The shadows are long and prominent in the room, but it is barely past midday. The air conditioner is running and the fan is running, and the chains hanging from the fan are rhythmically hitting the glass of the light fixture suspended below the spinning blades.
These are the only sounds in the room.
The gathered darkness and unseasonably cold air in the room would insinuate that the grey light sneaking in through the blinds had been filtered through tempestuous thunderheads and torrential rain. But this is not the case.
Out side the heat is sweltering and the sky is stippled with white clouds, and the birds would be chirping, were they not having their afternoon siestas. The dismal state of this room cannot be blamed on things from without.
This room has a countenance and a soul and a heart, and emitted from these anthropomorphic attributes is a mood heavy enough to shade everything around it, thick enough to obscure the light of anything beyond its ashen walls, and so dense in its ponderous mass, there is a gravity that nothing rises above.
The heart of this room is a woman, and she is sitting on her needlessly tidied bed, listening to the three sounds that create her silence. Her phone is blinking red with the urgency of all the day’s intentionally missed phone calls, and she does not care.
Tuesday, July 15
The night is impending, the shadows grow long, and the gums are receding. What exactly went wrong?
I suppose we all have a feeling that there are but a few grains of sand remaining in our ever ebbing hourglasses. Especially those of us with immense unfocused, unexploited talent. It all reminds me of this country song, that’s basic message is, don’t blink because life goes so fast that you may miss it if you so much as stop to rest your eyes. And no Grandma in heaven, when I say rest your eyes, I am not referring to one of your famous in church siestas.
Now I’m not meaning to get all sentimental and homegrown on you, talking about marrying my high school sweetheart and sweet talks with my son while we’re fishing when I suddenly understand how much my dad really loved me. Fortunately, life is not always like a country song. I’m just saying, one day you wake up, you’re 25 and pregnant, and you find yourself at a juncture in your life, where you can choose between being strong and determined, or resigning yourself, your life. And when you’re 25 you aren’t old, but you need to make a decision.
It’s time for me to decide. Do I continue on or do I give up my seat for my kid on this ride?
I suppose we all have a feeling that there are but a few grains of sand remaining in our ever ebbing hourglasses. Especially those of us with immense unfocused, unexploited talent. It all reminds me of this country song, that’s basic message is, don’t blink because life goes so fast that you may miss it if you so much as stop to rest your eyes. And no Grandma in heaven, when I say rest your eyes, I am not referring to one of your famous in church siestas.
Now I’m not meaning to get all sentimental and homegrown on you, talking about marrying my high school sweetheart and sweet talks with my son while we’re fishing when I suddenly understand how much my dad really loved me. Fortunately, life is not always like a country song. I’m just saying, one day you wake up, you’re 25 and pregnant, and you find yourself at a juncture in your life, where you can choose between being strong and determined, or resigning yourself, your life. And when you’re 25 you aren’t old, but you need to make a decision.
It’s time for me to decide. Do I continue on or do I give up my seat for my kid on this ride?
Down with Teleportation
I believe that if teleportation were invented, the world would be reduced in size by 1038%, which is a lot, as you can see, because that number doesn’t even fit inside a hundred, “percent” coming from the Latin per centum, meaning “by the hundred”. As much as I, through the pain of someone’s absence, or the agony of extended travel in a seat by the bathroom on a cramped bus in Mexico, have longed for a teleportation device which could whisk my loved one to my side, or whisk me to an uncrowded beach in Mexico, which smells of a salt water breeze rather than a sloshing urine laden commode, upon more proximate consideration, I’ve seen the evil of this convenience to outweigh the convenience of this convenience.
No longer would the world be the oyster of the brave, the impetuous, the curious, the adventurous; it would then the $5.99 seafood buffet of the everyday, the fish stick of the fecund family of five, the Long John Silvers for the timid of heart who will not, under any circumstances, try sushi. There will be wheelchair ramps running rampant through wildest Africa, park benches on which day trippers can eat their sandwiches whilst viewing the cannibalistic rituals of a jungle tribe in Borneo, local insectival delicacies substituted with candy duplications for the feint of stomach who still want to “experience the culture.”
It is a bleak future I realize. Maybe I’m showing myself to be a bit of an elitist by espousing all of this, but goddammit, the world is small enough already.
Take for example the Earth’s size in relation to the sun and the other planets in the solar system. I didn’t feel like going to someplace with internet right now, but it can be assumed that about fifty bagillian earths can fit in one sun. Also, it is roughly the third smallest planet in our nine, no eight, no nine planet solar system, which isn’t saying a lot, regardless of how many planets we have. I mean, I’ve driven in one year, maybe two, the equivalent in miles of the entire planet’s circumference. I’m not sure exactly how many miles (kilometers if you’re in England) that is, but I am sure that I need internet so that in the future I don’t have to attempt to make persuasive arguments using only vague ideas of facts and no actual data.
As a quick aside, what’s up with Pluto? Is it a planet or not? I don’t really think it’s fair for the scientists to bestow a title, and then just renege because they changed their minds on the criteria of the qualifications. If I we’re Pluto, I would just hide out in shame and embarrassment at the farthest, darkest, coldest reaches of the solar system. I’ll bet that’s what he’s doing right now, the poor planet…or not. Globular asteroid or whatever.
Back to teleportation, another subject about which I am writing at length while knowing nothing of the physics, mechanics, or even theoretical basic workings of, except a philosophical dilemma or two (can you teleport a soul?).
In addition to the earth being unfathomably cosmologically miniscule, even solar systemically tiny, it has shrunk exponentially since the inception of air travel, and before that the locomotive engine. I’m not even going to get into the wheel, one of the worst inventions of man ever to plague the earth. Back in the day there were wagons and wheel barrows and boats, even ships powered by oars and the pure brute strength and sweat of slaves being beaten with whips. There is a certain purity to that. It took ages to get anywhere, each journey across the land a perilous adventure. One could be attacked by wolves because they hadn’t all been shot yet. Thrilling! Each voyage across the sea taking weeks, each traversal of great Oceana taking months, taking lives, causing scurvy and transforming legs into pointed wooden pegs. Not to mention, the striped shirts and single golden hoop earring. A fashion catastrophe! What I’m getting at is that back in the day, it took cojones to travel, because much of the world was uncharted and wild, and you had no idea what or who you might encounter. And since you were most likely to die as a result of your adventure, you earned every wonder you witnessed, every magical moment of knowing you discovered something. Now the only remaining discoveries to be made will likely be done through a microscope or a telescope. Or maybe a kaleidoscope. One can’t be sure.
Then came the steam engine. Then came the combustion engine. Maybe more types of engines came, but I don’t know what they are. Let me just say this: when engines came, they brought Wonkavision, stuck the world in front of the camera, and shrunk it. I’m not saying they’re innately terrible things; they are what they are. But their invention led to planes, trains, and automobiles. In the 1700s, can you imagine a Parisian saying to her husband, “I’m bored of all these bridges and sidewalk cafes. Let’s go to Athens for the weekend. That will be quaint”? First of all no because they would be speaking French, not English. And secondly, no because going to Athens would have meant eons of travel by wagon over land, involving the aforementioned wolves, bandits, mountain crossings, and uncouth villagers; or eons of travel by sea, involving white squalls, tsunamis, pirates, the aforementioned scurvy, and the Cracken*, who’s known to stomp in the Aegean area.
* “The Cracken” is a reference to the mildly obscure, but possible cult classic “The Clash of the Titans” which served as a ground breaking pioneer in clay-mation special effects. Not really, it’s uber cheesy, but good Greek Mythology 101 for the arm chair historian, although I’m not sure the Cracken made an appearance in any of Homer’s works.
So anyway. I’m beginning to lose my fervor, so I’m going to try and wrap this up like a tinselly little Christmas present. Teleportation sucks because it will take the adventure out of travel by eliminating the journey, and it will eliminate all mystery from the world by making accessible to any putz that has a credit card and a day off. These people don’t deserve it. They haven’t paid their dues. Down with teleportation! Fuck you Star Trek! Except for that machine that makes food from poop and pee. That’s a genius idea.
No longer would the world be the oyster of the brave, the impetuous, the curious, the adventurous; it would then the $5.99 seafood buffet of the everyday, the fish stick of the fecund family of five, the Long John Silvers for the timid of heart who will not, under any circumstances, try sushi. There will be wheelchair ramps running rampant through wildest Africa, park benches on which day trippers can eat their sandwiches whilst viewing the cannibalistic rituals of a jungle tribe in Borneo, local insectival delicacies substituted with candy duplications for the feint of stomach who still want to “experience the culture.”
It is a bleak future I realize. Maybe I’m showing myself to be a bit of an elitist by espousing all of this, but goddammit, the world is small enough already.
Take for example the Earth’s size in relation to the sun and the other planets in the solar system. I didn’t feel like going to someplace with internet right now, but it can be assumed that about fifty bagillian earths can fit in one sun. Also, it is roughly the third smallest planet in our nine, no eight, no nine planet solar system, which isn’t saying a lot, regardless of how many planets we have. I mean, I’ve driven in one year, maybe two, the equivalent in miles of the entire planet’s circumference. I’m not sure exactly how many miles (kilometers if you’re in England) that is, but I am sure that I need internet so that in the future I don’t have to attempt to make persuasive arguments using only vague ideas of facts and no actual data.
As a quick aside, what’s up with Pluto? Is it a planet or not? I don’t really think it’s fair for the scientists to bestow a title, and then just renege because they changed their minds on the criteria of the qualifications. If I we’re Pluto, I would just hide out in shame and embarrassment at the farthest, darkest, coldest reaches of the solar system. I’ll bet that’s what he’s doing right now, the poor planet…or not. Globular asteroid or whatever.
