"There's just something about hunting people down and then shooting them that really turns my crank!"
...
"Oh, I have a new face for you!"
...
"Why, hello, rock. Oh, hello, hard place."
...
The word is catalyst. I could have combusted all night. Instead, I'll sit at home and hit refresh.
Friday, November 30, 2007
A definition of my current state
ad·dic·tion –noun
- the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.
ad·dict·ed –adjective
- devoted or given up to a practice or habit or to something psychologically or physically habit-forming
- To occupy (oneself) with or involve (oneself) in something habitually or compulsively
ad·dict –noun
- a person who is addicted to an activity, habit, or substance
My activity is writing; my habit is pressing refresh; my substance is words.
- the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.
ad·dict·ed –adjective
- devoted or given up to a practice or habit or to something psychologically or physically habit-forming
- To occupy (oneself) with or involve (oneself) in something habitually or compulsively
ad·dict –noun
- a person who is addicted to an activity, habit, or substance
My activity is writing; my habit is pressing refresh; my substance is words.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Infallibly
As quickly as you can fall in love, it can take the longest of eternities to fall out of it.
You can't compete with perfection. You can never crush an idea. And what of the idea of perfection? There is no denying the indestructibility of that. So what choice is left? To accept that you may never top perfection, but can carve your own niche closely next to it, and understand that although you may not have done things perfectly, you did them differently and that is just as important.
Really, truly, honestly and dearly, I may not be able to fully understand, but I can listen. I can listen and be soft, and I can hope that that might be enough.
You can't compete with perfection. You can never crush an idea. And what of the idea of perfection? There is no denying the indestructibility of that. So what choice is left? To accept that you may never top perfection, but can carve your own niche closely next to it, and understand that although you may not have done things perfectly, you did them differently and that is just as important.
Really, truly, honestly and dearly, I may not be able to fully understand, but I can listen. I can listen and be soft, and I can hope that that might be enough.
Singing my life with [her] words
I just want something interesting to happen. I want something or someone to remind me why I bother to care this much in the first place. If I spent less time judging other people and more time remembering why I'm in no place to judge, I might find myself in a much different place.
...
These are not my words. I borrowed them from a post that might as well have been written about me. I hear you.
...
These are not my words. I borrowed them from a post that might as well have been written about me. I hear you.
Proudly Nonsensical
I've been in bed for a while now, it's late, and my brain still refuses to slow down and sleep.
I want to post about what so tickled mine and dimps's funny bones tonight, but while my brain won't sleep, it also won't function either. Dimps, Avril and I had yet another girly movie night on Sunday. We watched Sense and Sensibility. Tonight, dimps coaxed me into her home on the promise of some (not too spicy) instant noodles and we watched Pride and Prejudice. Both movies had all parties crying rejectful accusations at the screens.
"He's too old for her!"
"She's too young for him!"
"He's totally going to cheat on her!"
"Oh, and sure, now they're going to fall in love!"
"You can't do that!"
"He's such an ass!"
"Who cast this movie?!"
"Nobody does that in real life!"
"Oh, and it just happens to rain!"
"Why can't I have one of those?!"
"I could just eat him!"
"They're so cute!"
"He is soooooo unbelievable!"
"Love doesn't happen like that!"
"Oh, yeah, riiiiiiiiiiight!"
"Awkwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaard!"
You get the hint. And while both movies were based on Jane Austen novels, the connecting factor for us wasn't the author, nor the similar settings or characters. It was...the crotch flaps.
Yes, I just said crotch flaps. Whenever these graced the screen on one of the male characters, it didn't matter how crucial, how emotional, how heartfelt the moment was, all we could focus on were the damned FLAPS!!!
Seriously.
These were the best shots I could find to illustrate what I'm trying to complain about. These damn flaps were almost as bad as the crotch cups from Ever After
Again, my illustration resources are scarce, but I'm sure you get the idea. Crotch flaps were such a distraction, I dare say we missed much of each movie due to the complaints we had to make about the hideousness of them and the absolute GALL of the wardrobe manager to decide to be SO true to the era.
With no detailed explanation, what made the Crotch Flaps so much worse tonight, was when Dimps learned to use the Slo-mo, zoom, and A-B Repeat functions on her DVD player.
My face and body still hurt.
"I love I love I love you."
"I love you...most ardently."
I want to post about what so tickled mine and dimps's funny bones tonight, but while my brain won't sleep, it also won't function either. Dimps, Avril and I had yet another girly movie night on Sunday. We watched Sense and Sensibility. Tonight, dimps coaxed me into her home on the promise of some (not too spicy) instant noodles and we watched Pride and Prejudice. Both movies had all parties crying rejectful accusations at the screens.
"He's too old for her!"
"She's too young for him!"
"He's totally going to cheat on her!"
"Oh, and sure, now they're going to fall in love!"
"You can't do that!"
"He's such an ass!"
"Who cast this movie?!"
"Nobody does that in real life!"
"Oh, and it just happens to rain!"
"Why can't I have one of those?!"
"I could just eat him!"
"They're so cute!"
"He is soooooo unbelievable!"
"Love doesn't happen like that!"
"Oh, yeah, riiiiiiiiiiight!"
"Awkwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaard!"
You get the hint. And while both movies were based on Jane Austen novels, the connecting factor for us wasn't the author, nor the similar settings or characters. It was...the crotch flaps.
Yes, I just said crotch flaps. Whenever these graced the screen on one of the male characters, it didn't matter how crucial, how emotional, how heartfelt the moment was, all we could focus on were the damned FLAPS!!!
