literary heroin » omg wtf

Sort of Looking Forward to “Embarass Young Rank 1″ When I Get There, Though

amadei — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 19:06:56 +0000

The realization that I am going to be twenty-eight years old in less than a week finally hit me while I was talking with John on AIM:

Ama: i’m sort of in shock.
Ama: like…i’m gonna be what?
John: hahah
Ama: but i’m supposed to get new spells, right?
Ama: ’cause it’s an even level?
John: Yeah
John: But they’re kinda expensive.
Ama: like what?
John: Summon Mortgage
Ama: well fuck.
John: Balance Checkbook Rank 4
Ama: any good ones?
John: What class are you?
Ama: english major
John: I think you get ‘Great American Novel’ at 30…

If that didn’t make much sense to you, it probably means you don’t play enough World of Warcraft.

A Brief Musical Interlude

amadei — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 23:05:15 +0000

Pete, singing: There she was, just a-walkin’ down the street…do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do!
Me: What’s the name of that song? “Pretty Woman?” No, wait that’s not right…
Pete: I don’t know, go Google “do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do.” Somethin’ll come up!

I’ll be damned if “Do Wah Diddy” isn’t the name of the song.

Now he’s in the other room shouting “SCIENCE!” and raising his arm. Life is weird, sometimes.

He Didn’t Shoot the Deputy

amadei — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 16:09:39 +0000

The last time my roommate went camping, he stopped by Cabela’s (like you do when you’re a twenty-five-year-old boy) and ended up walking out with with a Walther CP88 Air Pistol which I’m sure was great fun at Hawk Mountain, but seems somewhat out of place in our two bedroom townhouse.

However, he finally remembered to show it to me yesterday. It is pretty interesting; I imagine it feels like a real gun, though I’ve never held a real gun. Pete tells me it’s specifically weighted to be as close to real as possible.

There’s no children in our house (duh), so I told him it was fine to have it as long as he didn’t shoot me with it because I know that crossed his fiendish mind at some point.

“Oh, it doesn’t hurt,” he said. “You want to shoot me?”

Now…when one’s exboyfriend says, “You want to shoot me?” what could one possibly say besides, “Oh, hell yes!”

So, he loaded the gun with one soft pellet, cocked it for me and handed it over. Then, he went and stood in my bedroom doorway with his back to me. “Just not in the head, okay?” I lowered my aim. He knows me too well.

I shot him in the back and he didn’t even flinch. He picked up the little pellet and loaded the gun again. “See, it didn’t hurt,” he said. I was sitting at my computer, minding my own business, when he turned back and shot me in the thigh.

I don’t consider myself a particularily excitable person. However, when someone shoots me, I tend to get a little perturbed. Actually, I probably wouldn’t have cared that much except…

“FUCKING HELL, THAT FUCKING HURT! COME BACK HERE! THAT STINGS LIKE A FUCKING BITCH! COME BACK HERE, YOU FUCKING LOSER!!!”

…there may have been a bit of a reaction. He danced away to his room crowing that it didn’t hurt and I’m a big baby. Which I may very well be. But I’m a baby WHO JUST GOT SHOT.

Seriously, though, it stung like a little bee sting. To top it all off, I have a little pellet-shaped bruise on my upper thigh. And it’s still sore.

I’m considering taking up archery just so I can come home and say, “Hey, Pete! Wanna see my new bow? Lemme shoot you. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt!”