Back to teleportation, another subject about which I am writing at length while knowing nothing of the physics, mechanics, or even theoretical basic workings of, except a philosophical dilemma or two (can you teleport a soul?).
In addition to the earth being unfathomably cosmologically miniscule, even solar systemically tiny, it has shrunk exponentially since the inception of air travel, and before that the locomotive engine. I’m not even going to get into the wheel, one of the worst inventions of man ever to plague the earth. Back in the day there were wagons and wheel barrows and boats, even ships powered by oars and the pure brute strength and sweat of slaves being beaten with whips. There is a certain purity to that. It took ages to get anywhere, each journey across the land a perilous adventure. One could be attacked by wolves because they hadn’t all been shot yet. Thrilling! Each voyage across the sea taking weeks, each traversal of great Oceana taking months, taking lives, causing scurvy and transforming legs into pointed wooden pegs. Not to mention, the striped shirts and single golden hoop earring. A fashion catastrophe! What I’m getting at is that back in the day, it took cojones to travel, because much of the world was uncharted and wild, and you had no idea what or who you might encounter. And since you were most likely to die as a result of your adventure, you earned every wonder you witnessed, every magical moment of knowing you discovered something. Now the only remaining discoveries to be made will likely be done through a microscope or a telescope. Or maybe a kaleidoscope. One can’t be sure.
Then came the steam engine. Then came the combustion engine. Maybe more types of engines came, but I don’t know what they are. Let me just say this: when engines came, they brought Wonkavision, stuck the world in front of the camera, and shrunk it. I’m not saying they’re innately terrible things; they are what they are. But their invention led to planes, trains, and automobiles. In the 1700s, can you imagine a Parisian saying to her husband, “I’m bored of all these bridges and sidewalk cafes. Let’s go to Athens for the weekend. That will be quaint”? First of all no because they would be speaking French, not English. And secondly, no because going to Athens would have meant eons of travel by wagon over land, involving the aforementioned wolves, bandits, mountain crossings, and uncouth villagers; or eons of travel by sea, involving white squalls, tsunamis, pirates, the aforementioned scurvy, and the Cracken*, who’s known to stomp in the Aegean area.
* “The Cracken” is a reference to the mildly obscure, but possible cult classic “The Clash of the Titans” which served as a ground breaking pioneer in clay-mation special effects. Not really, it’s uber cheesy, but good Greek Mythology 101 for the arm chair historian, although I’m not sure the Cracken made an appearance in any of Homer’s works.
So anyway. I’m beginning to lose my fervor, so I’m going to try and wrap this up like a tinselly little Christmas present. Teleportation sucks because it will take the adventure out of travel by eliminating the journey, and it will eliminate all mystery from the world by making accessible to any putz that has a credit card and a day off. These people don’t deserve it. They haven’t paid their dues. Down with teleportation! Fuck you Star Trek! Except for that machine that makes food from poop and pee. That’s a genius idea.
Grilled Cheese and Music Reviews
I am eating a grilled cheese, muenster, which is seriously inferior to American cheese for this particular purpose if you can believe it. I am eating my sandwich in bed, spreading crumbs generously and without care in a gesture of support of utter hedonism. This is what living it up is like. Take notes.
I had this idea on my drive home from work which I think may either be genius or retarded. In the past, I’ve written several times either abstractly or directly about the impact a song makes on me, mentally, emotionally, physically or spiritually. This is I feel a very honest thing to do, and will give someone a more real subjective report on a song, or any work of art for that matter, than a fancily constructed review that uses lingo, descriptions accessible only to the initiated, comparisons to other works that the reader may or may not heard of, and other such antics. This is a boring and sterile way of learning of something alive and expressive. Blah blah blah. My way is better. I write about how songs make me feel, in real time, so to speak.
So I was thinking, maybe I’ll start building a body of reviews of songs reviews, ala Candice style. Whatever song strikes my fancy or a reverberating chord, I will write honestly about it. When I have enough of them, I will submit them to places, and surely people will want to publish them because it is such a marvelous and unique idea.
I don’t know. I think it’s good.
Next stop on that train, I was thinking about how when you read reviews of albums and such, there are constantly references to the bands other works, or even other artist’s works. I don’t understand why each creative can’t be evaluated of it own accord, instead of in comparison to something else. How does this album measure up to the last? Who cares? It’s its own record, and it’s neither here nor there what the artist has done in the past. I guess this is just a manifestation of the fear of the new without the old attached to it for comfort. But what do I know? I’m just an uneducated slob with crumbs in her bed.
I had this idea on my drive home from work which I think may either be genius or retarded. In the past, I’ve written several times either abstractly or directly about the impact a song makes on me, mentally, emotionally, physically or spiritually. This is I feel a very honest thing to do, and will give someone a more real subjective report on a song, or any work of art for that matter, than a fancily constructed review that uses lingo, descriptions accessible only to the initiated, comparisons to other works that the reader may or may not heard of, and other such antics. This is a boring and sterile way of learning of something alive and expressive. Blah blah blah. My way is better. I write about how songs make me feel, in real time, so to speak.
So I was thinking, maybe I’ll start building a body of reviews of songs reviews, ala Candice style. Whatever song strikes my fancy or a reverberating chord, I will write honestly about it. When I have enough of them, I will submit them to places, and surely people will want to publish them because it is such a marvelous and unique idea.
I don’t know. I think it’s good.
Next stop on that train, I was thinking about how when you read reviews of albums and such, there are constantly references to the bands other works, or even other artist’s works. I don’t understand why each creative can’t be evaluated of it own accord, instead of in comparison to something else. How does this album measure up to the last? Who cares? It’s its own record, and it’s neither here nor there what the artist has done in the past. I guess this is just a manifestation of the fear of the new without the old attached to it for comfort. But what do I know? I’m just an uneducated slob with crumbs in her bed.
Tuesday, May 6
Soul in ICU
It’s been so hard to make any semblance of sense of my miasmic mentality. I am so out of touch with myself. Feelings have gone far beyond words, and I no longer know how to make the associations. What’s that little germ of negativity floating around inside of me? What are those throngs and thousands? Hard to say. Anyone have a dictionary?
Webster’s unabridged deluxe leather-bound edition you say? I don’t think I’d get beyond the deep nasal inhalations. Ahhhhh, nothing like the smell of whale fat oiled dead cow skin.
I totally sounded like a, you know, right there. This is a very PC place of writing so I don’t want to name names, but it rhymes with ‘rippie’. You didn’t hear it here.
There is just so much going on in my life at present that will hold a minimum of fascination for any one in life, that I think I’ll start at the beginning.
I was born in Houston, Texas in the spring of 1983…
Wait, fast forward that. I didn’t mean the literal beginning (a philosophical conundrum any way, since if time is linear no one would know anything about a beginning at which to begin, and if time is all at once or cyclical, there would be no beginning at which begin either. Neither here nor there). I meant the beginning of the point in time in my life which I first think of.
It all started when I took 1.5 rolls, which took too long to kick in, so I took 1 extra roll, and waited and waited, and then they kicked in with a vengeance. At this time I was almost 25, and therefore too old to be taking ecstasy, but that will lead to the denouement of the story. We’ll skip over the boring details of extreme visual hallucinations and 5 hour marathon sex that never stopped feeling good, and get to the point. I had a very severe comedown and I was forced into confronting myself brutally. It wasn’t a pretty picture. Actually, I looked all right, but the inner turmoil I was experiencing, the hellish gauntlet of terrifyingly vivid bad emotions was staggering.
It was this most unhappy of situations that I found this little nugget of truth. Your life will not change in ways you want it to unless you do something about it. For example, say you were a stripper, and had been for 6 years but really wanted to be, in fact you planned on, being a journalist, but you never ever did anything to make that happen. In fact, you barely wrote recreationally. You cannot expect to some day be a journalist of any variety. It will not happen. You will instead be a 35 year old stripper, and that phenomenal person you knew in your youth you were meant to be, will be irretrievable.
Sadly this little nugget was much akin to the Mario Brothers magic mushroom in that it could be used just once. It gave you enough gusto to make one big change. Hopefully you chose wisely. Hopefully you didn’t choose to accept the first soul annihilating job opportunity that came along. If you did, sorry. Don’t take more drugs to try and recreate the effect. It is very painful and you may not succeed. Plus you are too old.
So, my soul is in the ICU. Please drop by during visiting hours.
I took that first job and I really really really don’t friggin like it. Lets see how long I puss out before I actually do something about it.
Webster’s unabridged deluxe leather-bound edition you say? I don’t think I’d get beyond the deep nasal inhalations. Ahhhhh, nothing like the smell of whale fat oiled dead cow skin.
I totally sounded like a, you know, right there. This is a very PC place of writing so I don’t want to name names, but it rhymes with ‘rippie’. You didn’t hear it here.
There is just so much going on in my life at present that will hold a minimum of fascination for any one in life, that I think I’ll start at the beginning.
I was born in Houston, Texas in the spring of 1983…
Wait, fast forward that. I didn’t mean the literal beginning (a philosophical conundrum any way, since if time is linear no one would know anything about a beginning at which to begin, and if time is all at once or cyclical, there would be no beginning at which begin either. Neither here nor there). I meant the beginning of the point in time in my life which I first think of.