Seriously.
These were the best shots I could find to illustrate what I'm trying to complain about. These damn flaps were almost as bad as the crotch cups from Ever After
Again, my illustration resources are scarce, but I'm sure you get the idea. Crotch flaps were such a distraction, I dare say we missed much of each movie due to the complaints we had to make about the hideousness of them and the absolute GALL of the wardrobe manager to decide to be SO true to the era.
With no detailed explanation, what made the Crotch Flaps so much worse tonight, was when Dimps learned to use the Slo-mo, zoom, and A-B Repeat functions on her DVD player.
My face and body still hurt.
"I love I love I love you."
"I love you...most ardently."
Life Lesson for Today:
Tags go in the back.
...
loser(tan90) = me
me = loser(tan90) = tan90(Squiggly + hahaha)
me + Squiggly = 2(loser x tan90)
...
loser(tan90) = me
me = loser(tan90) = tan90(Squiggly + hahaha)
me + Squiggly = 2(loser x tan90)
Monday, November 26, 2007
Enough of too much
She makes him smile...laugh, even. As artistic as he is, she shares an appreciation for the same things; things that most would simply glance over before moving on. His subtle insecurities are simply accepted by her and she meets him more than halfway, surrendering to his self-imposed isolation. She is warm and soft to the touch. She fits in his arms.
Yet despite it all, he forces her out. With the barest of farewells, he cuts her off and disappears. She was never too close, but if there was ever a chance that she could have been, she never will be.
She will never wonder why.
...
More is more. Sometimes less is more. Sometimes more is too much. And sometimes more is never enough.
I admit, I've kissed Bear Bear's head about thirty times while just reading through my email. As much as I love him, I'd rather be kissing someone who'll kiss back.
I don't know what exactly it is that I want from someone else, and I know I'm not about to be tumbling head first into the first opportunity that comes by. But that doesn't mean that I'm not impatient. I rue the concept of mature adults--I once believed in it, once had it, but it seems of a time passed and long gone. What you see on screen is never what happens in life--you don't stay; you get on the plane.
I remember the days when I used to feign feigned envy for friends who led the single life. How the grass is always greener. Empowered as I may be, I can't actually have whatever I want. I can't have the past. I can't have what's not mine. I can't have what won't have me. And sometimes I just can't--I just can't play anymore, because it really is all a game until you can trust another enough to let your guard down. Until then, you impress, are impressed, are en guard.
I wish I could just let someone in.
...
A moment goes by and their eyes meet shyly one first and last time. No words are spoken but they both feel as though a whole lifetime of conversation is passing through this gaze. Slowly, the door that he has held open inches from the frame is closed once more as their lips meet. Their kiss is soft and crumbles the wall of tension between them in that moment of admission.
They pull away, their eyes full of amazement. She suddenly comes to herself and rushes out the door, too quickly to utter a farewell. He is left, with the door still in hand, watching her figure retreat down the hallway.
Yet despite it all, he forces her out. With the barest of farewells, he cuts her off and disappears. She was never too close, but if there was ever a chance that she could have been, she never will be.
She will never wonder why.
...
More is more. Sometimes less is more. Sometimes more is too much. And sometimes more is never enough.
I admit, I've kissed Bear Bear's head about thirty times while just reading through my email. As much as I love him, I'd rather be kissing someone who'll kiss back.
I don't know what exactly it is that I want from someone else, and I know I'm not about to be tumbling head first into the first opportunity that comes by. But that doesn't mean that I'm not impatient. I rue the concept of mature adults--I once believed in it, once had it, but it seems of a time passed and long gone. What you see on screen is never what happens in life--you don't stay; you get on the plane.
I remember the days when I used to feign feigned envy for friends who led the single life. How the grass is always greener. Empowered as I may be, I can't actually have whatever I want. I can't have the past. I can't have what's not mine. I can't have what won't have me. And sometimes I just can't--I just can't play anymore, because it really is all a game until you can trust another enough to let your guard down. Until then, you impress, are impressed, are en guard.
I wish I could just let someone in.
...
A moment goes by and their eyes meet shyly one first and last time. No words are spoken but they both feel as though a whole lifetime of conversation is passing through this gaze. Slowly, the door that he has held open inches from the frame is closed once more as their lips meet. Their kiss is soft and crumbles the wall of tension between them in that moment of admission.
They pull away, their eyes full of amazement. She suddenly comes to herself and rushes out the door, too quickly to utter a farewell. He is left, with the door still in hand, watching her figure retreat down the hallway.
Question of the Morning
Driving into work this morning, Dimps and I were listening to some morning talk show on the radio and the announcers posed a question:
How old is TOO old to be getting hickeys?
Our response--you are ALWAYS too old to be getting hickeys.
How old is TOO old to be getting hickeys?
Our response--you are ALWAYS too old to be getting hickeys.
Late Night Longings
It's 2:30 in the morning; I've just waxed my legs, knit half a scarf, and did the dishes, and now I'm strangely overcome with a compulsive urge to cook some sort of gourmet meal. Mushroom risotto with some sort of chicken, and stuffed tomatoes on the side. Inexplicable.
...
Another explosion rips across the screen as the hero tumbles to safety. She is on the edge of her seat, gripping the seat cushion with both hands; a guilty pleasure on a Friday night, she's rented brainlessly titilating action flicks to watch with him. During the heroic monologue, she steals a glance at her movie-watching companion; only he's not watching, he's sleeping. She smiles.
