My journal's friends-mostly except for The Outfit Saga,  but I friend back by default.  When you friend me, you should drop a comment here so that:

1)  I notice and friend you back;
2) I don't wonder how you found me and spend 45 minutes poking around your old entries in an attempt to determine if you're actually my Crazy Ex-Boyfriend, Who Thought He Was Jesus (no, really), But Now Sells Men's Bathing Suits.

A bit worse for the wear today.  Of course, around 4, I got very, very sleepy.  Forced myself out of bed by 10 AM, because Papa Backson is turning up this PM and I have a strong desire to portray responsible adulthood (read:  a clean apartment) in front of him. Vaguely hungover (from the pain pills cocktail and the tiredness; no alcohol was involved) and super tired, and trying to tidy my apartment while background watching this modern-day Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde series I found on Netflix. 

The upside:  my phone is revived. 

What would be totally awesome would be if (1) Percocet didn't upset my stomach or (2) if Mobic didn't give me raging insomnia.

About an hour ago I took the Percocet on top of the Mobic in hopes that the sleep-inducing properties of the former would triumph, but I'm presently painfully, entirely awake, and debating whether I should abandon all hope, put on my dressing gown, and read The Leopard.

What would be ENTIRELY SUPERIOR would be if this stupid sciatica would give up the ghost and I could go back to an unmedicated life, but so far, no dice.

ETA:  abandoned bed.  Drinking hibiscus tea, listening to the Britten War Requiem, and reading The Leopard.  Not feeling even the slightest bit sleepy.  WOE IS I, sigh.

Also, I had to join twitter so that I could join Pinterest.  So if you are a twitter person, give me the high sign so that I can be following someone other than Levar Burton (who is, I'll admit, hilarious). 

ETA:  I am cdbackson, and I have not tweeted at all!  Although I plan to. Oh, and on Pinterest, I'm charlottebackson, and I have decided the relaunch the Outfit Saga over there in a visual format, since I have a whole new climate to dress for...

I managed to spill coffee in my purse today (don't even ask; it's a talent).  My filofax and wallet were mostly spared.  My phone is currently recuperating in a jar of rice (once I pried the battery cover off, seriously, HTC, did you guys even TRY any human factors testing on that thing?).  My entire apartment smells like coffee, but like stale, old coffee, not nice rich coffee. 

On the upside, I did, at least, manage to wash my car and I got this dress in the mail from Nordstrom.  Strangely, the Nordstrom Calvin Klein ready-to-wear is far nicer than the Macy's Calvin Klein ready-to-wear even though the price point is the same.  The jersey is heavier and the length to size ratio is more flattering.  More evidence that Nordstrom is, in all ways, some kind of weirdly superior dimension? 

ancarett:


THEY SAY IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY
IT'S MY BIRTHDAY TOO
THEY SAY IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY
WE'RE GONNA HAVE A GOOD TIME
I'M GLAD IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU. 

YES WE'RE GOING TO A PARTY, PARTY &c. 

Many happy returns of the day to you, madam!

Top Gear is strangely mesmerizing, isn't it?

ETA:  Seriously, what I can't believe, British people, is that your government PAYS for this.  Taxpayer-funded media in the US is so horribly edifying.

So I was trying to explain the Fuck Yeah Ryan Gosling blog to my friend. 

(this is what I do with my time.  I enlightened people are the popular culture of six months ago)

And although this meme is dead, I still feel like my flist would particularly appreciate Medieval Historian Ryan Gosling: http://medievalhistorianryangosling.tumblr.com/

Man. 

I haven't watched The Vampire Diaries in six weeks or so (rehearsals have been running late) and I am seriously extremely confused about what the heck's going on.  Elena and Damon on a road trip? 

Letting vampires go out in the daytime is cheating, just sayin'. 

ETA:  Also, I love the fact that the Originals live in a straight-up stucco-sided McMansion.  

So usually, I actually find the sensation of getting tattoos kind of pleasant.  It hurts, but it sort of hurts in a nice way.  Like massage or having someone gently pull your hair (my hairstylist always sort of gathers my hair, close to the scalp, and pulls it, and it feels LOVELY). 

Today I went to get touch-up work done on the tattoo between my shoulder blades (it's a 2" x 2" Auspice Maria, in black).  I got there, stripped down to my cami to show the artist the spots that needed to be darkened.  And then she was all, Oh!  Right after I did this, I switched to a different black that doesn't fade out as much as this one did!  I'm just going to fix this up a bit!

"Fix this up a bit" turned out to mean "redo the entire tattoo."  And it HURT.  I don't know what was different this time, but it was really pretty incredibly awful - 45 minutes of staring at the wood grain in the floor, trying not to move but also trying to remember to breathe, until I was weirdly sort of out-of-body and this felt like something that was happening to someone else. 

I went to Target afterwards and saw myself in the dressing-room mirror and I looked sort of pale and shocked and out of it.  I thought the other Target shoppers were admiring my blue-green skinny jeans (yes, they're kind of weird and overly fashion-y), but in fact, I think they were worried that I was going to pass out or throw up amongst the $19.99 maxi dresses.