The secret to my blogging behavior: I update monthly. Don't tell me I don't update, I DO, just in the middle of the night and every month. So that you know I'm alive, you see. Yes. Erm.

In any case, I made it back from Nebraska, intact, without any scene kids following me home (unless you count the roommate). No Saddle Creek stowaways. (No one knows that Saddle Creek bands are actually parasitic. Actually, tiny effeminate boys sneak into luggage compartments and then distribute their music to every state in the union...thereby reaching so many people that no one can tell that it's really only sort of "okay".)

Anyway, NE was sort of nice. I mean, the stares were weird, but the stares are always weird, it's not really any different than Boston. It really wasn't that different. Well. Aside from the flatness and corn. And ranch-style housing.
But the homecooked meals were very nice, and Jonas' sister seemed to like talking to me (which was cool, because she's about my sister's age, so I kind of 'got' her) and his mom thought I needed to sleep and Jonas needed to eat, like a mother would. I sort of freaked out his dad, I think. I maintain that it's not my fault everyone assumed we were lovers because I like traveling and being with my friends and wearing makeup, and Jonas doesn't mind that. Honestly, rampant homophobia is a PROBLEM in this society.

So. What's new.
My icons, for one thing. Look, I have an eye. And a tongue, and a cigarette. Or maybe a lollipop, I can't remember. Tonight, I have an eye. You are getting very sleepy. Cause it's fucking 3 am.

I am dying my hair reddish pink. But just the back of it. For that whole cool Fraggle look. Yeah.

My sister has a tongue ring, which is apparently my fault. I don't get this. I live a state away and have never been stupid enough to get a tongue ring. On the other hand, go Jane, breaking out of that bookish thing, or maybe just becoming a big field-hockey lesbo? Rock.

Jonas is telling me half-asleep-ily to come to bed. He sounds like we're fucking married. Should I come to bed and risk being ravaged by his incredibly gay sleepy domesticity, or stay up (...and risk having to go see a "sleep therapist")?