"No longer knowing the difference between making love and...fucking." -Sage Francis
I've never been so conflicted about love in my entire life. I have figured out though what my course of action should be. I love the boy dearly, but feel that I am doing more harm to myself and inadvertently, him, by being with him. He's too young and inexperienced. He hasn't taken his own steps forward out of the shade and into the blinding sun of the world yet, as I have. I sort of realize that this mutual robbery will just fester if I try to continue to keep any of this up, because essentially, I'd end up carrying him, and he would see no need to grow, see the need to find himself, because he'd have me. Sewing on his buttons, cooking him meat and potatoes, reading (but never criticizing..."you're being sort of a snot.") his work, and of course, that other stuff that I dare not mention. He needs to grow, and I need him to grow. There you have it. Absolutely no elaboration into the weekend, but rather, what I learned from it. Vaguely.
This might be a mistake later, but I think I'll set him free next time I see him. Personally, I think he's probably going to take it rather well, because it's not as if he is super affectionate towards me anyways. Physically, sure, but that's only half a conquest of the heart. I sort of got the feeling this weekend that he just "puts up" with me sometimes, and my family, for the sake of a change from the settlement. I hope to god that I'm wrong- and fuck, since it was a gut feeling, it probably was wrong. My guts are the most inaccurate things- more inaccurate then a body fat index chart. It's funny to say because I advised someone not too long ago to go with their gut feelings, but I'm under the impression that everyone elses work. Other people win the lottery with theirs, and I- I get the feeling that this short cut is 'going to be awesome' and end up half submerged in a mudhole.
Seriously, I did have a salvageabley good weekend in the long run. Albeit there were mistakes, there were also giggles, cuddling, and someone to sleep next to, someone new to smile at, parents to understand me, and some change in conversation. It could have been worse.
One more thing: I want to take a poll.
So, you made this craft for your mother, to give to her friend who is dying of cancer
, and you accidently leave it at home (roughly twenty minutes away) on the night you are to bring it to your mom to give to her poor sick friend. You phone a certain relative you live with, and they bitch and whine for about five minutes and then agree to bring it to you, in exchange for paying for the gas it took to get out there. You agree. Your relative drops off the craft promptly, but as you are backing slowly away from the car and mention to them to make a note of the cost of gas on the fridge, your relative does this:
"Oh. I've changed my mind. I want you to do your chores + my chores, for the next three weeks instead."
~A capillary bursts in my brain, and I feel like I want to projectile hemmorage all over your beige leather interior of your fucking ugly Chevy Malibu
"But, I have exams. Finals. Big ones you know? They're coming up right away here, so..."
"Well, I'm going to Vancouver for two days, so I think you should do my chores while I'm gone."
You goddamn daughter of Satan. Purge thysself from that human body oh foul beast of the Devil! Or kill yourself, it's God's Will.
So, what do you think? Am I overreacting when I think my aunt is Satan's mistress incarnate, or what? I am not doing three weeks of her fucking chores for five bucks worth of gas money. Now, if only I could tell her that.
Old Habits Die. Hard.
I'm on a roll. I wish I was rolling on a bike to Mexico....but sadly this is not the case. Rather, I have pissed all over any commitments I once had this weekend for the sake of - I'm not quite sure. Something good and worthwhile hopefully. No yacht club christmas party for me- which actually, I'm only minorly upset about, because I'm missing the most beautiful food of all time. Brie and salsa? Smoked salmon? Sushi? Caviar? Havarti and and the cum of a royal melted on a cracker? Fine wines? Hopefully my mother's perpetually condiment filled fridge makes amends for this somehow. I could blend up some hotdogs and put them on soda crackers I suppose. Or eat dog food, which is surprisingly correlative to "ze finest pate on thiz side of France."
Also, Fenton's birthday is this weekend, and while earlier in the week, in the fog of grouch mode, I was not that upset about missing it, I now sort of am, though all things have been amended. I just hope Mr. Smith keeps him out of trouble, lol.
Additionally, I voiced a desire to write a spoof of a certain le papier member tonight, and didn't realize until later that this meant, I have to have copy. Tonight. I can't do this on the weekend, no internet, so...it's a gonna be a long night. Bah. And I was hoping to write a letter too for the editorials. I think it's feasibly possible, but I'm going to have to give Berry some creative license if anything needs to be changed, because I won't be able to necessarily do them. We'll see. It feels sort of nice to be jumping off the couch though after going so long without contributing. I feel like people should be bursting into song about it, but this could be my own arrogance.
At first I considered spoofing Fenton, but decided that it would be a conflict of interest. Not because I wouldn't have done an awesome job of it, but because, well, it's creepy to do something like that to your friends.
For some reason also today, I was having lunch with someone and the mouth opened up and decided to talk about sex. I haven't talked like that in a long time- it was arrogant and cocky, and undeniably true (the part about it being easy for me to find fuckbuddies, as well as my amazing talent) but I realized later why I hadn't talked about it before. It is rather whore-ish. Yay for me.
One thing I wanted to touch on for general knowlege:
The Art of Finding A Fuckbuddy With Ease
1. The trick is to wonder about people that just walk up to you for no reason and start talking. Or, people that do things to deliberately warrant attention in your presence. For example- the book slut came outside and started a sighing "woe is me" act. Redflag this. Generally, people who seem desperate for attention, especially regarding their appearance and physical mannerisms. Warning- some people just like to dress slutty- it doesn't mean they're forthcoming.
2. If you are not picky, there is always a standoff loser out there somewhere itching for a lay. They laugh at everything you say, and generally think you are the sexiest savior out there. Note- Excellent ego booster. Side effect- some of these people are NUTCAKES.
You may have to make some humiliating time sacrifices involving a shitty rendition of "Thriller" on piano, a plastic unicorn collection, or watch him and his friends play DnD. Alternatively- stoners are easy. Also- Good listeners always get laid, but to this: be one with the sieve, because a lot of what you force yourself to listen to for sex is hideously annoying, irrational, sort of scary, and/or just incredibly retarded. Sympathy pays off, even if it isn't genuine all the time.
3. There are some places I won't go here. But sometimes you will run into people who are so evenly matched with you that you start challenging each other constantly, daring each other to see how far the other will go. Very volatile, and just plain hott. I love it.
Now that y'all think I'm a total whore, we'll just leave it at that. I'd like to mention for graceful posterity that all this stuff is not necessarily practised. Nor would I ever (well...) do it to anyone. Again. The thing is that I once had a semi-notorious past in this respect, but I am 100% resigned not to ever pull any of this stuff again. I don't think I need to point out the awfulness of masterful manipulation.
