Jules' Night Out, or...

( How I Learned Firsthand Just What Exactly I'm Missing Out On By Not Being A Gay Boy )

Quote of the Night:
"What's with that penis thing, anyway?"
-one of the boys, though to be fair it was valid in context

My parents are serial movers.

I've lived in the neighborhood of thirteen houses/condos/apartments during my twelve years here in the States. This house was supposed to have been it, has been for three years, but the inevitable ennui (or you know, sky-high property values) have set in and we're moving again.

Today we visited the leading prospect.

On the outside, forgoing that it is an hour north of anything worthy of being called civilized in Florida, it's actually almost breathtaking. Two stories with wraparound porches on both levels plus a central half-story that's a fifth bedroom, all windows. It looks very Southern and regal and finally like a home, something I've only ever felt in two places.

And then you go inside.

My god, people, but my first thought was to nickname it The House That Porn Built. Heinous and heinously expensive wide-block black marble tiling throughout the entire lower floor plus the staircases leading up. The lighting is shoddy at best, the carpeting in the upper bedrooms is dark, and the air is generally musty in That way throughout. The floorplan is completely open in a display of an almost obscene kind of opulence, like all they ever come here to do is hold lavish sex parties. The whole place, minus the two kids' bedrooms which were mercifully innocent and very well-lit, was reminiscent of a white trash Playboy mansion.

Needless to say we left quickly, washed our hands thoroughly soon after, and had a very nice palate-cleansing lunch. Of course my dad, the general contractor, only sees the mountains of potential. And since I've long given up on any house being The One, I just really, really don't want to start from scratch all over yet again.

Mood iconing is a funny thing.

LiveJournal has 134 supported moods, plus I have about ten-fifteen others I find myself using often. Ergo, lots of icons to be made from, grant you, lots of pictures, but it's a very slow, nuanced process once you factor in cropping, editing, cleaning up, color balance, etc. So I've spent a lot of time looking very closely at every single picture from Challenge weekend.

Interesting phenomenon: little mini-dramas have begun to emerge.

Now, reading faces isn't an exact science, even taking into account the psycho-biological anthropologists who say I have some advantage over men. Other biasing variables include moods still needing to be filled versus those already designated, etc. so, like I said.

( But. This is hella cool, yo. )

Quotes of the Night:
"Oh, I dig my own grave with glee."
"Whoo, insanity!"
-me

Yep, that about sums it up. (Icon provided with a side of irony by walkingshadow.)