It all started when I took 1.5 rolls, which took too long to kick in, so I took 1 extra roll, and waited and waited, and then they kicked in with a vengeance. At this time I was almost 25, and therefore too old to be taking ecstasy, but that will lead to the denouement of the story. We’ll skip over the boring details of extreme visual hallucinations and 5 hour marathon sex that never stopped feeling good, and get to the point. I had a very severe comedown and I was forced into confronting myself brutally. It wasn’t a pretty picture. Actually, I looked all right, but the inner turmoil I was experiencing, the hellish gauntlet of terrifyingly vivid bad emotions was staggering.
It was this most unhappy of situations that I found this little nugget of truth. Your life will not change in ways you want it to unless you do something about it. For example, say you were a stripper, and had been for 6 years but really wanted to be, in fact you planned on, being a journalist, but you never ever did anything to make that happen. In fact, you barely wrote recreationally. You cannot expect to some day be a journalist of any variety. It will not happen. You will instead be a 35 year old stripper, and that phenomenal person you knew in your youth you were meant to be, will be irretrievable.
Sadly this little nugget was much akin to the Mario Brothers magic mushroom in that it could be used just once. It gave you enough gusto to make one big change. Hopefully you chose wisely. Hopefully you didn’t choose to accept the first soul annihilating job opportunity that came along. If you did, sorry. Don’t take more drugs to try and recreate the effect. It is very painful and you may not succeed. Plus you are too old.
So, my soul is in the ICU. Please drop by during visiting hours.
I took that first job and I really really really don’t friggin like it. Lets see how long I puss out before I actually do something about it.
Monday, March 10
In the predictably uninspired words of Scott Weiland, I am “feeling uninspired, think I’ll start a fire.” Not that each moment made dull by haphazard planning, torpid disposition, or neural pathways failing to connect (she wanted kids, he didn’t) results in pyromania. Not most in fact. Even on this occasion I have limited my arsonous endeavors to the paraffin hollow of a candle or fifteen, and the rebelliously long wick which resides therein. Caution be damned, ¼ inch is not enough for this dare devil!
I haven’t abetted these waxy pillars in fulfilling their torrid destinies at the urging of some latent longing bent on decimation. I only wanted a little ambiance. Some flickering amber light on the walls, ceiling, tabletop to infuse my surroundings with an excessive vanilla aroma and an amorous glow. Romance baby! I’m spending the evening with Curry, and I really want it to be special. So I’m having some wine, some smooth jams playing in the back ground (and foreground, and side ground…we have surround sound), she’s asleep in her kennel, and I’m writing this. Nothing sets Cupid’s arrow to firing and Aphrodite’s cup to overflowing quite like spending a candlelit dusk with my dog. Not even raw oysters, as sexy as they feel in my mouth.
Before this takes a disturbingly bestialitous turn, I will claim facetiousness, and a rare condition where in my brain completely ceases to function in a creative capacity when I am exposed to florescent lighting, even if I close my eyes, it infuses my skin like radiation (think Wal-Mart), and crippling loneliness which has lead to the personification of my dog, but really only in a conversational manner, and also idea bankruptcy because truthfully, and sadfully, this is all I have to say. Just you wait, I’ll pull a Stella. And get my groove back? You know, the movie? Jeezus, keep up with the times. Every one’s heard of that box office smash.
So Curry is sleeping off the day’s Bull Creek travails and I’m classily slurping my way through a chilled glass of Franzia Chardonnay (excellent vintage) and the candles are ON FIYAH! All is right in the world assuming the word consists solely of those three things.
Here are things that are happening right now that should not be: there is a dictionary open on the table to the left of my computer in which I look up nearly every word that I write (that doesn’t even make sense), I am giving text message relationship advice to the Tiffers (I have no business, but we shan’t get into that), and I am seriously mentally eyeballing that goat cheese cranberry walnut dressing mixture in the fridge, but I am not hungry.
What it all simmers down to is a cool, calm and collected state of arid, surface fissured August in Arizona of the mind. “You don’t use it you lose it.” I think it was Jesus who said that. And he was right, as usual. So I haven’t used it in a while, and I can’t, for the life of me, seem to find it. I’ll check in the couch cushions, you look in the fridge. If you find it in the fridge, do me a favor and take the milk out of the pantry. I always do that!
A bit ago, I took a steamy, candle-surrounded bath of modest bubble population in preparation for this most specialest of nights, and it was so hot, that when I got out of the tub, the water actually rose. Think about that…
Now, I’ve always been an oily entity, much like an olive. I’ve struggled for years with massive pores and city of scorching hot and excessively humid summers. As a result I’ve always had to wash my hair every other day, every day if I want to wear it down. That is, until I discovered the Beehive! This versatile hair style is perfect for any situation, from kneeling in a pew to cleaning up poo, from a five star meal to a parking lot deal, from giving head to being dead. You will never feel inappropriately coiffured in this dazzlingly altitudinal cranial sculpture. It is truly a work of art! Now you can stand proudly, head high (not that you have a choice) amongst your peers. No, not those neighborhood busy bodies who already eye you with malicious envy; I mean Michelangelo, DaVinci, VanGogh, and the rest of the great artists of the world, for your hair will be a magnum opus! And that’s not even the best part! With the Beehive, you will have to wash your hair but once a… no not day, not week, but once a month! Yes, you heard correctly, just once a month! Those days of tedious daily hygiene are over! Order now and we will include Eau de Dirty Head, a $3.00 value, at no cost to you. Simply send $10.00 plus $59.99 S&H to 123 Major Digression Blvd. Austin, Texas 78717.
Wow, I really got off track there, but it was flowin’ and well, I ain’t no dam. Only the first three sentences of that actually applied to me.
So yeah, I was oily, yadda yadda yadda, and now my skin feels all dry and you could sand a Depression-era armoire with my hands, though I’m sure that afterward it would be appraised for less at Antiques Road Show. Maybe it’s the Franzia. No no no, it’s just too high quality. Must be something else.
Wow I have been writing for like two hours, including the goat cheese concoction break! This is awesome! And it only felt like three!
Just kidding. This is, in all honestly the most, purest, sincere fun I’ve had in a while. As cliché as it is to say this, I feel alive. Not entirely, but like some part of me that’s essentially, uniquely me was resuscitated from the brink of death, saw the light at the end of the tunnel, saw the divine and came back to life with renewed meaning and faith in god and an interminable optimism that annoys and inspires all of its friends. I exaggerate. But you get what I mean.
I haven’t abetted these waxy pillars in fulfilling their torrid destinies at the urging of some latent longing bent on decimation. I only wanted a little ambiance. Some flickering amber light on the walls, ceiling, tabletop to infuse my surroundings with an excessive vanilla aroma and an amorous glow. Romance baby! I’m spending the evening with Curry, and I really want it to be special. So I’m having some wine, some smooth jams playing in the back ground (and foreground, and side ground…we have surround sound), she’s asleep in her kennel, and I’m writing this. Nothing sets Cupid’s arrow to firing and Aphrodite’s cup to overflowing quite like spending a candlelit dusk with my dog. Not even raw oysters, as sexy as they feel in my mouth.
Before this takes a disturbingly bestialitous turn, I will claim facetiousness, and a rare condition where in my brain completely ceases to function in a creative capacity when I am exposed to florescent lighting, even if I close my eyes, it infuses my skin like radiation (think Wal-Mart), and crippling loneliness which has lead to the personification of my dog, but really only in a conversational manner, and also idea bankruptcy because truthfully, and sadfully, this is all I have to say. Just you wait, I’ll pull a Stella. And get my groove back? You know, the movie? Jeezus, keep up with the times. Every one’s heard of that box office smash.
So Curry is sleeping off the day’s Bull Creek travails and I’m classily slurping my way through a chilled glass of Franzia Chardonnay (excellent vintage) and the candles are ON FIYAH! All is right in the world assuming the word consists solely of those three things.
Here are things that are happening right now that should not be: there is a dictionary open on the table to the left of my computer in which I look up nearly every word that I write (that doesn’t even make sense), I am giving text message relationship advice to the Tiffers (I have no business, but we shan’t get into that), and I am seriously mentally eyeballing that goat cheese cranberry walnut dressing mixture in the fridge, but I am not hungry.
What it all simmers down to is a cool, calm and collected state of arid, surface fissured August in Arizona of the mind. “You don’t use it you lose it.” I think it was Jesus who said that. And he was right, as usual. So I haven’t used it in a while, and I can’t, for the life of me, seem to find it. I’ll check in the couch cushions, you look in the fridge. If you find it in the fridge, do me a favor and take the milk out of the pantry. I always do that!
A bit ago, I took a steamy, candle-surrounded bath of modest bubble population in preparation for this most specialest of nights, and it was so hot, that when I got out of the tub, the water actually rose. Think about that…
Now, I’ve always been an oily entity, much like an olive. I’ve struggled for years with massive pores and city of scorching hot and excessively humid summers. As a result I’ve always had to wash my hair every other day, every day if I want to wear it down. That is, until I discovered the Beehive! This versatile hair style is perfect for any situation, from kneeling in a pew to cleaning up poo, from a five star meal to a parking lot deal, from giving head to being dead. You will never feel inappropriately coiffured in this dazzlingly altitudinal cranial sculpture. It is truly a work of art! Now you can stand proudly, head high (not that you have a choice) amongst your peers. No, not those neighborhood busy bodies who already eye you with malicious envy; I mean Michelangelo, DaVinci, VanGogh, and the rest of the great artists of the world, for your hair will be a magnum opus! And that’s not even the best part! With the Beehive, you will have to wash your hair but once a… no not day, not week, but once a month! Yes, you heard correctly, just once a month! Those days of tedious daily hygiene are over! Order now and we will include Eau de Dirty Head, a $3.00 value, at no cost to you. Simply send $10.00 plus $59.99 S&H to 123 Major Digression Blvd. Austin, Texas 78717.