She knows her sporadic sleeping habits are hard for anyone to keep up with, and instead of being frustrated at being left to watch the movie alone, she finds his stolen slumber endearing. The flickering of the screen softly lights his face and she takes note of such details like his soft eyelashes, blushed cheeks, smooth forehead. Looking sweetly innocent, she feels compelled to lean over and place a kiss on his temple. She doesn't.
Instead, she turns her attention back to the screen. As though he sensed her watching him, he stirs and wakes--she pretends to not have noticed him sleeping, feigning rapture in the minimal storyline. They continue to watch in silence, save for her enthusiastic outbursts at the screen which he always grins at in response. Between explosions, she wonders if she should have given in, if he will finally find the courage to kiss her himself.
It's a game she's tired of playing. It's no fun to play when you always win.
...
Lately, I've been afraid of my computer. I'm afraid to open her up, log on, and find messages, notes, and letters awaiting me. Like an addict, I can't refuse and I can't stop. The words just keep coming and pouring onto the page, the screen, and there's no end in sight. Who knew my fingers had so much stamina? Who knew I had so much to say?
...
Song of the Moment: "My Way Out" - David Usher
Standing at the edge
The edge of it all
Spitting off the top
Watch the day unfurl
Cannot see the view from this place
Clouds are on the rise world is out of faith
Took another pill to find my way
Hope that you'll be there
'Cause this is my way out of it tonight
And this is my last chance to ease the fire
And this is my way out of it tonight
How about you
How about you
Borrowed from a dream
That I use to know
All my friends were there
We watched the world explode
Took another drink to find my way
Just hope that you'll be there
And if I could remember
If I could find a place a time the space to see another way home
And if I could forget you
Maybe there's no other way out
No other way out
'Cause this is my way out of it tonight
And this is my last chance to ease the fire
This is my way out of it tonight
I might find one way to get through
How about you
How about you
How about you
...
I love songs that paint stories for me.
...
Another explosion rips across the screen as the hero tumbles to safety. She is on the edge of her seat, gripping the seat cushion with both hands; a guilty pleasure on a Friday night, she's rented brainlessly titilating action flicks to watch with him. During the heroic monologue, she steals a glance at her movie-watching companion; only he's not watching, he's sleeping. She smiles.
She knows her sporadic sleeping habits are hard for anyone to keep up with, and instead of being frustrated at being left to watch the movie alone, she finds his stolen slumber endearing. The flickering of the screen softly lights his face and she takes note of such details like his soft eyelashes, blushed cheeks, smooth forehead. Looking sweetly innocent, she feels compelled to lean over and place a kiss on his temple. She doesn't.
Instead, she turns her attention back to the screen. As though he sensed her watching him, he stirs and wakes--she pretends to not have noticed him sleeping, feigning rapture in the minimal storyline. They continue to watch in silence, save for her enthusiastic outbursts at the screen which he always grins at in response. Between explosions, she wonders if she should have given in, if he will finally find the courage to kiss her himself.
It's a game she's tired of playing. It's no fun to play when you always win.
...
Lately, I've been afraid of my computer. I'm afraid to open her up, log on, and find messages, notes, and letters awaiting me. Like an addict, I can't refuse and I can't stop. The words just keep coming and pouring onto the page, the screen, and there's no end in sight. Who knew my fingers had so much stamina? Who knew I had so much to say?
...
Song of the Moment: "My Way Out" - David Usher
Standing at the edge
The edge of it all
Spitting off the top
Watch the day unfurl
Cannot see the view from this place
Clouds are on the rise world is out of faith
Took another pill to find my way
Hope that you'll be there
'Cause this is my way out of it tonight
And this is my last chance to ease the fire
And this is my way out of it tonight
How about you
How about you
Borrowed from a dream
That I use to know
All my friends were there
We watched the world explode
Took another drink to find my way
Just hope that you'll be there
And if I could remember
If I could find a place a time the space to see another way home
And if I could forget you
Maybe there's no other way out
No other way out
'Cause this is my way out of it tonight
And this is my last chance to ease the fire
This is my way out of it tonight
I might find one way to get through
How about you
How about you
How about you
...
I love songs that paint stories for me.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Between the Brackets
With nothing particularly emotional written on the page, she still found herself trying to fight the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Time had marched on without her, and she was bewildered by the idea of rewinding it to a time before, to meet the one she had never known.
...
I used to chat with someone a long time ago, and between us, we would knowingly pretend that any thoughts we wrote in brackets couldn't be seen by the other. It was a way to let him read my mind, because they were words I was too shy to say out loud.
...
I used to chat with someone a long time ago, and between us, we would knowingly pretend that any thoughts we wrote in brackets couldn't be seen by the other. It was a way to let him read my mind, because they were words I was too shy to say out loud.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Self inflicted
She knows she shouldn't, but she looks through the photos anyway. There are many--some new, some old. He is in many of them; smiling, with friends she recognizes as well as a few new faces. For a while, she is glad that she has gone against her better judgement about taking a peek. Flipping through more and more, she finally comes across one that makes her stop. It is of him and one other girl. While there are many photos of him and another female, it is one feature in this particular picture that makes her pause.
Their smiles match.
Regardless of any logic or reasoning, her heart breaks.
...
I spent all of today having to continually convince my body that it unfortunately wasn't Friday yet. Apparently I wasn't the only one. Dimps explained the seemingly endless week with "It's because we had such an awesomely relaxing time over the weekend that this week just s.o. d.a.m.n. l.o.n.g." I concur.
