.
I admit to being one of those Second Life losers. Only, I get to make stuff (which I have fun doing) and get paid for that (which I also have fun with). So, right. Not really that much of a loser, now, thank you very much. Just kinda (ok, a lot) geeky. Nerdy. All of the above. Whatever. I also admit to being moderately (read: extremely) pervy and terribly fond of the female form. So, Emerald (an alternative SL viewer) decided that they would do something terribly fun and they enabled enhanced phsyics on the avatar chest. (Read: JIGGLE BOOBS ZOMG!) Now, this also isn’t bad, not bad at all! It’s awesome, in fact… when it fuckin’ works.
It decided to stop working today, repeatedly. Now, this in and of itself doesn’t really make for THE worst day, but I frowned a bit about this.
The ratting fan in and of itself didn’t really make for THE worst day, either, but I frowned a bit more.
The viruses (virii!) on my computer in and of themselves did not make for THE worst day, but I frowned still more.
Every CD I own refusing to read all by itself didn’t wreck my day, but I frowned still more. By this time the corners of my mouth were pretty much permanently pointing in a distinctly southerly direction, though.
All of this together, added to K screaming at me and making me cry, though, did make for a pretty terribad day.
It’s ok, though. K made it all better when he said, in reference to the noises my dad was making in the kitchen “He sounds like the Swedish Cock out there!” 
(Note: He’s Dutch, folks, and what he meant was that he sounded like the Swedish Chef. However, in the future when my dad acts ridickerous I’m just going to say to everyone, “Don’t mind him, he’s a Swedish cock.”)
I’m up at 2:07 a.m. on this lovely Mother’s Day because … I woke up and Top Gun was on. I almost fell asleep again, I mean, I’ve seen this movie eleventy billion times, but then… Goose had to go and die.
So I bawled.
And now I can’t sleep.
So… HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY.