"Here's to another relationship... bombed by my excellent breed of gamete disease... Maybe when I'm older I'll know what that means..."

And then:

"La fille danse... Quand elle joue avec moi... Et je pense que je l'aime des fois... Le silence, n'ose pas dis-donc... Quand on est ensemble... Mettre les mots... Sur la petite dodo."

Probably butchered all of the above.

Again going with the theme from yesterday. Damien Rice, anyone?

I'm all numb inside my intestines and lungs and spinal chord and all other major organs of various body systems. I'm blaming you for that one, Tyler.

"Kimi wa boku no ichiban seme da."

Indeed.

Note to self: if you're going to be a heartless romantic, never ever spill your guts to anyone. No matter how understanding they may seem. It always comes 'round to bite you in the end.

And no, not even a tiny bit of gut spillage.

I've decided that there are too many Tylers in the world, just as there are too many Matts, Mikes, Adams, Wills, Stevens (of the male and female gender), Joes, Sams, and Halleys (again, of both genders).

Now people have to be referred to as "Karen's Steve" or "Emily's Will" and "nympho Halley" as opposed to "sophomore Halley". Hard to keep track of all of these people.

Not to mention the vast potential for identity mistakes.

The watercolor never made it to the acrylic stage. I ended up forgiving the gouache (blaming the horrid Olsen twins show that my cousin had on while I was working) and started anew with the watercolor. It's coming along just fine... but why the hell do watercolor paintings look like vomit splashes when you get within two feet of them?

Hm... Naw. Won't say that. Part of the non-gut-spillage policy I recently adapted.

G'night... erm, morning? Yes.