Via email, I was telling Squiggly about my new top quality I was looking for in the next guy. Leave it to him to respond with the following:
Unfortunately, Squiggly forgot the obvious direction of DOWN, first. I love that guy; too bad about the baby-thing.
Their smiles match.
Regardless of any logic or reasoning, her heart breaks.
...
I spent all of today having to continually convince my body that it unfortunately wasn't Friday yet. Apparently I wasn't the only one. Dimps explained the seemingly endless week with "It's because we had such an awesomely relaxing time over the weekend that this week just s.o. d.a.m.n. l.o.n.g." I concur.
Via email, I was telling Squiggly about my new top quality I was looking for in the next guy. Leave it to him to respond with the following:
Lite-rate? huh? I could introduce you to heavyrate guys...hahahahahahaaa.....I crack myself up!!!! or I could crack myself horizontally or diagonally!!! hahaha!!!!!! LOL!!! Sans pantaloons!!!!
Unfortunately, Squiggly forgot the obvious direction of DOWN, first. I love that guy; too bad about the baby-thing.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Song of the Moment: "I've Been Thinking" - Handsome Boy Modeling School
Be my boy, be my boy
Be my boy, be my boy
I've been thinking about those things you said
I've been thinking about those things we did
I've been thinking about those things you do
I've been thinking about those things you made me do too
Be my boy, be my boy
Be my boy, be my boy
I was hypnotized
By your fairy eyes
Like a tiger in the dark
You were hungry from the start
Diamonds, candy pills
One million dollar bills
You can try
But you can't buy me, buy me
Diamonds, candy pills
One million dollar bills
You can try
But you can't buy me
You can slide slide
Slippity slide
You can hip hop
And don't stop
I'll never be
On my knees
I've been thinking 'bout
Why you act so proud
I've been thinking 'bout
What's this shit about
Am I losin' control
Am I losin' my soul
Just tell me am I losin' you
I've been thinking 'bout
I've been thinking about
I've been thinking 'bout
I've been thinking about
Losing you
...
When I stand in my stairwell I can hear the rain fall and dance on the rooftop, the skylight, and in the eaves. It creates a sound that seems to surround me and fill the vaulting space to the ceiling. It makes me feel small; the stairwell becomes an expanse; the rain, all encompassing. The longer I listen, the clearer my thoughts become, the deeper my breaths. Me likey.
I have a playlist called "Rainy" for moments like these.
Be my boy, be my boy
I've been thinking about those things you said
I've been thinking about those things we did
I've been thinking about those things you do
I've been thinking about those things you made me do too
Be my boy, be my boy
Be my boy, be my boy
I was hypnotized
By your fairy eyes
Like a tiger in the dark
You were hungry from the start
Diamonds, candy pills
One million dollar bills
You can try
But you can't buy me, buy me
Diamonds, candy pills
One million dollar bills
You can try
But you can't buy me
You can slide slide
Slippity slide
You can hip hop
And don't stop
I'll never be
On my knees
I've been thinking 'bout
Why you act so proud
I've been thinking 'bout
What's this shit about
Am I losin' control
Am I losin' my soul
Just tell me am I losin' you
I've been thinking 'bout
I've been thinking about
I've been thinking 'bout
I've been thinking about
Losing you
...
When I stand in my stairwell I can hear the rain fall and dance on the rooftop, the skylight, and in the eaves. It creates a sound that seems to surround me and fill the vaulting space to the ceiling. It makes me feel small; the stairwell becomes an expanse; the rain, all encompassing. The longer I listen, the clearer my thoughts become, the deeper my breaths. Me likey.
I have a playlist called "Rainy" for moments like these.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Quote of the Moment:
"Great, thanks, dimps. Mucus on me, and then fart in my general direction; please, continue!"
-- me, right now, up on the best weekend ever
-- me, right now, up on the best weekend ever
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Nine-thousand words worth
Chillin' at Dawson's cottage house up north, I've decided to take a break from the champagne and horseshoes to do a bit a catch up; I've been taking a bunch of random pictures that I've been meaning to post and write about, but haven't had the time until now. I wouldn't want few MB of photographic storage to go to waste for these pictures.
A week and a half ago, I was sent on a trip to the west-side of Canada by work; one major city a day. In Calgary, it was the one piece neo-retro, the Jetsons meet the Flintstones, one-piece shower/bath fixture that tickled my "I likey" bone.
Who takes pictures of their bathroom?
I will have to admit that my prime rib and the chives in my shredded home fries also got to that "I likey" bone, but I didn't think to take photos of those.
In Edmonton the next day, I was peering out the windows of my hotel to look at the paltry cityscape when these caught my eye. Inexplicably inspired, and with no apparent purpose attached, I had to wonder about where these came from and what they were for.
Who knew those Egyptians travelled so far?
To round the trip off we finished the tour in Winnipeg. There, I had a Milton Moment--though no picture to accompany it. Basically, after working the seminar as I'd been sent to do, I dropped off all my equipment in my room, and headed out for drinks at the bar. I returned over an hour later to find that my door had not closed properly, but that both laptops and all my precious (costume) jewellery had been left untouched. I thought that sort of thing only happened in Milton, but apparently it happens in Winnipeg too--and Washago as well as I've just learned.
Having since returned home, I've discovered that all the malls are in full Christmas decoration swing. Yorkdale Mall in particular has this HUGE Christmas tree that had me speechless from the moment I first laid eyes on it. Awkward and ostentatious, I could only wonder about how the tree worked of IF it worked at all. My questions were answered later in the day when I received an email thread titled: "Mystery Solved."
