(no subject)

[bubosquared]

Oh. My. God. Do these people even realise how Freudian this picture is? (Then again, maybe sometimes a broomstick really is just a broomstick. Unless, of course, you're Oliver.)
(Me; LJ)

Today I shall mostly be a five year old brain eating zombie. Means I'll be wandering around college going "Ooooh! Shiney!" and then "Brainssssss."
(Meg; LJ)

Nyree: But, yes. [The HP actors have] been aged down. It's a sad world we live in.
Melle: It's a sad world YOU live in. I live in reality, ta.
Nyree: I live in a bounteous reality, filled with crack and pretty boys touching each other, and I would not leave it for all the tea in China!
Nyree: Which, frankly, I have always considered a fairly crappy bribe.
(AIM)

Nyree: Now, where did I put Rupert Grint?
(AIM)

Nyree: Also I think I have glitter in my eye, as though I've been indulging in some strange eyeball action with LN characters and their hair.
(AIM)

Nyree: There are no hot youngsters in Belgium or Ireland... they are all lurking in England. Fuckers!
Melle: We should write a letter.
Nyree: To who?
Melle: Dear Tony Blair: Yo. Send us some of those hot underagers, please? Love, Ireland and Belgium.
Nyree: Tony Blair is too busy enjoying life in George Bush's pants to care about our lack of hot minors.
Nyree: World leaders these days have no sense of priority.
(AIM)

Nyree: I just read "marvolo" as "gielgud."
(AIM)

Nyree: Am I being retarded? It's not Saturday today, is it?
Melle: No, it's Friday.
Nyree: I thought as much.
Nyree: Just a reminder that i have no mind, clearly. muh.
Melle: It's because it's a holiday. I have the same problem
Nyree: It's not a holiday here, though.
Nyree: I have no excuse.
Nyree: Clearly this is what happens when small children run away with my brind.
Nyree: Brain.
(AIM)

Nyree: (re: U2 and what to call them) Edgie-wedgie.
Nyree: Wedgie!
Nyree: I take it back.
Nyree: Let's pretend I didn't have a severe teen moment just then.
Melle: No, sorry, q!
Nyree: ihrfert937409yuriojadilhsalkfhdslkfh.khf.akshf.has.kfh.
Nyree: Bollocks.
(AIM)

Nyree: By the way, the 7 step plan to Freaking Out Your Significant Other is working a treat. Whenever he walks past: "Mmm, children."
Nyree: Of course now I have to persuade him I meant it in a chitty chitty bang bang way, but them's the breaks.
Melle: AHAHA!
Melle: *hands you some galic* I hear this goes great with fried child.
Melle: :D
Nyree: Some Gaelic?
Nyree: You're murdering my people!
Nyree: Said the child eater.
Melle: GaRlic!
Nyree: That's what they all say, and then my next door neighbours go missing.
(AIM)

Nyree: Marcus/Alicia RPs used to be hilarious.
Nyree: ::hums something suitably maudlin and 'meeeeeemory'ish::
Nyree: ::but not anything from Cats. Never from Cats.::
(AIM)

Nyree: I'm TIRED!
Melle: Then go to BED
Nyree: No, because I have to regale people with rubbish anecdotes, finish downloading about 1000000 mp3s (disclaimer: possible exaggerated number), wait for people to come online so they can quote the league of gentlemen at me, and then and ONLY then can I roll into bed and get really fucking annoyed because the moment before I'm going to fall asleep i'll have 600 (no disclaimer: really not exaggerating) ideas for my fic in my head and if I go to sleep I'll forget them!
Nyree: And the word I am looking for now is "nnnngh!"
(AIM)

Nyree: ::roots about for Percy::
Nyree: I need him! He plays a vital role in my Ron/Alicia!
Nyree: And he's gone off somewhere to rut with Sean Biggerstaff. Men!
Melle: Oh, is that YOUR Percy who showed up in my brain this morning?
Nyree: Bitch, did you steal him?
Nyree: If he was wearing far too many clothes and being generally uncooperative to anyone who wasn't Scottish, then it was my Percy.
Melle: Sounds right, yeah. He just strolled in here one day and claimed to be looking for a quill. I don't know WHAT he was planning to write, but NOT IN MY HEAD! *punts him back over to you*
Nyree: You can't punt a Weasley!
Nyree: Wow, that's the title of a fic that has yet to be spewed from my brain.
Melle: q! And YES I CAN
Nyree: He might have a peculiar shaped head, but he's not a football. Ooh, Phelps!
(AIM)

Nyree: I've misplaced Chris Rankin.
(AIM)

Nyree: Of course, it really makes no difference as one day I still intend to have Rupert Grint as My Bitch.
(AIM)

Nyree: Wait wait wait. Eighties Trauma? That is surely not a technical psychological term.
Melle: I don't care.
Nyree: You bloody well should, I put enough effort into the correct spelling of psychological.
(AIM)

V: I have to judge these writing excerpts and whether or not I'd read past the first paragraph and I keep thinking "no, because it's not about Tom and Dan" and help meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
(AIM)

V: And randomly, what is WITH all these French philosophers NAMED AFTER WOMEN!?
V: This is obviously what's wrong with the French nation. Too many men named Anne.
(AIM)

V: And I was just looking at my assignment sheet and thought some guy's name was William Hogwarts. I need a life.