Wow, I really got off track there, but it was flowin’ and well, I ain’t no dam. Only the first three sentences of that actually applied to me.
So yeah, I was oily, yadda yadda yadda, and now my skin feels all dry and you could sand a Depression-era armoire with my hands, though I’m sure that afterward it would be appraised for less at Antiques Road Show. Maybe it’s the Franzia. No no no, it’s just too high quality. Must be something else.
Wow I have been writing for like two hours, including the goat cheese concoction break! This is awesome! And it only felt like three!
Just kidding. This is, in all honestly the most, purest, sincere fun I’ve had in a while. As cliché as it is to say this, I feel alive. Not entirely, but like some part of me that’s essentially, uniquely me was resuscitated from the brink of death, saw the light at the end of the tunnel, saw the divine and came back to life with renewed meaning and faith in god and an interminable optimism that annoys and inspires all of its friends. I exaggerate. But you get what I mean.
Thursday, January 31
The situation is desperate.
If you've seen Zoolander, you will understand the following. If you haven't, fuck it anyway.
I am a male model, sliding rapidly down the unfavorable side of my apex in the biz, and I am asking myself, reflected in gutter water, "who am I?" to which I quickly reply, "I don't know."
It's like I'm stuck in some shitty nightmare, wherein I am me, but not me. In fact, the part of "me" is being played by a shitty actor who in no way, physically or mentally, resembles the real deal. And I'm pinching myself and freaking out, doing everything short of cutting my left hand off, but for the life of me, I can't wake up. At this point I've given up, and I'm just hoping someone will rescue me, even if it's by dumping a glass of ice water on my face. Any awakening, even a rude one, is welcome.
And as for right now, I am, in a penitential gesture, writing outside, not braving but enduring the howling gales that torture the joints of this creaking porch. Not really. Sometimes it is a bit chilly, but I'm having hot tea, and the day is fartin gorgeous, and I drove my miserable ass all the way to Spiderhouse as a treat for laying around and being sick for the past two days. I love this place. What do I have to complain about?
Whoa whoa whoa, watch yourself! That is a can of mutant, saw-toothed, festering lesion laden worms! Put down that can opener! Don't even go there.
If you've seen Zoolander, you will understand the following. If you haven't, fuck it anyway.
I am a male model, sliding rapidly down the unfavorable side of my apex in the biz, and I am asking myself, reflected in gutter water, "who am I?" to which I quickly reply, "I don't know."
It's like I'm stuck in some shitty nightmare, wherein I am me, but not me. In fact, the part of "me" is being played by a shitty actor who in no way, physically or mentally, resembles the real deal. And I'm pinching myself and freaking out, doing everything short of cutting my left hand off, but for the life of me, I can't wake up. At this point I've given up, and I'm just hoping someone will rescue me, even if it's by dumping a glass of ice water on my face. Any awakening, even a rude one, is welcome.
And as for right now, I am, in a penitential gesture, writing outside, not braving but enduring the howling gales that torture the joints of this creaking porch. Not really. Sometimes it is a bit chilly, but I'm having hot tea, and the day is fartin gorgeous, and I drove my miserable ass all the way to Spiderhouse as a treat for laying around and being sick for the past two days. I love this place. What do I have to complain about?
Whoa whoa whoa, watch yourself! That is a can of mutant, saw-toothed, festering lesion laden worms! Put down that can opener! Don't even go there.
Saturday, December 15
My heavy bangs, which have in certain circles been predicted to be quite fashionable in the coming year, have been blown dry and straight, while the rest of my hair is sitting damp and limp on my back and shoulders, in the midst of a half ass attempt at being curly. I am eating stolen biscotti with my tea. How many can allege to have eaten stolen biscotti? Not many. I am now a part of an elite community whose sole claim is to have eaten a pilfered petrified pastry. I know what you’re thinking, but lets face it, life isn’t fair. I have spent more time writing today than I have in the past month or more combined. I wanted to say “writing rubbish” but I made split-second pact with myself to never call anything I write rubbish, as it would only make me think negatively on the little writing that I do these days. My canine encumbrance (notice that I’ve changed the commonly used ‘companion’ to something slightly more, um, accurate; this is no mistake) has been somewhere in the vicinity of my feet for hours. She is dreaming her doggy dreams, doggedly chasing something worthwhile (her tail) no doubt, with one eye open, lest a real threat (her tail) that needs her attention present itself.
I was listening to Tchaikovsky a few minutes ago because I needed something wordless and non-depressing (see previous Boards of Canada entry) to listen to. Yeah….no. That lasted for a couple of nocturnes, when I felt the little burrito of my soul unfold and begin to wither. I knew then that it was time for a change of pace. I selected track one of Best of Flamenco, which is, obviously, the best of flamenco, and pushed play. Now, not only is my burrito revamped and refolded, I’d venture to call it a burrito supreme.
I was listening to Tchaikovsky a few minutes ago because I needed something wordless and non-depressing (see previous Boards of Canada entry) to listen to. Yeah….no. That lasted for a couple of nocturnes, when I felt the little burrito of my soul unfold and begin to wither. I knew then that it was time for a change of pace. I selected track one of Best of Flamenco, which is, obviously, the best of flamenco, and pushed play. Now, not only is my burrito revamped and refolded, I’d venture to call it a burrito supreme.
Transient Woman
I am in my car; I am the driver, pulled up to and stopped at a light. I am waiting to turn left. There is a transient woman on the corner, looking directly into my face. Directly, or so I imagine, just as every other driver must imagine, while we fidget with our phones or change the radio station. Any distraction, any device to give an air of busyness, of lost in thought-ness, of I-didn’t-give-you-money-because-I-didn’t-even-know-you-were-there-ness. The woman on the corner holds a sign that simply says “IN NEED.” Nothing more. No sob stories or case histories, no ploys, nothing to make you chuckle and subsequently donate for the amusement. The words on the sign were even spelled correctly, and each letter faced the appropriate direction. A simple statement, so fine in effectiveness, so effective in its simplicity, it shoots through every logical thought, every judgment, every grammatical criticism, straight to our wells, whatever the size, of humanity and compassion. Or so it should. But there’s no accounting for doubts, suspected deceptions, and the fear of being victimized by a scam. With these tools, anything can be justified.
These thoughts, in a situation of the seconds it takes to look down at the never sizeable and steadily dwindling stack of ones in my purse.
I have no job. In fact, I am on my way to an interview as we speak. I have less than fifty dollars to my name (including the changed change in the water jug, less the 8.9% fee (greedy bastards!)), and well over a thousand owed to a mess of places. Self inflicted responsibilities, drowning in them, everything a compounded result of a decision I’ve made. I look back at this woman, in her out dated and ratty jeans, her ill kempt teeth, sneakers dirtied by smog and street corner smut. She stands in the cold, moistened by a persistent drizzle. She has laid down her pride and she begs. I don’t know her reasons. I don’t know what decisions she’s made or have been made for her that have brought her to this specific junction in space and time. Despite her exposure to the elements, her lack of things, her necessary humility, I envy her. For her freedom. And despite my worries and pressures, despite my stress and obligations, maybe she envies me. For my…well, maybe not. Maybe for the respect I can have from others for being “respectable,” for doing what I’m supposed to do. Maybe she doesn’t need that. Maybe she craves it. I wonder, is the scorn of your species a reasonable price to pay for your freedom, for living the way you want to live, or the way you have to live? And what about the price I pay? Is the forsaking of your freedom a reasonable price to pay for the approval of your neighbor, for a completely insecure sense of security?
Theses thoughts, in the mere moment it takes for me to pull my eyes from my purse, and decide to keep my dollar for myself.
These thoughts, in a situation of the seconds it takes to look down at the never sizeable and steadily dwindling stack of ones in my purse.
I have no job. In fact, I am on my way to an interview as we speak. I have less than fifty dollars to my name (including the changed change in the water jug, less the 8.9% fee (greedy bastards!)), and well over a thousand owed to a mess of places. Self inflicted responsibilities, drowning in them, everything a compounded result of a decision I’ve made. I look back at this woman, in her out dated and ratty jeans, her ill kempt teeth, sneakers dirtied by smog and street corner smut. She stands in the cold, moistened by a persistent drizzle. She has laid down her pride and she begs. I don’t know her reasons. I don’t know what decisions she’s made or have been made for her that have brought her to this specific junction in space and time. Despite her exposure to the elements, her lack of things, her necessary humility, I envy her. For her freedom. And despite my worries and pressures, despite my stress and obligations, maybe she envies me. For my…well, maybe not. Maybe for the respect I can have from others for being “respectable,” for doing what I’m supposed to do. Maybe she doesn’t need that. Maybe she craves it. I wonder, is the scorn of your species a reasonable price to pay for your freedom, for living the way you want to live, or the way you have to live? And what about the price I pay? Is the forsaking of your freedom a reasonable price to pay for the approval of your neighbor, for a completely insecure sense of security?
Theses thoughts, in the mere moment it takes for me to pull my eyes from my purse, and decide to keep my dollar for myself.
Here is where I am. My legs are crossed into a Native American pattern, and just one of my dried and crusty feet sits in my lap, like some deformed, yet pleasantly quiet baby, wearing a golden ring on its bulbous, what would it be, arm? My lap, and similarly the remainder of my lower half, is covered in inadvertently stolen, sparkling cherry screaming pajama pants. They are very thin, very comfortable, and despite these things, not mine. I meant to return them before Lindsay left, but I didn’t, so I must accept this flamboyant night wear as my charge. I am drowning in responsibility.