Anyone commenting about virgins or the lackthereof in my box will be shot.
(you know who you are)
Yesterday, in an at first reluctant agreement, I went bowling with my grandma and Godzilla. And wouldn't you know it, but I felt strangely at peace as I waited for them to show up at the Bonnie Doone bowling alleys. It was empty save for a table of bantering gossippy employees, and the smell of pinesol permeated my nostrils as I dug into my takeout food at the table with the odd assortment of chairs surrounding me. Worn carpet, old wooden creaking benches and slick old linoleum that the signs declared as "tiles", creaking boards under my feet on the lane.
It was just me and the ball. Me, the ball, and the tightly wound bundle of anxiety that has been building up inside my softening body. I bowled a miserable first game, but started studying the man that bowled next to me. He had these beautiful turquoise and white swirled balls, no doubt of optimal proportion to height, body mass and other according factors that go into making hard plastic spheres of frustration venting. He held his ball close to his chest at first, like cradling a newborn. His head would be lowered, and at times it seemed like he was talking to it, communing with the bowling ball deities, or reassuring them that he would no sooner kill his own mother then mis-use the temple of worship within the sport. Every single shot he made would be preceded by this ritual, which I'm sure spanned at least two minutes or more. And wouldn't you know it, he bowled like a bat outta hell. I'd never seen anything like it. This man was obviously engineered for the sport exactly. His skull was distinctly bowling ball shaped, and his hair cut only emphasized that to lop his head off beneath the chin would benefit the executioner a superb piece of bowling equipment. To any other person, this man was unexemplorary, but to me, he was a bowling God. I wanted to ask him if he was pro, but got distracted by the hot employee who was obviously the only employee that exerted himself there.
He was constantly sprinting to the back of the alleys commandeered by screaming six year olds, to untangle lines, to alley anxiety brought on by the shrill squeals of foul line sirens, of malfunction buzzers. His chucks were faded, and carried him like a bird down those sleek alleyways without incident, and I was temporarily enraptured by his jet black curly hair set off by a clever checked shirt and thick framed glasses. That, and everytime he passed us, sweeping meticulously (more meticulously? : P) around our alley, he would often capture my gaze with his, grey eyed and pale, and blush, sweeping away any of the words he could have said that I would have wittily replied to. Damn you shy alternative boys! Ah well...no friendship gained, none lost.
I started mimicking the pro in our second game, curling the ball confidently into my hand, the crook of my arm, making eye contact and urgently whispering, "you best hit some pins bitch, or I'll lose to my stupid aunt." It was spiritual, moving, and hence, very effectual. I bowled a 181. Downsides- I don't think anyone wants to start a team with me. I beat my grandmother. My grandmother now thinks I'm a bowling prodigy and thinks I'll be wasting my "talent" if I don't do something about it. I gotta say though, I really enjoyed it. Looking at it like a revival of a somewhat decaying sport (face it, old people, and birthday parties...?) and feeling decidedly in peaceful solitude whilst doing it, and as a result, so hip it hurts, made me think I should pursue it more. Maybe on my own, but hey, all you Edmontonians! If you want to start a team with me, just lemme know. I'll hook you up.
Nice girls don't kiss like that...
I want something new to happen to all of us. Well, maybe not all of us, just some of us. I want realizations to hit some people soundly upside the head, and I want wonderful events to occur for others. Of course, I never get what I want. I get halfway what I want, or three fourths of what I want, but never the real deal. One day though, hopefully. Although, this will manifest itself in a completely fairly priced perfectly made and executed sandwich or something lame like that with all the luck I've been having for the last four years.
I dispensed with Feminazi today, because I felt like I was using it for the wrong reasons. It turned into less of a handy way of working on Nanowrimo from school, and more into a "aha...so THIS is where I can safely posit all my secret writing." Of course, there are no secrets on the internet, so with the advent of some pretty horrible and betraying things going up in the last little while, I copied them all to my harddrive and dispensed with it. It makes me kind of sad though, because it was good prose and poetry. I was proud of it. And lately, all my writing on Septapus has been total garbage. There's absolutely no denying it.
I have figured out though that stress combined with boredom (seems impossible, but it's not if you are bored to tears by shatloads of stressful assignments) do not good blog entries make. Also boring- the depressing nature of life lately. I want us all to be happy, god knows we all deserve it, but I don't know how to make everyone happy. It sounds so dumb, but I wish I could.
It's time like this when I feel like getting plowed like diaspora. Ha ha ha...bad literary jokes are always fun.
NO NO NO!! YOU ARE WRONG! (Whew, thank god)
I felt like posting a valuable lesson learned. Or, rather, beaten into me by someone volatile yet wise. My kung-fu sensei on Ritalin.
"I read your blog. I have to tell you that you are retarded (and I mean that in the most loving way possible). Here is why:
1. Do not cling to something you do not want simply because you are afraid that you might not find something better. If you do that,you'll never be happy.
2. Stop being so fucking pessemistic. If a cynical asshole like me still believes in love, true or otherwise, you should too. Seriously, you won't find it? Fuck that. Don't be retarded. You're fucking awesome and have more going for you than you tend to acknowledge.You'll find what you want eventually. Sure, it might not be right away, but whatever, it'll happen.
3. "At least I had something to hide behind when it was long." What? What the fuck are you trying to hide? This is kind of lame and shallow, I suppose, but I actually think you look a lot better with shorter hair. Seriously, a lot better. Whatever you thought you had to hide, it's a good thing that it is now visible.
4. As much as I totally think that, from everything you've ever said, Mr. Pink is not the right guy for you -- close, maybe, but no cigar (ha ha ha ha
), as they say --, I'll throw out one thing in his defence.You said: "How can you want someone you can summarize in one sentence?" It's called a summary for a reason. In no way does a summary ever come close to truly capturing the essence of the thing it is summarizing. NEVER. Additionally, you said: "I want someone I could write volumes on." Does the ability to summarize in a sentence negate the ability to write volumes? I mean, I could summarize THE CANTERBURY TALES in a single sentence: "A group of pilgrims travel from London to Canterbury, telling each other stories along the way." Sums it up completely, but doesn't catch the essence of the thing at all. Additionally, despite the fact that it can be summed up in a single sentence, volumes upon volumes have been written upon it. I'm not at all trying to say that you should continue to cling if this is not what you want. I'm just trying to play Devil's advocate, and give you another way of thinking about it.
5. "'[N]o wonder no one who isn't desperate wants you. You're a smoker, and thus = disgusting.'" See point number 2.
6. I'm pretty sure I said all that I meant to say. And remember this, as much as I'm anti-Yank at times, I agree with this American foundation: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness." Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. Those are your rights. Always, and forever. Don't let anyone deny you of those -- not even yourself."
So with that beating from the Kung-Fu master, I declare that he is all wise and all knowing- and this week- a little more than fucked- but he'll be ok. And so will I.
What is love? A figment.
I really wish Fenton was up right now. The first time I feel like talking about all this garbage for a week, and no one to tell it too. I don't hold it against him, I'm sort of used to the allergy of actually telling people things that are on my mind, but for some reason (lots of caffeine? An understanding of my issue?) I just feel like spilling my guts out right now- cut open my stomach and let my steamy eviscera spill out onto the table. Because your guts are easier to see and fathom when they're spread out in front of you, I realize, and when someone is there to tell you, no, affirm, that your gallbladder is not really the florescent green you thought it would be, unlike the amphibian's you dissected in Science 10.
It was so...real, yet not. No one ever really gets off the plane, you know? They keep going to LA because they accept wrecking their lives, or feel that love is an unnecessary thing afterall.
The scene that keeps returning to me though, is when they are sitting in the bathtub, and he holds her, and says, " I feel so safe, like I'm home." This was the best part of the movie- the kiss at the edge of the "canyon" being second to that. I wonder if those kisses that no one ever expects to occur, no matter how much they may or may not want it, ever really happen, or is that just the movies? Because movies have dictated a lot about love and romantic habits, there's no escaping that. Much to my chagrin. So, while I know all this, and know the ridiculousness of how I feel after seeing movies like this, I still get this little twinge of upset after I see them, this one and ESOTSM only, that makes me 1) wonder if that kind of love is ever going to be out there for me, or 2) Is what I have now as good as it realistically gets?
Because I don't think it is. Call it foolish idealism, or foolish romantic notion, but I don't think what I have now is as good as it gets. I don't smile at Mr. Pink whenever I make eye contact with him, like my cousin and her husband do, like my mother and father do, and then I wonder why it's still taking me this long to figure it out. Or rather, when I think I have figured it out, what is going on that I can't be good enough for someone? Out of everything in a relationship, when you're in love, you should still be able to smile at someone repeatedly forever, no matter how bad some things may be. That smile is an affirmation that nothing is insurmountable. J and I, when I know they detest being around J's mom, are extra smiley. They may not be having a good time around the constantly meno-raging Harlot, but as long as the other is there, they're having tons of fun. I cried at their wedding because I was so upset with the relevation that I might not ever find that- very selfish thing, and bad timing, I know-This is why I hate weddings. Or why I want to run away and hide when I see my parents all affectionate-like with each other. I enjoy seeing other people in love so much, but at the same time, it turns my stomach because I don't like facing facts that it might not happen for me.
Mr. Pink and I
This is not what I want.
Intelligent, literate, loves books, well spoken, interesting, funny, a writer, an artist, similar values and morals, good kisser, unique, suave, and a penchant for Italian.
This is not what I want. How can you want someone you can summarize in one sentence? I want someone I could write volumes on. Someone who constantly inspires me. Someone who would come and see me sometimes. But, I'm curious as to what happens, no, in dread of what happens, if I let him out of my grasp. It isn't the solitude I dread, maybe I even need more of it, but I dread the escape of the possible one good fish in the sea. I'm afraid of being alone, and reaching out in the future to others and just grazing the fingertips, not getting a firm grip of someone's hand. And I wonder if I continue to slip out of the grasps of many, whether it will become an unbreakable habit.
It's funny that I can get all worked up about my physical appearance, and then not want to be with one of the few who is unconcerned about it- doesn't see the scars, or the unchangeable nature of my body. I really should be embracing someone like that and not letting go in times like these, but I just can't bring myself to do it. I'm going to see him this weekend, and I'm so worried about what will happen. The thing is that nothing bad will happen if I keep my mouth shut. I just have to realize that this is it, I suppose. "You've had your good luck (looks?) for so long, that you're going to be running on empty soon, it's just Karma, so latch on to what you got and don't let go."
I wonder if I really am fucked, either way, and I don't mean that in the sense of a manager trois.
Several More important things to talk about though.
1. I finished all my assignments in the nick of time last week, other than a little screwup regarding the images for my art history paper, and as a result, have had one hell of a relaxed day today, which unfortunately made me also sort of untalkative.
2. Made a peace treaty with Godzilla: "Lay the fuck off, I'm an adult. You are not my caretaker."
3. Nanowrimo is SO not going...I'll work on it this week though I suppose.
4. I really had a great time with my parents on Friday- we hung out and talked about everything. Everything. And it was great, and we had sushi. My dad is writing again, and I am so proud of him. And thus, we always seem to run out of time to talk now, rather than how it used to be. My dad used to be rather inapproachable. In my teenage years, I was convinced that he was a tyrannist of course, and only further alienated him- and he didn't even try to push against the barricade I built shoddily out of teen angst. He was the smart one though, knowing to just ride it out. My mother, my father, and I, just get along amazing now, and I love it.
5. I have the most awesome idea for Fenton's birthday present EVER. It involves eggplant.
6. Went to the roost last night, didn't get home until four o'clock. But it was fun. I got a little tiny buzz, and the music sucked, and my phonecall sucked, but being with the three boys always proves to be a good cure for any funk, even if the music sucks. I ran into Carrie, who was more than a little plowed, and we had a little reunion and exchanged numbers. I used to adore her, but for some reason, I wasn't really seeing it last night. She's great, and maybe we'll be friends, and that would be fun, but, I don't know. I told her last night, just for a laugh that she's the first girl I'd ever had a crush on, (true), and despite her sogginess, she saw through the joke in a millisecond and gave me a huge hug and told me she thought I was amazing.
7. I really want my hair back long. This shortness is killing me everytime I look in the mirror. At least I had something to hide behind when it was long.
8. I've lost a lot of weight in the last thirteen days. Startlingly so. And though I won't tell my parents, or do anything about it, I'm still sick. I just keep hoping it will go away on its own.
9. I love my friends to death, they are all so rad.
10. (I just wanted to have ten) Smoking is making me feel so incredibly disgusting. I feel like a scourge of the planet, and really depressing when I have one. I pout and go, "no wonder no one who isn't desperate wants you. You're a smoker, and thus = disgusting." And I wonder if other smokers go through this.
God I'm grouchy. I should go to bed. Or develop a freezy addiction, or pop handfuls of valium. That'd be sweet...
Gordon Downey, You Make Me Hot.
Once upon a time, a girl went to a Tragically Hip concert with one of her best friends and one of his other fast-talking friends. She at first was really bewildered at the whole prospect, having never stepped foot in Rexall center before, but as soon as they sat down in their floor seats, she felt the tension mount. The burning excitement of seeing a heroic band she'd idolized for the last five years rose inside of her as she tried to memorize every detail around her before the show started, tittering rapidly and hypertastically with her friend about the headliners who were taking their sweet time to get to the stage after Joel Plaskett Emergency.
JPE was pretty good though, she found. Good beat, strong voice, and tight sets- and she made up her mind to buy a cd of them at a later date. If only for concert posterity's sake. The headliners started hinting that their set was almost over, and the girls stomach began to knot and unknot, her hands couldn't keep still, articulating their excitement in rapid fluttery movements. She couldn't keep her body still, it was humming in anticipation despite the ache of fatigue that lingered on her settled bones. She rubbed her hands together, something she never thought she'd be guilty of doing when excited, unlike her youngest brother and mother. She wiggled in her seat. She had nothing useful to say. She couldn't look her friend in the eyes for fear that she might leap upon him and hug the crap out of him because she was so happy to be there.
When the show actually started, the crowd went nuts. She'd never seen a crowd that large go that crazy when the lights went down and shadows flitted promisingly in front of projection lights that flared intermittently. Four men came onto stage, and that's when the madness escalated. It seemed like she was surrounded by a seething and frothing sea of hands flailing, in the thunder of applause, shouting and screaming. She screamed so loud she surprised herself, wondered if she'd have a hoarse throat at the end of the night.
They played all the old favorites, all the new favorites, and the girl couldn't get enough. She rocked out, caught herself singing along loudly- constantly berating herself to shut up, and moved and moved and moved, to the point where she thought the incessant motion would drive her two companions nuts, that they would expatriate her from the wedged position in which she was standing.
So, you get the point- the show was absolutely amazing. I am actually sort of speechless still, so I apologise if the abovementioned crap...is really just a bunch of crap. It's true, but I honestly am at a loss for words.
One thing that struck me as strange though, is that though the concert was hugely important to me, and I enjoyed it immensly and it was fantastically done with no complaints from myself, is that it didn't touch me the way that one very small in comparison concert did. The Hip impacted me, but I think that my attraction to them is much more aesthetical than anything else, though the lyrics are pretty awesome still. But Buck 65 just was different. It was a whole other method of expression that I learned that night, and it just reached out and shook me hard, knocking my brain around in my head. Others may argue that I had some sort of other bias as to why that particular concert was so amazing, but it wasn't so. I have this bizarre love affair with words. Sure, I spell them wrong, I mispronounce them, I make them up, but they completely enthrall me with meaning, sound, appearance and all sorts of other intangible things. I am not really embarrassed for saying words out of context anymore, because I realize that sometimes I just say a word because I want to say it in that moment. It gets me in trouble, and it gets me exasperated lectures from friends, but I don't care. Epitomy. Correlation. Straits of Northumberland themselves... Gastrointestinitis...diarrhea (how can such a fun word to say, be so foul?) There used to be a song about Diarrhea that we sung in in school. Or maybe it was just me singing "Diiiiarrhea, Diarrhea, something something something something, something something something...." to the tune of Hallelujah. Bah, probably just me singing about doody on the monkey bars with Jarvis.
I knocked your book down the stairs, because you engrage me and I think I may even dislike you. Intently.
First of all, let me start off by saying:
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOU STUPID WENCH YOU?!?!?!?!
Yesterday, I ran into my cousin at the bus stop. He says he's doing a lot better since he got shot earlier this year (another hardy resident of Mill Woods), other than the occasional ebbing pain, and being afraid to go out alone at night. As he tells it, the shooting resulted from a mistaken identity. The guy that shot him, had a brother who was killed by a guy named D also, and lived right around the corner from my cousin. Anyways, D and his girlfriend are expecting a child in the new year, which is pretty cool. He's working for his dad, and this is also really good, because his dad is an amazing person. He's getting Victim's services, and is going to buy a house in Kelowna with that and the money he's been saving up, for him and his upcoming family. Sounds great and wonderful for a thug turn around story, right?
I got home and shared the news with Godzilla and Grandma, and got a mixed reaction. Some relief from Grandma, but some good old self-righteous Wrath from Godzilla:
"well then, the world is going to hell now. He's happy? He doesn't deserve to be happy! HE'S getting Victim Services? That is SO wrong! He's having yet another child that his mother won't be able to see? God, D is such a crook! Where does he get off? What a load of shit, none of that could possibly be true! Nyah nyah nyand on, and on, and on, and on and on...."
I watched her scatter skyscrapers with broad swings of her thick scaly arms, and watched in disgust as she picked up a small silver Ford Bronco, delicately opening the truck with two pink laquered nails before shaking the contents into her raw moist toothy mouth.
She makes me so fucking mad. And today, the situation of anger just escalated. I came home from school, anticipating - no, creaming my pants- at the prospect of sleeping for two hours before I started my english essay. Godzilla woke me up and said, "it's your mother," in what I later realized was an extremely smug and pleased tone, as she passed me the cordless. My mom whispered to me over the phone,
"do you have some time? Meet me outside, I'm parked up the block away from the house." Part of me was amused at the spy-esque quality of this rendezvous, but the other part realized that there'd been another fight or falling out. The Blue Fairy vs. Godzeira! Godzeira!
We decided to go for supper at Mikado's, as she had apparently had a world class bad day, and needed someone to talk to (aside: I'm old enough now that my mother comes to me to listen to her, is that cool or what?) because dad is gone. She kept telling me how strong a character I was, and how patient and again, strong and "strengthy" and I was a little befuddled, because when she was gushing this all out to me, she still hadn't told me what had happened. But first, an update.
My Great Uncle died last night, the younger (only remaining) brother of my grandfather (who passed away when I was thirteen). My mom had to phone my dad in T-dot to tell him at 1:30 in the morning (his side of the family/Godzeira's side of the family). Also, my grandmother (the one I reside with) is starting to have really bad pains in her mouth again, comparable to the first time she had pains in her mouth that indicated some cancer. My mother also had to tell my dad that last night (also, his mother). Also, she just found out that one of her best friends is dying from cancer, having an indeterminate amount of time to live. Anyways, the gist is, my mom has a lot on her plate- she already tries to take care of everyone, and now she's got all this stuff to deal with to. She makes mud into rainbows, it is true, but I worry about her stress levels sometimes.
So basically what happened today, is that she -thinking of all the impending or just-past doom, comes over to my grandma's this morning to make sure someone is around in case my G reacts to her new medication in an unsavory way. Godzilla comes home, and says, "I have an a huge problem I need your help with, absolutely absolutely important, do or die...." in her usual drama-queen-aged-sixteen sort of way, but my mother is at the point where she thinks it must be serious.
Mom: Oh no, what?
Godzilla: It's driving me crazy, and I can't cope with it at all...
Mom: (thinking Godzilla on edge of mental breakdown) Ok, just tell me, what's wrong?
Godzilla: Your daughter! She drives me crazy! She's so awful, she is constantly leaving the closet door open, and leaving the toilet seat up! I just cannot deal with it L. Her room is a mess! I just CANNOT take it anymore!
~An awkward silence occurs. Perhaps a small insect buzzes by.~
Godzilla: So, what are you going to do about it? I demand she get flogged for her insubordinate acts immediately!
Mom: Well, I'll talk to her about it I suppose. You think my daughter's room is messy? When does she have time to clean her room ? She's been working her ass off for the last week! She's sick! She's shitting blood! I was in her room today, and it wasn't even bad. What the hell is wrong with you?
Godzilla: I suppose she was raised this way, but I really can't stand it. Yuck, we always knew that your side of the family were just slovenly cavemen.
Mom: (flames shoot out nose) She was raised to be neat, and tidy. She is really busy Godzilla, I'm sure it's just an oversight. You're a freak. When you are old and decrepit with your lack of retirement fund or pension, due to never holding a real job, we're not takin' you in.
She told me all this over dinner and in the truck, and I was absolutely appalled. Why my aunt had to dump this on my undeserving mother. Why she didn't just tell me herself? As my dad later put it, she still regards me as a child (Godzilla). He also was upset that Godzilla upset my mother further than she already is, and put on the DaNeiro for me.
Me: Ahhh dad! AHH! She's just such a freaking witch!
Dad: You know what, tell her if she's really got that big of a problem, she can deal with me. Because I am the DaNeiro in this family, and if she upsets any of you, she has to deal with me after. I'll put her right. Hey, you really got me hooked on Futurama by the way, I watch it every night here- it's awesome!
Me: You should watch Home Movies sometime. It is equally as rad, if not moreso.
It is a well known fact that Godzilla is terrified of Robert DaNeiro. Because DaNeiro has always had his shit together, and is the toughest, fairest coolest guy in the land, all while still being able to kick your ass on the chessboard or the playground anytime. Best be representin' biatch.
He is the omnipotent duke, the Godfather, and really, the only one with any good traits, like common sense, diplomacy, and a respect for others on this side of the family other than my grandmother.
I feel better. I told my dad that I would talk to Godzilla about her grievous wrong tonight, but I'm wondering if the silent treatment wouldn't be just so much better, because I honestly don't want to deal with a fight right now, as much as I love the prospect of a screaming match. That, or I'll make solid with the idea of shaking the toaster into her bedsheets, rather than the garbage can I have to do so in after every single use. Because those crumbs, they're the devil, especially if they're in your bed. She'd go crazy if she didn't incinerate herself with rage first- or kill herself by grabbing the biggest thing in the room (herself) and hurling it at a wall. I'm such a cow...
Lemme tell ya...another infamous mid-essay blog.
Have you ever eaten four creamy caramels at one time?
I thought not.
It's kind of disgusting. You end up opening and closing your mouth to ridiculous proportions, and it kind of hurts your teeth, because let's face it, sweets hurt our teeth now, we're at that age. But just when you're on the verge of spitting all that overly sweet piercingly painful goo out, you swallow it and that brown sugary mass just slithers down your throat and sits in your stomach, no doubt encapsulating that hard technicolored rock of gum your mother always told you would stay there forever. And it's kind of warm feeling, and it reminds you of that time when you were little when you and your brother melted all those really nasty wax wrappered toffees from your halloween bag into one large lump. You rolled it into a huge sticky ball and stuck it in the freezer and later threw it from your brother's bedroom window and watched it shatter onto the sidewalk like your mother's good crystal could have. And you both learned your first valuable lesson about digestion. "That can't be good..."
Thinking about the human mind tonight has made me realize the interesting dichotomy I have as far as all my past love fixations have gone. It runs one out of two ways each time. Primarily, I'm attracted to brains. Big shiny gobs of myelin sheathed grey matter. The more the merrier- I delight in complexity. But the funny thing is, when I'm attracted to the personality and all the stuff that races around in some person's brain, I sort of forget about their appearance. It never manifests itself as important, and sometimes I'm shocked when I sit back and realize, "oh yeah, this person is also physically attractive. Huh?"
On the other side of things though, I can be totally enamoured of someone based on their physical looks, and forget that they have brains. Contrarily though, these attractions are very fleeting and never last very long. They don't trouble me, and I never care which way they go, unless perhaps, I have been misled (ok, ok, misled myself?) into a relationship where grey matter became of secondary importance all of a sudden. Which is never healthy, and causes me to run away like a school girl being pursued by pedophiles with cellphone cameras.
What I've realized though, is that somehow I have become more ...what is the word... subjected to the latter of the two, because those brains that I so crush on hard, are much to smart for me. But then I realize, I can't just keep running away from the uninspiring clods, and I wonder what to do. What to do, what to do?
But with the latter situation, I wonder if it is my hormones that consistently lead me into battle to crush the hearts of the innocent. And by hormones, I don't mean my monthly flashes of insanity. I mean the bits that have me fantasizing about a certain rose colored mister at any given point of the day. I shouldn't be constantly thinking about him in a compromising sexual position should I? I should be thinking about how great of an intellect he is, how much I love hearing him speak, how much we click mentally, how much of a shy innocent I feel like when I'm around him. But do you think I could push naughty thoughts out of my head for an instant? NO. And it worries me that I can't, because what if I've been misleading myself towards all the intellectual aspects, and all I really have left are the physical things that I keep thinking about? What if I'm wrong and I don't give it enough time to find out? What if I'm right and I stick around too long? It's all very confusing.
I saw a woman at the smoke shop in front of me today, who had the most bizarre looking bum. She was wearing much too tight jeans, and had a really sort of round but flat bum, the non-descript sort of saggy kind. But, (and do I mean but) her thighs came up to the bottom of her butt in such a way that it appeared by all means that this woman had mastered the art of growing her own armour. Or, that simply, her thighs were the only thing holding up her butt. If she shifted (she did often impatiently), a huge wedge-shaped chink would appear in the armour, between the bottom of her butt and the top of her wedge shaped back of the thigh. You could store munitions in that wedge, or a second flank at least. I wondered if her kids hid things in there when they thought she wasn't looking. All in all, I'm not criticizing it. It was, if anything, a masterful engineering feat of nature. If I had buns like that, I'd be my own bookcase. "Neitzche? Sure, just one sec, I have it on me!" Yeah right, because I read tons of Neitzche. I probably haven't even spelled it right, lol.