I watched in horror and awe as that cylindrical pyramid of Santas all danced and sang just the words "jingle bells" over and over. Just beneath the chorus of Santa voices, the clicking and rolling sounds of mechanical joints played their own symphony--truly an eerie experience that I was glad to have not missed.
And now, here I am, sitting in what was thought to be a cottage, but what turned out to be a house nicer than my own, surrounded by my theatric family of nearly 10 years. The roast is in the oven with the potatoes, and we're convened around the fireplace co-existing in the same space. Champagne and horseshoes, beer and pedicures, cocktails and knitting, wine and video games--this weekend is turning out just splendidly.
A week and a half ago, I was sent on a trip to the west-side of Canada by work; one major city a day. In Calgary, it was the one piece neo-retro, the Jetsons meet the Flintstones, one-piece shower/bath fixture that tickled my "I likey" bone.
Who takes pictures of their bathroom?I will have to admit that my prime rib and the chives in my shredded home fries also got to that "I likey" bone, but I didn't think to take photos of those.
In Edmonton the next day, I was peering out the windows of my hotel to look at the paltry cityscape when these caught my eye. Inexplicably inspired, and with no apparent purpose attached, I had to wonder about where these came from and what they were for.
Who knew those Egyptians travelled so far?To round the trip off we finished the tour in Winnipeg. There, I had a Milton Moment--though no picture to accompany it. Basically, after working the seminar as I'd been sent to do, I dropped off all my equipment in my room, and headed out for drinks at the bar. I returned over an hour later to find that my door had not closed properly, but that both laptops and all my precious (costume) jewellery had been left untouched. I thought that sort of thing only happened in Milton, but apparently it happens in Winnipeg too--and Washago as well as I've just learned.
Having since returned home, I've discovered that all the malls are in full Christmas decoration swing. Yorkdale Mall in particular has this HUGE Christmas tree that had me speechless from the moment I first laid eyes on it. Awkward and ostentatious, I could only wonder about how the tree worked of IF it worked at all. My questions were answered later in the day when I received an email thread titled: "Mystery Solved."
The Santas dance. It's so creepy. We've got it timed. It's every 30 minutes, starting at 5 after the hour.I raced over that very day to catch the 6:05pm show.
I watched in horror and awe as that cylindrical pyramid of Santas all danced and sang just the words "jingle bells" over and over. Just beneath the chorus of Santa voices, the clicking and rolling sounds of mechanical joints played their own symphony--truly an eerie experience that I was glad to have not missed.
And now, here I am, sitting in what was thought to be a cottage, but what turned out to be a house nicer than my own, surrounded by my theatric family of nearly 10 years. The roast is in the oven with the potatoes, and we're convened around the fireplace co-existing in the same space. Champagne and horseshoes, beer and pedicures, cocktails and knitting, wine and video games--this weekend is turning out just splendidly.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Punch lines
m - You can say no, but if you want, I'm buying a new mattress--want my old, shitty one to hold you over?
g - You know, it'd really help me out and save me a bit of money, but I'm wary of used mattresses. Who knows what...bodily liquids come with it?
m - True, and gross, but that's cool.
d - And just think of all the sex that could have been had on that mattress!
m - Oh gross, did you really have to bring that up?
d - All those different guys!
*beat*
m - Chill your face, little girl.
d - Oh. My. God. That's. Disgusting.
m - That's what you get.
...
How excellently convenient another's words can be.
...
Hey there, Muscly-arms. Would you like a popsicle?
...
It's 3am on a school night and I'm still on like a donkey kong--Giggity Giggity...ooooh riiiight. Oh man, that's just bad news bears.
niteu.
g - You know, it'd really help me out and save me a bit of money, but I'm wary of used mattresses. Who knows what...bodily liquids come with it?
m - True, and gross, but that's cool.
d - And just think of all the sex that could have been had on that mattress!
m - Oh gross, did you really have to bring that up?
d - All those different guys!
*beat*
m - Chill your face, little girl.
d - Oh. My. God. That's. Disgusting.
m - That's what you get.
...
How excellently convenient another's words can be.
...
Hey there, Muscly-arms. Would you like a popsicle?
...
It's 3am on a school night and I'm still on like a donkey kong--Giggity Giggity...ooooh riiiight. Oh man, that's just bad news bears.
niteu.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
License to Stop
Last night, after returning from my stimulating soiree, I was greeted by immediate MSN messages from dimps; one of the two people I had just said my goodbyes to in person.
dimps - okay. so when you come to pick me up tomorro morning, come up the long way. and i'll tell you why in the car tomorro. LOL
dimps - sorry. but when you come up the long way, look at the stop sign by KFC
me - fuck.
me - but I want to know NOW!
dimps - i know u want to know now..and chances are, it may not be there tomorrow.
me - so then?
dimps - but you'll have to hold off and see. and if you didn't see it...i have a picture to show
me - hahahahahahah
me - I guess that's okay
And so, like the true morning person I am, I forgot to drive the long way to dimps's place. But that was okay, because not only did she tell me about the strange sight she'd seen the night before, she had the picture of it to show me. And then tonight after drinks, not only did the same fit of giggles attack us both at the first stop sign we saw in our neighbourhood, but we made a detour on the way home tonight after drinks to see if it was still there. And then, not only was the sight still there, but I happened to have my camera on me to properly record the moment.