I walked outside and downstairs today, only to allow my phone charger eating, constipated, asshole of a dog to urinate and defecate. She did not defecate. Shocking.
I am still blinking boogers from my eyes as I’m typing this, and although you don’t know this, I am making beau coups of typos and stealthily rectifying them before they can be observed. That’s just the kind of person I am.
Ambulatory appendage update! I have stretched out my legs to rest on the chairs in front of me, and right foot (the baby) is tingling with awakening. Such miserable shit. Fortunately no one is around to poke or prod my yawning limb at a time like this. I’m channeling memories of Melody and my days of prolific toilet top reading. But that’s another story for anther time.
Actually, to be honest, the story has been 90% written; maybe 85% if you consider that it hasn’t been edited. Maybe I’ll work on that later, so I have something cohesive on my sister’s various adolescent torture tactics to present to the world. Yes, I will write it! I will write it and inspire siblings across the land!
Last night I thought of a funny way of describing myself which is “poop poured into a human mold (Candice, 2007).” This isn’t always necessarily accurate thought. Sometimes I’ll make an effort, style my hair, slap on some make up, don a tutu, and then I may be more accurately described as poop poured into a human mold then adorned with a ribbon; a pink and red ribbon, a sparkling cherry screaming ribbon.
I walked outside and downstairs today, only to allow my phone charger eating, constipated, asshole of a dog to urinate and defecate. She did not defecate. Shocking.
I am still blinking boogers from my eyes as I’m typing this, and although you don’t know this, I am making beau coups of typos and stealthily rectifying them before they can be observed. That’s just the kind of person I am.
Ambulatory appendage update! I have stretched out my legs to rest on the chairs in front of me, and right foot (the baby) is tingling with awakening. Such miserable shit. Fortunately no one is around to poke or prod my yawning limb at a time like this. I’m channeling memories of Melody and my days of prolific toilet top reading. But that’s another story for anther time.
Actually, to be honest, the story has been 90% written; maybe 85% if you consider that it hasn’t been edited. Maybe I’ll work on that later, so I have something cohesive on my sister’s various adolescent torture tactics to present to the world. Yes, I will write it! I will write it and inspire siblings across the land!
Last night I thought of a funny way of describing myself which is “poop poured into a human mold (Candice, 2007).” This isn’t always necessarily accurate thought. Sometimes I’ll make an effort, style my hair, slap on some make up, don a tutu, and then I may be more accurately described as poop poured into a human mold then adorned with a ribbon; a pink and red ribbon, a sparkling cherry screaming ribbon.
Bubble Bath
Once again I find myself confronted with an opening line dealing my listening to Boards of Canada, and the very weird place it puts me. So I won’t elaborate much. But for a quick Dayvan Cowboy update, I have just finished listening to it for the first time in months literally, and I was in the ocean, and the waves were tumbling my mind, and while I’m not in an existential crisis yet, I am a bit dazed. The weather is grey and I am far from the sea in a place I have been, and been, and been, with vibrant memories flashing and swirling in my mind of distant places, distant people. I am looking out this window, again again again, at this tree I have seen so many times it is now a part of my mind, and the weather isn’t grey, it’s the sky, so oppressive it’s found its way inside.
That’s the basic gist of it anyway.
There are many fruitful and productive things I could be engaging myself in. I could be exercising at this luxurious apartment complex’s 24 hour gym. I could be bathing myself in the Dove soap shaped bathtub, the kind that, when you see one somewhere you either think to yourself or say aloud, “I’d love to take a bubble bath in that!” But that sad truth is, if you had that bath tub, you would rarely, if ever, take a bubble bath in it. You wouldn’t treat yourself to some lemonade or some hot tea, and sit in the tiny, tickling bubbles for an hour, some candles lit, reading a book, closing your eyes and listening to some tunes. If you even made it as far as the bubbles, you’d, in all likeliness, sit in the underappreciated warmth of the water, and think about all the other things you should be doing that are productive and non-frivolous for about ten minutes before deciding to get out and become a person you can respect and your mother can be proud of. After deciding this you will drain the bath, wasting fifty gallons of water, killing several fish and completely obliterating one species of algae, all for naught, since you didn’t even enjoy yourself. And worst part of it all is that, en route to accomplishing the first item on your list of ‘should’ activities, you will turn on the tv, sit your dimpled ass on the sofa, and not move for the next several hours except to stuff your jiggling face with potato chips or to relieve your self of your bodies fetid waste.
It’s grim, I know, but it’s reality.
Can’t we just accept our congenital selfishness sometimes? And by “we”, I mean “I”. Can’t we just do what we need to do sometimes instead of what we should do? I can only stand in appalled amazement when mentally observing the vast library of tomes left unwritten by me in lieu of tidying or dish washing or worst of all, television. Disgusting. All that genius wasted on an hour of mindless entertainment, a clean kitchen which will only once again become dirty after dinner.
About a year ago now, I was in the apogee of a fantastic phase for me. It was an era during which I commented at the very least twenty times daily on my awesomeness. Instead of hearing a constant inner monologue of self-doubt, self-loathing, fear, insecurity, I was verbally reiterating the nature of my awesome. A very simple and very effective affirmation. You don’t need to write one hundred sentences a day on the things you want or don’t want in your life. This is a catchall. When you are awesome, everything else falls into place. The only possible negative side effect, if it could even be viewed as negative, is excessive self-confidence, which, to some nay-sayers, could translate as a superior complex. Not so. I always encouraged my friends to celebrate their awesome vocally, and they did. And you know what? It helped them too.
Here’s the sad thing. These days, when, in some sort retrogressive tribute I say “I’m awesome” it sounds weak and pathetic. It sounds like a lie. Maybe it’s the lack of coke, maybe it’s the fact that I’m not on an awesome solo voyage. I don’t know the answers to these speculations. But I do know that at some point I stopped saying it, and as a consequence, I stopped believing it.
So, do I believe in my awesome no matter what, or do I make myself something I can’t help but to believe in the awesomeness of? Maybe some where in between.
That’s the basic gist of it anyway.
There are many fruitful and productive things I could be engaging myself in. I could be exercising at this luxurious apartment complex’s 24 hour gym. I could be bathing myself in the Dove soap shaped bathtub, the kind that, when you see one somewhere you either think to yourself or say aloud, “I’d love to take a bubble bath in that!” But that sad truth is, if you had that bath tub, you would rarely, if ever, take a bubble bath in it. You wouldn’t treat yourself to some lemonade or some hot tea, and sit in the tiny, tickling bubbles for an hour, some candles lit, reading a book, closing your eyes and listening to some tunes. If you even made it as far as the bubbles, you’d, in all likeliness, sit in the underappreciated warmth of the water, and think about all the other things you should be doing that are productive and non-frivolous for about ten minutes before deciding to get out and become a person you can respect and your mother can be proud of. After deciding this you will drain the bath, wasting fifty gallons of water, killing several fish and completely obliterating one species of algae, all for naught, since you didn’t even enjoy yourself. And worst part of it all is that, en route to accomplishing the first item on your list of ‘should’ activities, you will turn on the tv, sit your dimpled ass on the sofa, and not move for the next several hours except to stuff your jiggling face with potato chips or to relieve your self of your bodies fetid waste.
It’s grim, I know, but it’s reality.
Can’t we just accept our congenital selfishness sometimes? And by “we”, I mean “I”. Can’t we just do what we need to do sometimes instead of what we should do? I can only stand in appalled amazement when mentally observing the vast library of tomes left unwritten by me in lieu of tidying or dish washing or worst of all, television. Disgusting. All that genius wasted on an hour of mindless entertainment, a clean kitchen which will only once again become dirty after dinner.
About a year ago now, I was in the apogee of a fantastic phase for me. It was an era during which I commented at the very least twenty times daily on my awesomeness. Instead of hearing a constant inner monologue of self-doubt, self-loathing, fear, insecurity, I was verbally reiterating the nature of my awesome. A very simple and very effective affirmation. You don’t need to write one hundred sentences a day on the things you want or don’t want in your life. This is a catchall. When you are awesome, everything else falls into place. The only possible negative side effect, if it could even be viewed as negative, is excessive self-confidence, which, to some nay-sayers, could translate as a superior complex. Not so. I always encouraged my friends to celebrate their awesome vocally, and they did. And you know what? It helped them too.
Here’s the sad thing. These days, when, in some sort retrogressive tribute I say “I’m awesome” it sounds weak and pathetic. It sounds like a lie. Maybe it’s the lack of coke, maybe it’s the fact that I’m not on an awesome solo voyage. I don’t know the answers to these speculations. But I do know that at some point I stopped saying it, and as a consequence, I stopped believing it.
So, do I believe in my awesome no matter what, or do I make myself something I can’t help but to believe in the awesomeness of? Maybe some where in between.
Tuesday, December 11
Okay kids, now it’s time for “Candice tries to explain life with a random adage she made up.” Yay!
Life is, in its most duo chromatic sense, like theatre. There are tragedies, and there are comedies. We are often quite quick to cry at the tragedies, slow to laugh at the comedies, and almost always fail to see that there’s no distinct line between the two. In essence, in the great cosmic play, we are all the comic relief.