I squished a small bug in the bathroom today, simply out of spite, for being trapped in the bathroom, and not doing something more purposeful, like finishing my two essays. At first I felt bad, and then realizing that it was so microscopic that I couldn't even discern what sort of bug it was, I didn't feel bad. Because if you kill something with no identity, it's ok, right? As you can tell, I'm a little upset about the most recent invasion in Iraq. I'm a little upset over the amount of soldiers being killed. And I'm a little more than a little upset about the fact that many more are going to die on both sides, both civilian and otherwise. People are already becoming so distracted that the media is starting to have lenience reminiscent of Vietnam. There was a picture of a dying man on the front page of the paper the other day, ripped to shreds with an army nurse doing cardiac pulmonary resciscutation (sp?) on top of him. It doesn't bother me. Perhaps if we had the same coverage that Vietnam had for Iraq and Afghanistan, more people would realize that what's going on is absolutely, unnegotiably wrong. More people would realize, "oh yeah dude, people are actually dyin' over there." More people would realize, "dude, Bush is a fucking retard..." More people would realize that out of everything stupid humanity has ever done and not learned from, war is something that it is imperative we learn from. The one thing we need to realize is inherently a bad way of solving a problem is using violence as a means.
I suppose I'll return to work now. Bah.
I know why you want to hate me. Because I listen to Limp Bizkit. And now you want your money back.
Stupid stupid papers. I'm taking this opportunity to talk about the noble savage. I've been so inundated with romanticist bullshit lately, and the noble savage is really starting to irk me. Because "the savage is so noble" but yet, "clearly savages are inferior." If I have to plod through one more racist ethnographic writing by some guy who clearly has a pine tree or a galleon wedged up his little powdered ass, I may scream. Or burn a lot of old books.
I understand why we keep stuff like this around- to keep pounding the lesson of "don't do that again, BAD! BAD!" home, especially to future ignorant denizens of the earth. I guess I just wish we were all inherently good people, living good lives, sharing our bread with the neighborfolk if they're hungry. You know, make the world a big backyard barbeque party- including the 1.4 million drunk uncle Johns. Oh hopeless optimism...how you grow out of my body like a big black hair sprouting from a mole.
In other news, people are dropping like flies around me. A very old aunt of mine passed away this morning unfortunately. Ginger was like eighty-eight, which was absolutely astonishing for the amount of toxins in her body that I imagine outnumbered her red blood count by the end of her life. Ginger was a very spunky lady, always found with a cigerette dangling from her lips and a rum and coke in the left hand. Her and her husband (deceased for about seven years) had traveled the world together, but ended up in Barrhead- then the richest town in Northern Alberta (you'd never guess that now, but there's still a lot of old money there. And a LOT of churches). Ginger was also the biggest cardshark that I had ever met in my life. She wouldn't think twice about kicking your ass- it didn't matter how old you were, or how new to the game, "if you lose, you lose. Learn from it." I never learned anything but lost bits and pieces of my allowance to her constantly. For some reason, I always pictured her going out in a blaze of glory, she was that tough, despite her small birdlike stature, but I heard that she passed away in her sleep, which is how she wanted it- because she fought to stay alive so long when she was awake. Even in her last few months, she'd been difficult for the home to manage- they'd been on the verge of kicking her out a few times- for constantly smoking in her room. And she'd always find a new way to hide it, or was just plain defiant about it. The primary concern was that she'd cause an explosion with her oxygen cylinder (she was entirely dependent on this for the last two months- hence my prediction of "blazing glory") but really, after a while, everyone could see that what happened this morning was pretty inevitable, and they stopped fighting her. I'm sad that she's gone, but sort of relieved also, because she was probably in a lot of pain.
Fenton was showing me some of Solomon's Song the other day, in the context that it was pretty smutty (I believe we have established I'm going to hell a long time ago, for any interested parties). I of course scoff at this type of thing usually, because sometimes I am pretty oblivious to textual things (opaque as chalk) but perusing through http://www.bible.com proved to be very interesting. I was all like "sacrilege! Mon dieu!" Getting hot and flustered, and wanting to go dancing next weekend. Damn these essays to hell, though that would insinuate that I already know what my Eternal Punishment will be.
Man, I would kill for a solid bowel movement sometime today.
All the plans I had for today got temporarily dashed, meaning I have to work twice as hard for the rest of the three day weekend, provided that I don't get horribly laid up tomorrow either.
Some sort of creature has been trying to push out of my stomach all day. It's either an effigy of an Alien or a Predator, or a horde of ninjas with katano's going crazy in there. I figured out that it was really in there when I doubled up in pain after arriving in the kitchen to shovel down some breakfast, despite nagging pains in my back that had kept me awake since eleven. The toast got cold as I hunted for a new cure, cheerios, and could not find them anywhere. Godzilla, figuring she was doing me a favor, popped my toast back in for me to "rewarm it". I drank some juice, trying to drown the ninjas, but all for naught. Instead, the smell of radioactively carcinogenic toast seemed to bolster their strength and energy. The knife happy gang went wild as smoke poured out of my kitchen appliance, and I mourned a slice of once good Pagnotti before fleeing upstairs away from the smell.
Thoroughly energetic, the alien /predator/ gang of ninjas in my stomach prevented me from movement as I lay back in bed. If I moved, they clawed and twisted and contorted my guts. Even when I did not move I had horrendous pain coursing throughout my body. It was completely flabbergasting and painful, and a complete waste of my time. So many other things to do in the world today and I end up fighting ninjas with advil. I was right pissed off.
On the good side, I have only had two cigerettes today as a result of this tiring battle.
Thus it begins...
I haven't started the madness tonight- tonight being my last night of relaxation and reprieve (reprieve? perhaps not) before I dive into papertime.
Bizarrely, I thought I had a lot to say, but instead, I will ask a question instead:
A person (sex is unimportant) comes up to you (not a hobo) and stops in front of you. Looks hard at your face and your eyes, and then smiles broadly, declaring seriously that you are his/her soulmate. How do you react?
I personally think that the notion is ridiculous, but of course with the foolish comes the "what if" notion. If the person was completely serious, perhaps I'd ask them to validate it with an obscure question on personal taste. I suppose though that if I was getting mental patient vibes I'd get the hell out of there right fast.
No one is online to listen to my blithering. Mr. Pink is not home. Westjet....has phoned me once already. Belly has her girlfriend over for the weekend. Fenton is MIA (lazy ass that I am who hath not picked up the phone yet), and Mr. Smith...is preoccupied I imagine. I suppose I'll go to bed early tonight, or maybe...maybe I should work on the novel before bed...hm...Only 'til twelve howbout? Right. That's what I thought you'd say.