I swear we spent more time pulled over at the side of the road trying to take a picture of the damn things reflecting in the night than I spent shrinking, cutting, and pasting all of the pictures we took into a collage.
Okay, a little anti-climactical, but then, you weren't there watching cars watch us outside of the car with the four-ways on, trying to stay still enough to snap a picture of the damned license-plated stop-sign without a flash.
And that's why I married her.
But really, who doesn't notice the loud clang and the flash of sparks as their license place crashes off the back of their car in the quietness that is my neighbourhood? AND THEN, who the heck sees the lonely license plate, pauses to pick it up, and then takes the time to find materials with which to hang it off the nearest post (which happens to be the above stop sign)? Is that something you really retrace your steps for? It reminds me of the multitude of lost mittens through the winters that passers-by find and use to lovingly dress nearby fence-posts with.
For some reason, it always makes me feel a little sad to see all of those single mitts separated from their mates. They're like little love stories, trying to tell themselves to any strangers that might stop to listen.
dimps - okay. so when you come to pick me up tomorro morning, come up the long way. and i'll tell you why in the car tomorro. LOL
dimps - sorry. but when you come up the long way, look at the stop sign by KFC
me - fuck.
me - but I want to know NOW!
dimps - i know u want to know now..and chances are, it may not be there tomorrow.
me - so then?
dimps - but you'll have to hold off and see. and if you didn't see it...i have a picture to show
me - hahahahahahah
me - I guess that's okay
And so, like the true morning person I am, I forgot to drive the long way to dimps's place. But that was okay, because not only did she tell me about the strange sight she'd seen the night before, she had the picture of it to show me. And then tonight after drinks, not only did the same fit of giggles attack us both at the first stop sign we saw in our neighbourhood, but we made a detour on the way home tonight after drinks to see if it was still there. And then, not only was the sight still there, but I happened to have my camera on me to properly record the moment.
I swear we spent more time pulled over at the side of the road trying to take a picture of the damn things reflecting in the night than I spent shrinking, cutting, and pasting all of the pictures we took into a collage.
Okay, a little anti-climactical, but then, you weren't there watching cars watch us outside of the car with the four-ways on, trying to stay still enough to snap a picture of the damned license-plated stop-sign without a flash.
And that's why I married her.
But really, who doesn't notice the loud clang and the flash of sparks as their license place crashes off the back of their car in the quietness that is my neighbourhood? AND THEN, who the heck sees the lonely license plate, pauses to pick it up, and then takes the time to find materials with which to hang it off the nearest post (which happens to be the above stop sign)? Is that something you really retrace your steps for? It reminds me of the multitude of lost mittens through the winters that passers-by find and use to lovingly dress nearby fence-posts with.
For some reason, it always makes me feel a little sad to see all of those single mitts separated from their mates. They're like little love stories, trying to tell themselves to any strangers that might stop to listen.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Brain dump
My brain is so incredibly full--I love it.
"Hello?"
"Hey, what'cha doin'?"
"Really, nothing. Reading and moping a bit."
"Great; think you can get ready in 10 minutes?"
"Absolutely."
"Okay, see you in 10."
Best rush-around transformation from volleyball-bum to publicly-decent, EVER. The three of us wined and dined together, gossiped, and then conversed. Discussed. Debated. Exchanged views. Shared opinions. Gave advice. Discoursed.
About life, love, literature. About everything. Whether or not owning matching DVD sets was important enough to risk a sense of personal security. Whatever tangents we stumbled upon, we took up with vigor--turned them over and inside out with words before setting them back down again to move on to our next topic.
I can't remember the last time I honestly felt so pleasingly intellectual. Big words without hesitation, obscure references without head-scratching, and metaphors to match. I thought I'd come home and write just pages upon pages of recollection about what was talked about tonight, but it being my first night in so long, I'm being selfish and keeping it to myself. Besides, you really had to be there.
"I want babies."
...
Quote of the Moment:
"Hey, come back here with my pants!"
--during a moment at work today
...
Over-sized clothing isn’t as cozy as when it belongs to someone you’re attracted to. Even the leftovers don’t have the same effect.
I really can’t remember the last time I was kissed. And I mean kissed-so-that-I-feel-like-I-want-to-puke sort of kiss. It’s been a very long time.
...
It was suggested to me recently that I should consider sensoring the content on my blog.
No effin' way.
I don't force anyone to read what I post. I don't make it a habit to post personal vendettas on my blog. I rarely use profanity. I protect the identity of my friends. Honestly, I don't really care. It's mine and it's staying.
"Hello?"
"Hey, what'cha doin'?"
"Really, nothing. Reading and moping a bit."
"Great; think you can get ready in 10 minutes?"
"Absolutely."
"Okay, see you in 10."
Best rush-around transformation from volleyball-bum to publicly-decent, EVER. The three of us wined and dined together, gossiped, and then conversed. Discussed. Debated. Exchanged views. Shared opinions. Gave advice. Discoursed.
About life, love, literature. About everything. Whether or not owning matching DVD sets was important enough to risk a sense of personal security. Whatever tangents we stumbled upon, we took up with vigor--turned them over and inside out with words before setting them back down again to move on to our next topic.
I can't remember the last time I honestly felt so pleasingly intellectual. Big words without hesitation, obscure references without head-scratching, and metaphors to match. I thought I'd come home and write just pages upon pages of recollection about what was talked about tonight, but it being my first night in so long, I'm being selfish and keeping it to myself. Besides, you really had to be there.