I just added that last sentence at the end. Kind of brings the whole theatre of life theme full circle. I feel as though this minute morsel of magnificent will lose some of its scintillating effect by any effort to clarify on my part, but since I can be wordy, and I also do so happen to love the sound of my own hands typing, I can’t resist. One indisputable example of the bleeding and blending of comedy and tragedy, the “opposites” attraction in to copulation and ergo, the creation of a progeny, is the show “ America's Funniest Home Videos.” For those who aren’t familiar with the show (where have you been existing for the previous fifteen years, dwelling beneath an igneous boulder?) (I’m a douche) I’ll sum it up quickly: people or animals or babies (because they aren’t people?) do funny things, almost always involving someone getting hurt, videotape it, send it in to win a prize, and the viewers, whether in the audience or at home, laugh. Now that I’ve explained the program, I think it would be redundant to expound further on my point. People get hurt, we laugh, and thus the line is blurred.
As a speedy aside, I learned something quite interesting as I googled comedy and tragedy to find appropriate links. What I found was 5,760,000 entries for tragedy, while comedy came in with a whopping 34,900,000. Kudos to humanity. We're trying to look on the bright side.
I am capable of annoying even myself. Not that it’s hard.
Life is, in its most duo chromatic sense, like theatre. There are tragedies, and there are comedies. We are often quite quick to cry at the tragedies, slow to laugh at the comedies, and almost always fail to see that there’s no distinct line between the two. In essence, in the great cosmic play, we are all the comic relief.
I just added that last sentence at the end. Kind of brings the whole theatre of life theme full circle. I feel as though this minute morsel of magnificent will lose some of its scintillating effect by any effort to clarify on my part, but since I can be wordy, and I also do so happen to love the sound of my own hands typing, I can’t resist. One indisputable example of the bleeding and blending of comedy and tragedy, the “opposites” attraction in to copulation and ergo, the creation of a progeny, is the show “ America's Funniest Home Videos.” For those who aren’t familiar with the show (where have you been existing for the previous fifteen years, dwelling beneath an igneous boulder?) (I’m a douche) I’ll sum it up quickly: people or animals or babies (because they aren’t people?) do funny things, almost always involving someone getting hurt, videotape it, send it in to win a prize, and the viewers, whether in the audience or at home, laugh. Now that I’ve explained the program, I think it would be redundant to expound further on my point. People get hurt, we laugh, and thus the line is blurred.
As a speedy aside, I learned something quite interesting as I googled comedy and tragedy to find appropriate links. What I found was 5,760,000 entries for tragedy, while comedy came in with a whopping 34,900,000. Kudos to humanity. We're trying to look on the bright side.
I am capable of annoying even myself. Not that it’s hard.
Wednesday, October 31
A poll
After spending several hours playing Spanish homework catch up, I am slightly mentally depleted. Here is an unofficial poll:
Should you write on your blog for the sake of posting, even if your brain equals mashed bananas?
Here are your answer options:
1. Yes
2. No
Discuss...
Should you write on your blog for the sake of posting, even if your brain equals mashed bananas?
Here are your answer options:
1. Yes
2. No
Discuss...
Tuesday, October 23
A lifelong puzzlement, solved!
I was just looking back over some photos from my Southeast Asian adventure, rereading the fabulous, if few, posts I wrote in the midst of it all, and becoming increasingly depressed. I've decided to skip class today, in lieu of commiserating with myself over the suckitude of my life.
Do not be alarmed. This happens with some frequency.
I don't really want to get into one of my rambling whining rants, so I probably will despite myself. In an attempt to curb this compulsion I will tell you a story filled with witticisms, struggle, family intrigue, a fall from grace, and finally, redemption.
When I was just a wee lassy, in order to not corrupt my chaste ears, my Grandma, god rest her soul, used to refer to my vj, her vj, and all vjs for that matter, as a 'possible'. For years, roughly 20, after the blind acceptance of this bizarre terminology began to wane, I puzzled over this question: why? Why, of all cute or cuddly or inoffensive colloquialisms, would she choose to use the word 'possible' in addressing my cookie?
In an effort to unravel this convoluted nest of insanity, this reporter hit the streets, and what she found was astonishing... absolutely nothing.
When sharing humorous anecdotes on what words our grandparents used to refer to our genitalia, my story would have scant effect on my friends apart from perplexion. I studied, inquired, even begged for some clue into this mystery, but no such lead was forthcoming.
On one pre mortem visit I made to my Grandma, I had the presence of mind to ask that maddening question I had so long yearned to have answered; why? As I waited, animation suspended save for a pounding heart and a barely detectable twitch in the corner of my right eye, the suspense killing me, literally (notice, I neglected to include breathing. Remember to always breathe, or you will die. I will elaborate on the physiological repercussions of lack of oxygen, to the body at a later time), she finally parted her lips, and began to utter that most holy of utterances. It was as if the clouds had separated, the clouds being her lips, and god him/her/itself spewed out all his/her/its glorious lumination about the land, and all blessed enough to stand beneath its radiating brilliance, were enlightened with, not the secrets of life, but THE secret to life.
What she said was this: "I don't know. My mother used to say it."
Her mother who has been dead since well before I was born. FRICK!
Since that traumatic, devastatingly devastating incident, I have carried that burden with me, in silence, letting it stew, or ripen, or fester, depending on your perspective or the day I'm having.
But all that changed one fateful night. The most important of all nights in my life thus far, which was either Thursday or Sunday, I can't remember.
So, I'm chatting with a couple of friends, again involved in a grandparent-bequeathed-slang-term-for-genitals conversation, when I relate my heartbreaking story. When I finish, teary eyed and obviously shaken, my friend, Walta, says to me, "Are you kidding? You don't know where that comes from?"
Well, this was the last response that I expected. Contrary to usual post 'possible' events, he wasn't forlorn or desolate, he wasn't as panicked as a recently bombed villager. Neigh, he was sitting there, telling me that he, in all his wisdom, had the answer to the biggest conundrum of my life.
Once I recaptured my breath, and my faltering heart had resumed its regular rhythm, I demanded he proceed.
This is what he told me.
When he was just a young boy, and due to hygienic negligence, had got to smelling pretty ripe, his mother would tell him to "get in the shower and wash as high as possible, wash as low as possible, and don't forget to wash possible."
Wow!
As relieving as it was, it lacked the satisfaction I had longed for for so long. As amusing as it was in a nostalgicly reminiscent of yesteryear type of way, it was a bit of a let down. It was searching for King Tut's tomb, only to find inside of it a King Tut Ken doll.
Don't be mistaken, I would not trade this knowledge for the world (okay, that is a lie), but after so many years of contriving stories about the unlockings of dark family secrets, concocting arcana to which 'possible' was the cipher, it was, suffice it to say, anticlimactic.
But c'est la vie, it's a good story, and you were totally scandalized but also so enticed that you nutted in your panties.
It's time for me to smoke a Nigarette (shout out to LindSAY). I may post yet again today since I'm a truant slacker who just so happens to love to sporadically write things.
Do not be alarmed. This happens with some frequency.
I don't really want to get into one of my rambling whining rants, so I probably will despite myself. In an attempt to curb this compulsion I will tell you a story filled with witticisms, struggle, family intrigue, a fall from grace, and finally, redemption.
When I was just a wee lassy, in order to not corrupt my chaste ears, my Grandma, god rest her soul, used to refer to my vj, her vj, and all vjs for that matter, as a 'possible'. For years, roughly 20, after the blind acceptance of this bizarre terminology began to wane, I puzzled over this question: why? Why, of all cute or cuddly or inoffensive colloquialisms, would she choose to use the word 'possible' in addressing my cookie?
In an effort to unravel this convoluted nest of insanity, this reporter hit the streets, and what she found was astonishing... absolutely nothing.
When sharing humorous anecdotes on what words our grandparents used to refer to our genitalia, my story would have scant effect on my friends apart from perplexion. I studied, inquired, even begged for some clue into this mystery, but no such lead was forthcoming.
On one pre mortem visit I made to my Grandma, I had the presence of mind to ask that maddening question I had so long yearned to have answered; why? As I waited, animation suspended save for a pounding heart and a barely detectable twitch in the corner of my right eye, the suspense killing me, literally (notice, I neglected to include breathing. Remember to always breathe, or you will die. I will elaborate on the physiological repercussions of lack of oxygen, to the body at a later time), she finally parted her lips, and began to utter that most holy of utterances. It was as if the clouds had separated, the clouds being her lips, and god him/her/itself spewed out all his/her/its glorious lumination about the land, and all blessed enough to stand beneath its radiating brilliance, were enlightened with, not the secrets of life, but THE secret to life.
What she said was this: "I don't know. My mother used to say it."
Her mother who has been dead since well before I was born. FRICK!
Since that traumatic, devastatingly devastating incident, I have carried that burden with me, in silence, letting it stew, or ripen, or fester, depending on your perspective or the day I'm having.
But all that changed one fateful night. The most important of all nights in my life thus far, which was either Thursday or Sunday, I can't remember.
So, I'm chatting with a couple of friends, again involved in a grandparent-bequeathed-slang-term-for-genitals conversation, when I relate my heartbreaking story. When I finish, teary eyed and obviously shaken, my friend, Walta, says to me, "Are you kidding? You don't know where that comes from?"
Well, this was the last response that I expected. Contrary to usual post 'possible' events, he wasn't forlorn or desolate, he wasn't as panicked as a recently bombed villager. Neigh, he was sitting there, telling me that he, in all his wisdom, had the answer to the biggest conundrum of my life.
Once I recaptured my breath, and my faltering heart had resumed its regular rhythm, I demanded he proceed.
This is what he told me.
When he was just a young boy, and due to hygienic negligence, had got to smelling pretty ripe, his mother would tell him to "get in the shower and wash as high as possible, wash as low as possible, and don't forget to wash possible."
Wow!
As relieving as it was, it lacked the satisfaction I had longed for for so long. As amusing as it was in a nostalgicly reminiscent of yesteryear type of way, it was a bit of a let down. It was searching for King Tut's tomb, only to find inside of it a King Tut Ken doll.