My garbage dump of irrational fears
In the throes of a most mysterious and awful depression last night that actually reduced me to curling up into the most unproductive ball of cold ever in my bed, I heard the front door open and my mother stepped into the foyer and called for me. I didn't answer, too flabbergasted by the godsend, so she came up to my room and found me in all my patheticness, giving me a big hug and dumping a whole loaf of pagnotti onto my bed, along with my fixed and favorite pillowquilt and two bottles of pesto. My eyes were swollen, and she took this time to tell me that I need to go for an appointment to get all this crap figured out because,
"You can't go for a whole month being fine, and then have two days where you're such a time bomb like this- where you feel like you can't even be here."
I assured her that it was only social suicide that I'd ever considered, not physical. That would be a waste. She told me again what I already know, that my hormones are undeniably fucked up. I am broken- sky high libido, and two day life sucking depressions are not the things to mix.
The thing that bothers me the most is that I hate feeling like a psych patient for these times that are particularly bad. I hate the reaction it invokes in me, but mostly I hate the evocation of the whatever from other people. And I hate that I say stupid things on here constantly, despite the fact that usually it helps to lessen my load considerably. This is my garbage dump of irrationality.
I really don't like either that I've learned that I have to tell my friends or boyfriends "how to deal with me at the end of the month." What it amounts to is essentially "ignore the shit out of me. Run away screaming if you can- leave me to wallow in my misery."
But enough is enough.
An observation: Fat people with tiny feet are hilarious. Also, people who inadvertantly bob their heads like pigeons when they walk are hilarious. Combine the two, and you have an observer looking away desperately to contain her laughter. What is bobbing your head an indication of as you walk? Humans are descendant from birds, or that this particular person is possessor to a brain the size of a peanut? But seriously now, is this a physical ailment, or the result of introducing pigeon genes to the human gene pool?
I have had a bad day- and it's not even over yet, that's the bitchin' part. I've had a few disparaging thoughts today.
Finding a balance- I really realized why I am friends with Westjet today. We have nothing in common, but we have lots of fun together, and more importantly, we have a mutual respect for each other, and he treats me very well despite everything. Despite all this, he's probably pretty pissed off at me right now because I dodged him last night to hang out with Fenton instead.
Last night, was really fun. At least I thought it was. We walked in the bitter cold and nattered about important things, non-important things, and all the silly things inbetween. However, when it came time for me to call a cab home, due to some western semi-final football idiocy, Fenton was unable to locate a cab for me. I took the slice of couch I was offered and spent a sleepless night inspecting the rafters of the Fenton family basement, making friends with the cat, and wishing the lamp next to the couch was actually plugged in so I could do something more constructive than sleeping.
The next morning, I got woken up at ten minutes to the time that I'd said I'd be home at. Apparently, I'd also overstayed my welcome at the same time, as I got punted into the street like a 35 cent hooker promptly after.
I don't care how fucking important you think your life is, you don't treat your friends like garbage. Had the situation been reversed, not only with a friend, but anyone
staying in my home overnight (35 cent hookers included), I would at least have offered some breakfast, regardless if the offer had been declined. Maybe I sound like I'm overreacting, but... right now I feel like moving into the middle of a forest by myself.
No one to have to make niceties with. No one to want to care about one-sidedly. No one to hurt me after I find that out. No one to manipulate me. No one to come simpering after me in need of attention. No one to pretend to listen to me, seeking outlet to talk about themselves. No one to get mad at me if I don't pay attention. No one to confirm that I have nothing to say. No one to think that my life is less important- that my future is always disposable- that I don't have anything better to do because this is what I'm supposed to do-be your friend.
No one to not understand. No one to have to try and understand. No one to placate. No one to treat me badly. No one to cast you aside at their convenience. No one to fucking worry about. Nobody around- just me. Maybe I'd get some of my life done then instead of putting it aside for everyone else.
I'm mad. But really, I'm sad, because I love all my friends- maybe that is just the way that it's supposed to be, maybe it's normal, and I'm too selfish or stupid to see that.
I'm also upset about Mr. Pink. I think- I don't know what to think. Why the fuck is he with someone like me? I wouldn't want to be with me. And yet here I am, in this tainted nuclear mistake of a body, with a poisoned mind, and lacking knowlege in everything. How do you make cake with such vile ingredients?
I hate school. I just keep on hating it more and more. I still don't think I'm doing the right thing. I'm doing something that at this point I think
I have the best chance at enjoying. I'm not going to know until my IPT/APT which horrendously, is in my last year. And then, I can't think up what I would do instead. And then I think that I'm too fucked up a person to be teaching young people- that it can't be healthy- that I'm too much of a crazy. I feel like I'm just wasting my life right here. Right now. And I'm upset with myself because I won't let myself just quit and move onto something else, because I know it will make me upset for not finishing the only hope at some sort of career chance I may have had, and also because it would upset my parents a lot. But I don't want to be here. There are a million other places and a million other things that I'd rather be doing, and I could be smoked by a car coming over the curb tomorrow and become a blip. "Wasn't it sad?" "She was so young." "But, moving on..."
I see why winning the lottery is so appealing now. Maybe money does buy happiness. If you had lots of money, you wouldn't have to stop anywhere long enough to care for anyone. You could give all your existing friends a monthly share, and they'd think you were the greatest person ever, with no work involved. You could be a no-body, but still be doing something more purposeful than what you were doing as a some-body. Which is nothing.
I am doing nothing purposeful in the world right now, and I'm just a parasite. Parasite to my parents, parasite to my friends, parasite to the school staff I constantly annoy, and I feed off everyone I encounter somehow- but for what? All I ever seem to do is make people miserable somehow. I don't feel like I give as much as I take sometimes, but sometimes, I feel like a skeleton with only little bits of flesh clinging to my ribcage standing on a streetcorner. What the hell am I supposed to be doing here? Are you supposed to enjoy life or make something of it? Or are they one and the same? I suppose you actually need one for the other, is what it really comes down to.
Sorry. I probably just need to get some sleep afterall. And some breakfast. Or, maybe I need my wallet back so I can go buy a lottery ticket.
And then the Dell slithered into action, moving with all the speed and magnificence that can only be observable in enormous lake-forming Glaciers.
Yesterday was sort of a good day until the end hit. And by end, I don't mean apocalypse, I mean that whole "going home" part that inevitably happens at the end of each day.