"I want babies."
...
Quote of the Moment:
"Hey, come back here with my pants!"
--during a moment at work today
...
Over-sized clothing isn’t as cozy as when it belongs to someone you’re attracted to. Even the leftovers don’t have the same effect.
I really can’t remember the last time I was kissed. And I mean kissed-so-that-I-feel-like-I-want-to-puke sort of kiss. It’s been a very long time.
...
It was suggested to me recently that I should consider sensoring the content on my blog.
No effin' way.
I don't force anyone to read what I post. I don't make it a habit to post personal vendettas on my blog. I rarely use profanity. I protect the identity of my friends. Honestly, I don't really care. It's mine and it's staying.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Some girls
Sometimes some girls just have the need to feel pretty, hot, sexy, liked, loved, wanted, needed, popular, mysterious, attractive, coy, seductive, alluring, unforgettable, sensuous, arousing, provocative, suave, captivating, titillating, racy, libidinous, naughty, fascinating, coveted, alluring, lascivious, stunning, desired. Or maybe it could just be me.
Monday, November 12, 2007
An Accidental Afternoon
I see myself one fall day just committing myself to an afternoon of solitary studying where I run away to a quaint coffee shop in a remote area of town, far from my usual stomping grounds and social circles, and just sitting with my books, and my music and my musings. And perhaps a few hours into my serenity, He'll walk into my secret escape. I'll notice Him first before He'll notice me, and I know I'll blush and look back down at my readings, but it won't be long before I'll venture another glance, and when I do, that's when He'll notice me and catch me looking.
I'll blush again, and as my eyes will dart nervously around the shop for another place to gaze, He will smile easily in comfortable recognition and I'll know it's okay to make eye contact with Him once more. After He will finish buying his steaming mug of coffee He'll make His way over to where I am, nod at the empty seat across from me, and wait for my nod before sitting down. He'll have a pile of papers to match my pile of books, and though we both have much to get done, we'll still risk what precious time we have to talk.
He'll ask me about my books, and I'll take my time to tell Him without having to worry about showing an interest in His papers--I'll already know what they're from, and He'll know that I know. We'll avoid the common ground and just talk about what we've never discussed before; hobbies, past-times, favourites, experiences, anectdotes, and our shared passion for the written word.
The afternoon will drain into evening as the sun sets through the window next to our table. The minutes will stretch into hours and our coffees will be forgotten as the warmth we initially sought in those mugs will be refreshingly found elsewhere. Smiles and laughter will pass easily in the air between us as legs will bump accidentally under the table, and phones will be casually ignored and turned off as arms will brush more and more comfortably on top.
Oblivious to the world outside the realm of the table piled with books and papers, we'll carry on until politely interrupted by the shopkeeper who will reluctantly bring our attention to the time--reluctantly because he will recognize the kind of conversation blossoming between us. The two of us will quickly gather our things and exit the place together, pausing for a moment in the brisk autumn air on the step outside; I will wait to see which way He will walk in order to perhaps follow Him some ways down the street. A smile will break across my lips and His as we will realize that He will be waiting for the same reason--we will mutually decide to walk my direction.
Our conversation will continue as our walk takes us lopingly in the direction I will need to go at that time. With the excuse that both of us will be carrying a burden, our pace will be a crawl along the street--the puffs of mist our breaths will make will disappear even before we have the chance to walk through them--so slow our walk will be. Having left the haven of that shop, I will be sad to be aware that our accidental time together is drawing to a close. He will be aware of it too.
Finally comes the moment we will have to part ways. My nervousness which will have melted bravely away for the better of the day, will return and I will find it so hard to look into His eyes to say goodbye. He will still have that easy smile about His lips, but now even He will have to look down in search of words to say. Up until that afternoon, that accidental meeting, the only proof of chemistry will have been glances held a little too long, a little too charged, but not enough to be anything but a fantasy in my mind and His. But after that accidental afternoon, there will too much proof of chemistry to be ignored anymore; what might have existed simply as fantasy before, will prove itself as fact. Neither of us will know what to say. Instead of words, we will share one more longingful look--like the ones we will already be accustomed to--and without an utterance, things between us will be understood to be as they once were before, until the next time we will find each other away from everyone else. Until our next accidental afternoon.
I'll blush again, and as my eyes will dart nervously around the shop for another place to gaze, He will smile easily in comfortable recognition and I'll know it's okay to make eye contact with Him once more. After He will finish buying his steaming mug of coffee He'll make His way over to where I am, nod at the empty seat across from me, and wait for my nod before sitting down. He'll have a pile of papers to match my pile of books, and though we both have much to get done, we'll still risk what precious time we have to talk.
He'll ask me about my books, and I'll take my time to tell Him without having to worry about showing an interest in His papers--I'll already know what they're from, and He'll know that I know. We'll avoid the common ground and just talk about what we've never discussed before; hobbies, past-times, favourites, experiences, anectdotes, and our shared passion for the written word.
The afternoon will drain into evening as the sun sets through the window next to our table. The minutes will stretch into hours and our coffees will be forgotten as the warmth we initially sought in those mugs will be refreshingly found elsewhere. Smiles and laughter will pass easily in the air between us as legs will bump accidentally under the table, and phones will be casually ignored and turned off as arms will brush more and more comfortably on top.