Don't be mistaken, I would not trade this knowledge for the world (okay, that is a lie), but after so many years of contriving stories about the unlockings of dark family secrets, concocting arcana to which 'possible' was the cipher, it was, suffice it to say, anticlimactic.
But c'est la vie, it's a good story, and you were totally scandalized but also so enticed that you nutted in your panties.
It's time for me to smoke a Nigarette (shout out to LindSAY). I may post yet again today since I'm a truant slacker who just so happens to love to sporadically write things.
Click
So, in a halting, sputtering, clumsily stuttering manner, I am attempting to transform myself into a journalist, a documenter of the professional variety, not through school, and drab papers on uninteresting topics I am forced to trifle away my creative quasi-genius on. Instead, I am starting a new personal campaign I’m calling the “Stop watching TV it will never help you accomplish anything you want, except maybe slightly improving your cooking skills” campaign.
I’m constantly coming across calls for entries for restaurant reviews, articles about Austin places and events, and the like, yet not only do I not write, and subsequently enter nothing, I don’t even peel my ass off of the couch, grab a Chronicle, and go out to see what my city has to offer. So, this week, Thursday to be precise, I’m going to go to an adult spelling bee at Fado, and if I’m feeling especially gutsy, I may even enter, since, as most know, I am an exceptional speller.
Then, on November 14th, Cris and I will drive all the way out to Marble Falls for a play which we’ll be seeing free of cost, save for the bajillion dollars in gas it will cost to get there. My goal is to bring my camera, if I can manage to remember it this time, and a tablet and document the shit out of it. I will then write a review so compelling, it will outshine the play itself, making all who read it, but did not see the play, glad they saved their gas and the environment. I will also do this for the spelling bee that I’m going to win.
Cris is usually reluctant to even want to accompany me on my unexecuted excursion ideas, no matter how economical. He’s agreed to the play, but I think the spelling bee is going to take some work. But regardless of whether my couch warming companion is willing to come along or not, I’m going. I mean, how many times can you watch the same episodes of Scrub’s?
I’m constantly coming across calls for entries for restaurant reviews, articles about Austin places and events, and the like, yet not only do I not write, and subsequently enter nothing, I don’t even peel my ass off of the couch, grab a Chronicle, and go out to see what my city has to offer. So, this week, Thursday to be precise, I’m going to go to an adult spelling bee at Fado, and if I’m feeling especially gutsy, I may even enter, since, as most know, I am an exceptional speller.
Then, on November 14th, Cris and I will drive all the way out to Marble Falls for a play which we’ll be seeing free of cost, save for the bajillion dollars in gas it will cost to get there. My goal is to bring my camera, if I can manage to remember it this time, and a tablet and document the shit out of it. I will then write a review so compelling, it will outshine the play itself, making all who read it, but did not see the play, glad they saved their gas and the environment. I will also do this for the spelling bee that I’m going to win.
Cris is usually reluctant to even want to accompany me on my unexecuted excursion ideas, no matter how economical. He’s agreed to the play, but I think the spelling bee is going to take some work. But regardless of whether my couch warming companion is willing to come along or not, I’m going. I mean, how many times can you watch the same episodes of Scrub’s?
Why? Why? Why?
“Why?” is a complete sentence in itself. I know this because spell check told me. And as highly amusing a topic as this is, I cannot proceed. I can’t because I am wondering about a few things.
Am I making the right decisions? Are there wrong decisions? I don’t want to start waxing philosophical because I have real concerns that can’t likely be helped by mental masturbation (but it feels oh so good!). I worry that I am sacrificing myself, and that I am not strong enough not to lose me, not to forget me. I worry that I can’t accept people that I love, and that I’ll never really love anyone because I can’t accept them. How many things do you really have to have in common? How much compromise (or sacrifice on a bad day) is acceptable? Do I really want to be around someone like me? Do I always have to be right? Can’t any body take a fucking joke? Should I censor myself because no one can take a fucking joke? Was it really a fucking joke? Am I allowed to think he’s wrong? That just takes me right back to: Do I always have to be right? Are relationships really just two people trying to change each other?
I got an email from a friend today. All it said was, “write something today.” That person cares about me. And although this isn’t likely what my friend had in mind, I did write, this, and I only actually coerced myself to do it because those three words kept popping into my head. Write something today. Apparently I’m not the only one who gives a frick about my writing, which is good because I obviously don’t give enough of a frick.
Tonight Cris and I made some sesame chicken and broccoli with rice. It was yummy. The chicken was moist and tender, much like a recently used vagina. The sauce had all the important Asian flavor components, which are: sweet, salty, spicy, bitter, and MSG. Necessarily, I didn’t wind up going to work. I was easily dissuaded.
I only mention our succulent feast because it was assigned to me to write about something (presumably other than poop and my perpetual problems) for at least five minutes every day. A few options on the menu du jour are bands I saw, restaurants I ate at, streets I walked down, public toilets I employed, or even just meals I prepared at home. Since I did nothing of consequence today, you get home made sesame chicken, and very little of it for that matter. We ate it all.
Though I suppose it would be mildly amusing to dissertate on the TABC certification course I spent four and a half irretrievable hours of my life completing today. It was super. More on that later. It is 1:39 a.m. what do you think I am some sort of heathen? Frick!
Am I making the right decisions? Are there wrong decisions? I don’t want to start waxing philosophical because I have real concerns that can’t likely be helped by mental masturbation (but it feels oh so good!). I worry that I am sacrificing myself, and that I am not strong enough not to lose me, not to forget me. I worry that I can’t accept people that I love, and that I’ll never really love anyone because I can’t accept them. How many things do you really have to have in common? How much compromise (or sacrifice on a bad day) is acceptable? Do I really want to be around someone like me? Do I always have to be right? Can’t any body take a fucking joke? Should I censor myself because no one can take a fucking joke? Was it really a fucking joke? Am I allowed to think he’s wrong? That just takes me right back to: Do I always have to be right? Are relationships really just two people trying to change each other?
I got an email from a friend today. All it said was, “write something today.” That person cares about me. And although this isn’t likely what my friend had in mind, I did write, this, and I only actually coerced myself to do it because those three words kept popping into my head. Write something today. Apparently I’m not the only one who gives a frick about my writing, which is good because I obviously don’t give enough of a frick.
Tonight Cris and I made some sesame chicken and broccoli with rice. It was yummy. The chicken was moist and tender, much like a recently used vagina. The sauce had all the important Asian flavor components, which are: sweet, salty, spicy, bitter, and MSG. Necessarily, I didn’t wind up going to work. I was easily dissuaded.
I only mention our succulent feast because it was assigned to me to write about something (presumably other than poop and my perpetual problems) for at least five minutes every day. A few options on the menu du jour are bands I saw, restaurants I ate at, streets I walked down, public toilets I employed, or even just meals I prepared at home. Since I did nothing of consequence today, you get home made sesame chicken, and very little of it for that matter. We ate it all.
Though I suppose it would be mildly amusing to dissertate on the TABC certification course I spent four and a half irretrievable hours of my life completing today. It was super. More on that later. It is 1:39 a.m. what do you think I am some sort of heathen? Frick!
Monday, October 8
Reply to an "Anonymous" Commenter
Since receiving this “anonymous” comment:
“It is a sad thing to see,,,,families torn apart by anger and bitterness.....but you are the pot calling the kettle black!!! I have no pity for someone like you. But wait....maybe someone like you should be pitied. Someone that has no clue about anything. Do not ever think you know what went on....because you dont. We are glad we never have to see you. You are pathetic,” in response to this post, I’ve been doing a lot of back and forth deliberation in my mind on how to respond to it.
When I first signed into my blogger account, I was elated to find two unmoderated comments (nearly half my annual influx) awaiting my scrutinization and approval. As I read through this comment, as my pulse quickened, and my stomach rolled, I realized that this was my first piece of hate mail, which, I won’t lie, was pretty exciting. But when I got to the end of this ridiculous rant of retaliation, I realized that despite first appearances, this commenter wasn’t anonymous. It was my ex-stepmother.
Not from just some brief, mid-life-crisis marriage between my dad and some one twenty years his senior. No, this is the Ruthie mentioned in the entry I’ve linked. The one towards whom, along with my dad, I’ve harbored bitter feelings regarding my sorry adolescence, but was actually beginning to forgive when the pettiness of such grudges bludgeoned me in the head with my Grandmother’s death. I have known this woman since I was two. She acted as my mother until I moved out of my parent’s house when I was sixteen.
So naturally I was a bit shaken up by the comment. I smoked my first cigarette of the day at 5 o’clock in the evening after reading it. I even shed a few tears.
As I’m sure you have noticed, I have absolutely no problem with airing my personal business right here on my very own cozy little blog. I could tell you a multitude of things to convince you of, not just my ex-stepmother’s mistakes (we aren’t talking about my dad here), but her evilness as well. I could insult her, belittle, and berate her. I could be mean, very very mean. And believe me, in the days since I received the comment, I have written countless searing retorts in my mind. But after no small amount of reasoning with my self, and an even not smaller amount of reasoning from Cris, I’ve decided against that. Actually, Cris doesn’t even think I should respond, but to me, this isn’t some random insult from an internet surfer who has exhausted their supply of porn. This is someone who has impacted my life severely, and despite the positive connotation of the word ‘impacted’, I do not mean it that way. I mean that, although I won’t be mean, I don’t care about being the bigger person. I care that this ‘anonymous’ hater know how things really are.
So here goes:
One big thing…bitterness and anger didn’t destroy our family. Lies did. Your lies. You know what I’m talking about.
