I whisper your name (ayradyss) wrote,
I whisper your name

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La, la-lala-la!

Guardian Angel
You are a two-winged Guardian Angel!
Wandering the realms of the mortals you often bear the form of a mere human. It is your task to guard your charge against the perils of the shadows. You are good-natured and friendly, trusted by everyone, helpful and kind. But when in danger you show a fierce protective side that often surprises your adversaries.
What kind of supernatural being are you?
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This should surprise more or less absolutely nobody. Is a good angel to be.

Last night: karaoke. Had a surprising amount of fun, all things considered. The scary boob-job running it was hitting on Watson, so we left early. Apparently men who can actually sing Born to be Wild really turn her on or something. No, scary boob-job. Back off. Buy another inch of tank top coverage, because while I can appreciate good cleavage...damn.
Benefits to going to Tuesday Night karaoke: Dollar mixed drinks. No cover charge. Chance to sing three songs Watson and I each, and one for Angel. Did While my Guitar Gently Weeps, Six Days on the Road, and Like a Prayer. Boob-job was all about Like a Prayer, scary thing. Why didn't she get her nose done too? And oh, darling? If you're taking codeine, don't swig beers. It's bad for you.
Other karaoke-ers: Varying talents. Women were all v. good. Most likely much better than I was. Men were...well, of varying talents. The drunk gay guys who only knew the choruses, the would-be-white-boy-rapper (I think was one of the drunk gay guys), the several middle-aged men who could really sing quite well, including one who did an Eagles piece (which one? I forget now) that was just v. nice indeed, and followed it up with My Way in true style. And a few who couldn't sing at all.

Got up this morning, watched Comcast smoke crack all day, as per yesterday (service call tomorrow!) and hung out. Am not v. good company to amuse people with, sorry Watson.
James called about 1-1:30 and it was established that I was going to take him to Redi-Med before his tonsils swallowed his head whole and began to wander about eating random passers-by. Bid farewell to Watson. I'm a little sad he doesn't live closer; I think he would be fun to do things with in the group.

Driving down to James's place, there's a hefty stretch of Clinton-or-Calhoun that's pretty much almost highway. And at a stoplight, I pulled up next to a red mid-90's car with a white canvas-top and two eighteen-20somethings in it. I look over at them, corner of my eye. I smile. They smile. We floor it as the light turns green. Michel-Ange is a 1987 Honda Accord. I refuse to put the tach over 4K. Guess who got to the next light first? I had to turn left the next light past, so I pulled into the left lane behind them. Shotgun sticks his hand out the window as I'm pulling into the left lane, motions me up next to them. I shake my head. He gestures - the universal telephone sign. It wasn't until I turned left that they abandoned their quest. What fun.

James is sick (duh) but will be better with penicillin. most likely. The rest of the day has been as of yet uneventful.

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