User Profile

You could probably get a better idea of me from others, and that in turn would mean that I wouldn’t have to bore you with my rambling shite, but meh. Yeah, I guess that’s one of the first points.

*Clears throat*

On the 14th April, in a city far, far away, which is sometimes referred to as Chester, a little girl was born. She was given the name Carrie by her late grandfather, and sometimes worries, if she is honest, that she was named after a fictional psychopath of the same name, before reasoning that that could not be possibly true, as the parallels between them are non-existent. Sort of. Anyway… She grew, and grew, and grew… and grew some more, until she evolved into the rambling, opinionated, elitist-snob-shut-the-fuck-up-bitch, bitch that you see before you. [Insert unconscious narrative change. Meh, third person sounds stupid anyway. >_>] I have a very twisted sense of humour, I laugh at bad jokes, and when it gets around to that time of the month I’m 30% Goob, 20% Bitch and 50% depressed as a result of the two. You just have to ignore me and/or give me a kick in the head when I get like that. It will pass.

I am highly sceptical about everything. I guess that’s the bitch side coming into play, as well.

I often sound pretentious and highly egotistical. I’ll let you know, while I am a snob when it comes to fiction, I am but a meek child cowering from all evils and terrors that may penetrate my very soul.

I am evidently also very poetic.

And talk bullshit.

I have a wonderful group of friends whom a love, but they do not love me enough to get and maintain a Live Journal account. Woe. But they do love me enough to invite me to our clique parties, and that is enough. This is because they are the best gosh—darned parties you will ever hear of. They are top secret. This is where all of the lesbian-stuffs happen, behind closed doors. We like red onion as it is out official party food says me, and glow sticks.

I love our prostate. Yes, we collectively have one. No, you can’t have him. He would do anything for us, except have sex with a bellybutton, and finger himself. This naturally makes us sad.

I can be quite vulgar; bellybutton sex and man-fingering, while highly inappropriate, is just hot. Get over it.

I enjoy talking about shit. You can decide whether or not to take that literally or not. It could even be a combination of both, for all you know. I’ll never tell.

I read Slash. If you don’t know what that is, then you have not lived. If you do know what it is, and yet do not like it… give it time. It will slap you in the face one day and you will never turn back. EVER.

Procrastination is my middle name. Well, one of them. My other is Louise. How do you do.

I obsess easily, and when I do… WOW. Seriously, just don’t mention the object of my obsession to me or I will never shut up about him, her or it. Not until I get bored, which I eventually do, and grow to loathe them. LOATHE. I have never looked at The Matrix the same way since my obsession crashed and burned. Unsurprisingly, said crashing and burning happened somewhere around November 5th 2003. Huh, I wonder why?

I am the queen of typos. It’s my stubby fingers that do it, apparently. I guess it’s true.

Lastly, I am aware that you needed to know none of this, and that everything mentioned above seems to be of no relevance, but the irrelevance just explains me perfectly.

Really.

Nightwish, Sonata Arctica, HIM, Damien Rice, The 69 Eyes, Charon, Children of Bodom, &c.