Killed the Tsar and his ministers
Jul. 17th, 2001 12:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyrano17 July 1918--17 July 2001. Happy Anniversary.
My room is pretty much a shambles. There are CDs from my ripping project which I have abandoned having declared my fulsome hatred for Sonic Foundry's lame ass Siren software after having it crap its electronic pants and throwing the entire system into upheaval for the fifth time.
Books. Books everywhere. New books from the place where I have an account, old books I realised I hadn't read while tidying the bookshelves last night. Starhawk, for my Mom who is asking me questions about religion as if I actually know something on the topic. (:
Clean clothes. Dirty clothes. A glass which really ought to go back down to the kitchen. More books which were 'temporarily stored' on the floor during the tidying but which at least have a destination attached to them. Shoes. Sandals. Which I am still trying to wear whenever I can instead of my Docs because the abrasion on my foot is still sore. Plastic bags, including a vibrant yellow one from Lee's which until late stored the latest installment in the HellBoy saga. Computer boxes and pamphlets and documentation. Just stuff. Stuff everywhere. But at least I cleaned my crap out of the rest of the house, more or less.
I flail my arms at the mess, to inform it that I Mean Business. No really. If it doesn't immediately organise itself I shall be come really cross and sort of harried. It tests my boundaries though, and just sullenly eyes me. Mexican standoff.
My room is pretty much a shambles. There are CDs from my ripping project which I have abandoned having declared my fulsome hatred for Sonic Foundry's lame ass Siren software after having it crap its electronic pants and throwing the entire system into upheaval for the fifth time.
Books. Books everywhere. New books from the place where I have an account, old books I realised I hadn't read while tidying the bookshelves last night. Starhawk, for my Mom who is asking me questions about religion as if I actually know something on the topic. (:
Clean clothes. Dirty clothes. A glass which really ought to go back down to the kitchen. More books which were 'temporarily stored' on the floor during the tidying but which at least have a destination attached to them. Shoes. Sandals. Which I am still trying to wear whenever I can instead of my Docs because the abrasion on my foot is still sore. Plastic bags, including a vibrant yellow one from Lee's which until late stored the latest installment in the HellBoy saga. Computer boxes and pamphlets and documentation. Just stuff. Stuff everywhere. But at least I cleaned my crap out of the rest of the house, more or less.
I flail my arms at the mess, to inform it that I Mean Business. No really. If it doesn't immediately organise itself I shall be come really cross and sort of harried. It tests my boundaries though, and just sullenly eyes me. Mexican standoff.