Kat and I were standing on the LRT platform, and as we were discussing the short lifespans of various rodents along with the bargaining our parents seem to try and do in the most inopportune places (Canadian Tire, for instance, will not 'dicker' over the price of air compressors- no matter what eschelon you get to the till) when we heard a yell.
"Fuck off!" A girl screamed. And everyone turned- nothing like public melodrama to draw attention. A boy in a blue coat, with a broken arm was quite insistently pursuing her, not letting her escape his vicinity. He wasn't grabbing her or anything, but rather using his body to head her off as she tried to escape him. The entire time, he didn't raise his voice, and it just reminded me of being followed by an insistently violent dog intent on doing you harm. She was pretty upset, and then he grabbed her jacket and took it away from her, and she just got more disgruntled. It was obvious that there was an entire context of a story that no one knew, but I started to get worried. He had her jacket, and it seemed they would part ways because she was too seemingly frightened to get it back from him, but he still doggedly tailed her. Her voice was getting panicky as the bell dinged for the Claireview train, and reluctantly Kat and I boarded it, as the screaming and yelling on the platform escalated. She was very still and had started to cry (the girl) next to the escalator when we boarded the train. We could hear him insistantly asking for "my key, just give me back my key, and I'll give you back the jacket, ok?"
Several things: I felt terrible that no one intervened and maybe tried to mediate the situation. Ok, I felt terrible that I
could have intervened and I didn't. I felt a disgusting feeling of concern as the train pulled away- and we could hear more screaming over the train even after we started moving past the last escalator. Also, there was a security guard that got on the train at Grandin that I could have said something to, but I stayed silent.
The funniest thing that came through my head though, was sort of perverse. I thought about how it was hilarious that we automatically all assume that the girl is the victim when we see something like this. We automatically side with the female- she's weak, right? Regardless of the situation, no one on that platform would have hesitated to bust that guy's ass if he'd even raised a hand to her. If she'd wailed on himphysically- we would have just let it be. A woman's rage is not as threatening as a man's? What the hell gives? Anyways, it was just interesting where the sympathy automatically fell. I was talking about this with Kat on the train, and got a few disgusted looks from old women...despite the fact that I was still concerned about her well-being. I am loathe of domestic violence- it's a pretty scary thing to endure.
I still flinch sometimes when I get those jovial punches in the arm from people I know would never intentionally hurt me. I toughened up a lot when I was friends with Myke and Dustin- violence was just a means to an end to them, and I learned to see it in a different light, as well as learning how to playfight again and not get scared, but I suppose stuff like this catches up on everyone every once and a while when they don't expect it to. It depends on how fragile the mood or temporary disposition.
No one intervened at the train station, as I may have stated prior. You could tell from the looks of concern in people's faces that they would have if it had escalated any further than it did- providing that their train did not arrive before then. It's sort of appalling actually (and I don't exclude myself from this) that acts of altruism or aid get more and more restricted to what is convenient to the individual faced with a certain situation. Would anyone have missed their train to ensure that those two were not left alone on the platform to kill each other? Of course not. I didn't, and it's sort of haunting me now. Didn't get my "mediation award" to just hop on a train and hope my concerned expression would send out care-bear blasts of love-rays to diffuse the situation after all. Argh.
Madwoman in the Basement
Things have been settling down to normal and happiness in the last couple of days, thoug I am still ticking off the days on my fingers when this state will descend into the madness of my paper writing fury. On top of that, I somehow have to average about two thousand words a day to be in a healthy mode to complete Nanowrimo. All these jokes about head implosion don't seem so funny anymore.
I'm researching for my women's lit paper that is due in December, now, because an abstract is due on friday on it. And as I go through my six or so sources, I am finding that the topic of what I really
want to write about is eluding me somewhat. I don't care about the women writers of the eighteen hundreds. Really really. I'm so certain that there is an optimal source out there on contemporary anonymity of women that it is driving me crazy to imagine it sitting on a shelf out of my grasp. Perhaps I even looked over it while grabbing garbage by Helene Ciroux. Argh.
"In other news, Peter has a breaking story for us tonight, focussing around a usually ill-reputed pet store in Kingsway Mall. Peter? Are you there?"
I went to Pj's Pet center yesterday, something I try to only do on fish related manners, but had to do because Elaugh needed some TV dinners, and it was the closest one to home. Of course, that entailed being Godzilla's shopping bitch, because she drove me there, but that's not worth mentioning anymore of.
After looking at puppies and fish, and skimming through the reptile section, I asked the girl to get me three adult mice out of the freezer for Elaugh. After inappropriately guessing I wanted to parade dead mice in a transparent bag through the Bay, she wrapped them up and charged me $9.60. We hate mice. We love mice. We hate mice when they're living, but they're dear to us dead; contorted in hideous frozen death throes- and we'll charge the shit out of them because they weren't
pets that met with the stairs in a hampster- we raised them to kill them. Reward our efforts mmkay?
Trouble was, is that I didn't venture too close a look at them until I got into the car. And usually I do, because if it has a broken limb, I complain. No broken limbs, but apparently, someone has been injecting some of these mice with steroids before setting them loose on the wheel serving as their only joy before imminent...I don't want to know how they kill them.
This one mouse is humongous, at least four times the size of the other two. It is a big fat teardrop mouse, brown, and roughly the size of a snake proportionate automobile. A snake eating an automobile, picture that if you will. There is little doubt in my mind that Elaugh can handle it, her head is about the width of a quarter when she's not unhinging her jaw like a cold blooded hoover (something about decrepit prostitutes entered my mind here, but the thought was lost)...but...there is always a but...
What if she chokes on it? It is really hard, if not impossible to extract prey from the mouth of a snake. She wouldn't choke on it either, perse, because her trachea is pretty seperate from her esophagus, but I'm not sure if it runs the possibility of getting stuck maybe? And then what? Her furthermost teeth hook backward...like the tines of a porcupine quill...you get the picture. What goes in doesn't easily come out, possibly meaning the death of my poor serpent.
I'm starting to wonder if I should just throw my blogs into my novel....corner cutting? I think so... And then just blog the whole thing on december first in all it's network spasming glory.
I also decided today to incorporate some poetry into my nanowrimo. One part of me is wondering if I'm going down the soppy path of "feminazi" (as Fenton so aptly put it earlier) with all this, but then I step back and realize the disdain that I hold for most feminist writing (flowery touchy feely stuff) and realize that I'm on the brunt of something so much better. Feminism: the guts, the glory, the bleeding, the blatant misuse of men coupled with lots of talk of vaginas- the sugar coating licked off the whole thing by a lecherous green goblin with breasts and an affinity for the seven sins. Muy exciting.