Bulls aren't girls, right...?

You're a giant oven shaped like, suprise, a brazen bull. A fire is lit under your belly, and the person inside is roasted alive. You really blow your top when someone makes you mad, though that can take a bit of work on their part.

What torture would you be?

/Uninspired, Well Does It Help You To/Know That I Believe in You/

There it is.
Just sitting there.
Mocking me.
No, it's not Spooky. No, it's not my homework. No, it's not a chocolate cake.
It's my picture album.

I want to look at it. pictures are good, especially for one with a memory such as mine. But there are pictures of Emily in there.
Damn I wish things were simple.
See, it's not that I don't want to look at pictures of her. Or think about her. Or remember how it used to be.
Or maybe it is.
Whatever's going on, I want to look at my pictures, but anytime I think about reaching the, what, two feet to grab it, I simply freeze.

In other news, my hard drive is almost filled to bursting again. So I'm zipping everything I can concievably live without, and I'm going to burn them onto CDs. Sometime.