Oblivious to the world outside the realm of the table piled with books and papers, we'll carry on until politely interrupted by the shopkeeper who will reluctantly bring our attention to the time--reluctantly because he will recognize the kind of conversation blossoming between us. The two of us will quickly gather our things and exit the place together, pausing for a moment in the brisk autumn air on the step outside; I will wait to see which way He will walk in order to perhaps follow Him some ways down the street. A smile will break across my lips and His as we will realize that He will be waiting for the same reason--we will mutually decide to walk my direction.
Our conversation will continue as our walk takes us lopingly in the direction I will need to go at that time. With the excuse that both of us will be carrying a burden, our pace will be a crawl along the street--the puffs of mist our breaths will make will disappear even before we have the chance to walk through them--so slow our walk will be. Having left the haven of that shop, I will be sad to be aware that our accidental time together is drawing to a close. He will be aware of it too.
Finally comes the moment we will have to part ways. My nervousness which will have melted bravely away for the better of the day, will return and I will find it so hard to look into His eyes to say goodbye. He will still have that easy smile about His lips, but now even He will have to look down in search of words to say. Up until that afternoon, that accidental meeting, the only proof of chemistry will have been glances held a little too long, a little too charged, but not enough to be anything but a fantasy in my mind and His. But after that accidental afternoon, there will too much proof of chemistry to be ignored anymore; what might have existed simply as fantasy before, will prove itself as fact. Neither of us will know what to say. Instead of words, we will share one more longingful look--like the ones we will already be accustomed to--and without an utterance, things between us will be understood to be as they once were before, until the next time we will find each other away from everyone else. Until our next accidental afternoon.
Tonight's Life Lesson
Give them an inch, and they'll take a mile.
...
Be careful with your rationing--make sure you have that mile to spare before you offer the inch. Oh, the bittersweetness of generosity.
...
Be careful with your rationing--make sure you have that mile to spare before you offer the inch. Oh, the bittersweetness of generosity.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Away
There are some people in your life that, no matter how far away they are, no matter how few words they use, they can catch you off guard and melt your heart.
I am in love with such people.
...
She awakes to a dark room. A sliver of sunlight cuts through a gap in the drapes, but a quick glance at the clock tells her she can still go back to sleep. She groggily rolls over and tucks the covers under her chin; her eyes close to an empty half of the bed. In her mind, she shakes her head at herself.
I'm still doing it.
She shifts further over until she is in the middle of the mattress, surrounded by pillows and buried in excesses of duvet. Usually one to fall asleep in minutes, she tosses and turns until finally she finds a comfortable curl, and coaxes herself back to sleep.
When she awakes, she finds herself again, on one side of the bed.
I am in love with such people.
...
She awakes to a dark room. A sliver of sunlight cuts through a gap in the drapes, but a quick glance at the clock tells her she can still go back to sleep. She groggily rolls over and tucks the covers under her chin; her eyes close to an empty half of the bed. In her mind, she shakes her head at herself.
I'm still doing it.
She shifts further over until she is in the middle of the mattress, surrounded by pillows and buried in excesses of duvet. Usually one to fall asleep in minutes, she tosses and turns until finally she finds a comfortable curl, and coaxes herself back to sleep.
When she awakes, she finds herself again, on one side of the bed.
Un-caught
"I need to catch my breath before you take it away again."
--Simone Deveaux to Peter Petrelli, Heroes
...
I can't decide whether my lack of posting is due to a lack of inspiration, or a lack of motivation. It's not like nothing's happened (hell, I'm in Calgary right now), but I guess nothing's stuck.
My favourite moments to write about are those moments that I feel need to be captured. Much like a photographer may snap a picture, I try to catch a scene; a moment. I know I'm successful when with the few words I use, paint a picture so emotional that it's tangible. Sometimes I wonder if my writing is ever too vague, but I think that sometimes, in order to convey the scene universally, it has to be just vague enough so that that everyone can see a bit of themselves in it. Regardless if I use names or not, whether the moments are real or a work of fiction, I like when anyone can come by, read, and either shake or nod their head and think "Me too--I've done that."
...
I think right now I'm waiting for my breath to be taken away--just so I can write about it.
...
"If I'm ever looking for something, I always seem to find it when I'm with you."
It was really much less beautiful than it sounds.
--Simone Deveaux to Peter Petrelli, Heroes
...
I can't decide whether my lack of posting is due to a lack of inspiration, or a lack of motivation. It's not like nothing's happened (hell, I'm in Calgary right now), but I guess nothing's stuck.
My favourite moments to write about are those moments that I feel need to be captured. Much like a photographer may snap a picture, I try to catch a scene; a moment. I know I'm successful when with the few words I use, paint a picture so emotional that it's tangible. Sometimes I wonder if my writing is ever too vague, but I think that sometimes, in order to convey the scene universally, it has to be just vague enough so that that everyone can see a bit of themselves in it. Regardless if I use names or not, whether the moments are real or a work of fiction, I like when anyone can come by, read, and either shake or nod their head and think "Me too--I've done that."
...
I think right now I'm waiting for my breath to be taken away--just so I can write about it.
...
"If I'm ever looking for something, I always seem to find it when I'm with you."
It was really much less beautiful than it sounds.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Flare-ups
Innernia. Really getting to me.
I've got this insatiable urge to just co-exist and there are no fish biting. None that I'd want to have biting anyway. Then again, I guess that's my own fault for not throwing out many lines.
Tonight's definitely a night for loud music and booty shorts.
I've got this insatiable urge to just co-exist and there are no fish biting. None that I'd want to have biting anyway. Then again, I guess that's my own fault for not throwing out many lines.
Tonight's definitely a night for loud music and booty shorts.
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