Second, even if my family had been destroyed by bitterness and anger, what’s it to ya? You removed yourself from my family when you cheated on my dad and left him for some one else’s husband. I know you’re thinking to yourself, “She doesn’t know what went on. Todd cheated on me too.” Well, I did know. Hello, I did live with both of you, and it isn’t as if you quietly discussed all of your problems behind the locked doors of your bedroom, though some times you did yell through them. No, you screamed about them, daily. And don’t believe for a second that I’m in the dark about things that went on in our house. I know more than you think.
Also, as a quick aside, and I know I’m being a little mean here, but what the hey? Isn’t it interesting how quickly you ceased to be considered family despite your many years involved in it, and how my mom is still considered family by my dad’s family despite her many years absent? Very interesting. Very telling.
Thirdly, you say I don’t know what went on. Even if that were true, it’s completely moot, since I do know that despite adult situations that children can’t understand, there is a right way that kids should be treated. They should come first; they should be educated, if not in school, then in the home school you withdrew them from public school to be in; they shouldn’t be withheld from their education in order to raise their younger siblings, clean the house and do the laundry. These things seem simple enough, and yet you failed to accomplish them in raising your first round of kids. I hope you’ve grown up for Tori and Julia. Maybe some day you’ll grow up enough to understand and admit that despite what you went through, how you did Melody and me was wrong.
Lastly, and this is last just because I don’t really feel like devoting too much more energy to this, either you are severely mentally deficient, or you didn’t actually read the posting to which you so rudely replied. I was trying to let go of petty grudges and bitterness because I saw, in the face of a loved one’s death, that they don’t fucking matter. I guess I had overestimated you in imagining that maybe time and mortality, or even your religion that teaches compassion and forgiveness, had done the same. Well, that’s all blown to hell. I don’t forgive you. I don’t because you don’t even admit you were wrong, and being the person that you are, that everyone knows you are (trust me on that one), you never will.
So maybe I am the kind of person who should be pitied. I had a lousy past with some lousy people in it. Now I’m happy, healthy, in love, in school, and I don’t allow those kinds of people, people like you, to be a part a part of my life. Please, pity me. My life sucks.
“It is a sad thing to see,,,,families torn apart by anger and bitterness.....but you are the pot calling the kettle black!!! I have no pity for someone like you. But wait....maybe someone like you should be pitied. Someone that has no clue about anything. Do not ever think you know what went on....because you dont. We are glad we never have to see you. You are pathetic,” in response to this post, I’ve been doing a lot of back and forth deliberation in my mind on how to respond to it.
When I first signed into my blogger account, I was elated to find two unmoderated comments (nearly half my annual influx) awaiting my scrutinization and approval. As I read through this comment, as my pulse quickened, and my stomach rolled, I realized that this was my first piece of hate mail, which, I won’t lie, was pretty exciting. But when I got to the end of this ridiculous rant of retaliation, I realized that despite first appearances, this commenter wasn’t anonymous. It was my ex-stepmother.
Not from just some brief, mid-life-crisis marriage between my dad and some one twenty years his senior. No, this is the Ruthie mentioned in the entry I’ve linked. The one towards whom, along with my dad, I’ve harbored bitter feelings regarding my sorry adolescence, but was actually beginning to forgive when the pettiness of such grudges bludgeoned me in the head with my Grandmother’s death. I have known this woman since I was two. She acted as my mother until I moved out of my parent’s house when I was sixteen.
So naturally I was a bit shaken up by the comment. I smoked my first cigarette of the day at 5 o’clock in the evening after reading it. I even shed a few tears.
As I’m sure you have noticed, I have absolutely no problem with airing my personal business right here on my very own cozy little blog. I could tell you a multitude of things to convince you of, not just my ex-stepmother’s mistakes (we aren’t talking about my dad here), but her evilness as well. I could insult her, belittle, and berate her. I could be mean, very very mean. And believe me, in the days since I received the comment, I have written countless searing retorts in my mind. But after no small amount of reasoning with my self, and an even not smaller amount of reasoning from Cris, I’ve decided against that. Actually, Cris doesn’t even think I should respond, but to me, this isn’t some random insult from an internet surfer who has exhausted their supply of porn. This is someone who has impacted my life severely, and despite the positive connotation of the word ‘impacted’, I do not mean it that way. I mean that, although I won’t be mean, I don’t care about being the bigger person. I care that this ‘anonymous’ hater know how things really are.
So here goes:
One big thing…bitterness and anger didn’t destroy our family. Lies did. Your lies. You know what I’m talking about.
Second, even if my family had been destroyed by bitterness and anger, what’s it to ya? You removed yourself from my family when you cheated on my dad and left him for some one else’s husband. I know you’re thinking to yourself, “She doesn’t know what went on. Todd cheated on me too.” Well, I did know. Hello, I did live with both of you, and it isn’t as if you quietly discussed all of your problems behind the locked doors of your bedroom, though some times you did yell through them. No, you screamed about them, daily. And don’t believe for a second that I’m in the dark about things that went on in our house. I know more than you think.
Also, as a quick aside, and I know I’m being a little mean here, but what the hey? Isn’t it interesting how quickly you ceased to be considered family despite your many years involved in it, and how my mom is still considered family by my dad’s family despite her many years absent? Very interesting. Very telling.
Thirdly, you say I don’t know what went on. Even if that were true, it’s completely moot, since I do know that despite adult situations that children can’t understand, there is a right way that kids should be treated. They should come first; they should be educated, if not in school, then in the home school you withdrew them from public school to be in; they shouldn’t be withheld from their education in order to raise their younger siblings, clean the house and do the laundry. These things seem simple enough, and yet you failed to accomplish them in raising your first round of kids. I hope you’ve grown up for Tori and Julia. Maybe some day you’ll grow up enough to understand and admit that despite what you went through, how you did Melody and me was wrong.
Lastly, and this is last just because I don’t really feel like devoting too much more energy to this, either you are severely mentally deficient, or you didn’t actually read the posting to which you so rudely replied. I was trying to let go of petty grudges and bitterness because I saw, in the face of a loved one’s death, that they don’t fucking matter. I guess I had overestimated you in imagining that maybe time and mortality, or even your religion that teaches compassion and forgiveness, had done the same. Well, that’s all blown to hell. I don’t forgive you. I don’t because you don’t even admit you were wrong, and being the person that you are, that everyone knows you are (trust me on that one), you never will.
So maybe I am the kind of person who should be pitied. I had a lousy past with some lousy people in it. Now I’m happy, healthy, in love, in school, and I don’t allow those kinds of people, people like you, to be a part a part of my life. Please, pity me. My life sucks.
Thursday, September 27
I'm a Catholic now!
When did I become so obsessed with doing the right things, instead of the fun thing?
Come to think of it, when did I start believing in right and wrong?
At what point did I become so concerned with karmic redress that I can scarcely take a step without fear of harming an amoeba and the consequences that action would incur?
Well, I think that my mind is, and always has been, teeter-tottering on the edge of crazy, and now my birth control is finally taking its toll. Will I have to say 'sayonara' to my boobies?
I don't kid myself into believing I was the picture of happiness prior to my prophylactic, but seriously it's seriously gotten worse.
So, either I'll soon either be subjecting my womb to the constant onslaught of my boyfriend's splooge with out defenses, or I'll be dragging my weepy, guilt ridden, plagued with purposelessness ass to some church or another everyday, praying for forgivness of the sin of, well, my life....
Okay...More on this fascinating topic later...
I have class in 6 minutes and I NEED a cigarette....
(That'll be 10 Hail Marys and 5 Our Fathers)
SHIT!
Come to think of it, when did I start believing in right and wrong?
At what point did I become so concerned with karmic redress that I can scarcely take a step without fear of harming an amoeba and the consequences that action would incur?
Well, I think that my mind is, and always has been, teeter-tottering on the edge of crazy, and now my birth control is finally taking its toll. Will I have to say 'sayonara' to my boobies?
I don't kid myself into believing I was the picture of happiness prior to my prophylactic, but seriously it's seriously gotten worse.
So, either I'll soon either be subjecting my womb to the constant onslaught of my boyfriend's splooge with out defenses, or I'll be dragging my weepy, guilt ridden, plagued with purposelessness ass to some church or another everyday, praying for forgivness of the sin of, well, my life....
Okay...More on this fascinating topic later...
I have class in 6 minutes and I NEED a cigarette....
(That'll be 10 Hail Marys and 5 Our Fathers)
SHIT!
Sorry
So I have a few minutes before I have to head to class to go and get edumacated, so I thought I'd write something severely missing the mark of awesome.
I spent the better part of 2 hours today writing a paper, so I'm like what the frick am I doing?
I'm smearing crap on my computer screen and hitting send. I have devolved.
I always have to reintroduce myself to my blog by putting down some inanity. This is said token inanity. Revel in it.
Here is the scoop:
I am fat
I live with Cris
I'm getting learned
I'm bartending now
Blah
This is my life in a nutshell.
Oh my god I'm so depressed (except the part about Cris, he rules) that I want to go eat compulsively.
Fart.
I spent the better part of 2 hours today writing a paper, so I'm like what the frick am I doing?
I'm smearing crap on my computer screen and hitting send. I have devolved.
I always have to reintroduce myself to my blog by putting down some inanity. This is said token inanity. Revel in it.
Here is the scoop:
I am fat
I live with Cris
I'm getting learned
I'm bartending now
Blah
This is my life in a nutshell.
Oh my god I'm so depressed (except the part about Cris, he rules) that I want to go eat compulsively.
Fart.
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