The sun has set on The Love Rhombus.
The time of the Zombie Unicorn has come.
http://zombieunicorn.wordpress.com/
Monday, September 17, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
So. The Tide of Change has come in, leaving yours truly standing in water up to the waist, looking out at the vast expanse before me, wondering if I'll be able to stay afloat as I venture farther in, if this truly is the path to my destiny, and - mostly importantly... will I still be able to raid.
Because I'M GOING TO SCHOOL, BITCHES.
Ohyes. It's finally happening. The government is giving me money, those poor, naive bastards, and I'm gunna takem for a RIDE. ... To the university. Hardcore.
At the current moment, I have no job, no responsibility, no will or desire to do anything with my days but play World of Warcraft. I do need to find a way to get some money, though. Like kind of right away. Donations are welcome.
SOMEBODY SET US UP THE BOMB.
MAIN SCREEN TURN ON.
ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US. YOU HAVE NO HOPE TO SURVIVE MAKE YOUR TIME.
End transmission.
Because I'M GOING TO SCHOOL, BITCHES.
Ohyes. It's finally happening. The government is giving me money, those poor, naive bastards, and I'm gunna takem for a RIDE. ... To the university. Hardcore.
At the current moment, I have no job, no responsibility, no will or desire to do anything with my days but play World of Warcraft. I do need to find a way to get some money, though. Like kind of right away. Donations are welcome.
SOMEBODY SET US UP THE BOMB.
MAIN SCREEN TURN ON.
ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US. YOU HAVE NO HOPE TO SURVIVE MAKE YOUR TIME.
End transmission.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
I wrote this as a letter to my Australian "penpal" (somebody pointed out to me yesterday that I couldn't call her a penpal because I didn't actually use a pen, which I suppose makes sense, but what the fuck else am I supposed to call her?). She and I came to know each other maaany years ago, another lifetime ago it seems, when I was living in that apartment with my dad - none of you knew me then - and writing terrible Final Fantasy fan fiction. She introduced herself as Brooke, in an email wherein she complimented me on the newest story I had written, and directed me to some writing of her own. I read it; it was damn good for someone a couple of years my junior. And so we began this electronic correspondance that carried through in spurts over many tumultuous years, and eventually all but died out. I decided a little while ago that that didn't fly with me no mo, so I wrote her a letter, and while you've all heard this stuff before, I thought I would tell it to you again, perhaps in a different light.
Hm, where to begin, ne? Perhaps it is best to start with the now, and move backwards. Currently, I am living in sin with the love of my life, and his two children, who are 3 and 4 – both boys. We've been together for over a year and a half, and it's... actually pretty surreal. When I met Nathan, I had just come to the realization that I was quite happy alone, that in time I would find someone, and that now was when I could allow myself to be a carefree, frivolous, and albeit, selfish 20-something. In retrospect, I was rather TOO carefree, and definitely did not exercise as much protection as I should have. /shiftyeyes
But then this boy came along, this beautiful boy, who was not so much a boy as a grown man and father, and he disproved everything that I had come to know as fact regarding the opposite sex. He was not self-centered, nor abrasively unintelligent. He spoke softly, treated me with respect, even opened doors. But most of all, he saw me. He took the time to listen to me, to engage me, to have real conversations with me; he took the time to create an… an atmosphere wherein I could be completely and entirely myself. He put me at ease. And so we embarked on this journey that we continue to this day. There have been a metric shit-tonne of obstacles that we've temporarily had to overcome, but that always seem to threaten on the horizon. But at the moment, we're happy enough; we never have any money, and the house we live in is tiny and in a severe state of disrepair, but we rarely argue, we try to have fun at all times, and despite our troubles, there is much, much love and adoration, so it could be worse.
So, what else... Did I tell you I went to England? Christ, that was almost two and a half years ago already, how fucking depressing. It was a magical journey, single-handedly changed my life, and part of me is in a perpetual state of longing to return to it's shores. When I left for Europe, I was living in a perfect little house with my best friend at the time, having just moved from a perfect little apartment that I shared with my OTHER best friend, who decided that living sans parent was not quite yet for her, which while I was angry at first, knew that it was entirely her perrogative, and for the best. That year that I was on my own was a pretty brutal year. I was going from job to job to job, smoking way too much weed, never eating, slowly losing my will to do anything but get high and have sex. I made a lot of shitty choices... One of which resulted in that perfect little house getting broken into, and all of my roommates brand new electronic toys getting stolen. Things kind of got worse between us from that point on, and I moved out a few months later.
It was then that my mum and I decided to get a place together. We'd been living apart for quite some time, (even when I wasn't living with my friends, I had been at my dad's house) and it was hard on us both, since we are such soulmates. So we picked up this big, bright, beautiful apartment in the Bohemian end of town, and spent two years doing the mother-daughter thing, meaning she did my laundry, and I drove her crazy. It was at the end of my stint in the house with Brendan, and during the first, oh, four months in the apartment with mum that I discovered... raving.
Laura, my hetero-lifemate of another time, had been going to raves when we were in freaking HIGH SCHOOL, for fuck's sake, and had always tried to get me to go with her. I said no, over and over and over again, because at that time in my life, I lacked the confidence to wear a bathing suit, let alone dance to music that was foreign to me, in front of hundreds of people. And then, one night at that little house, whilst she was over for our weekly date - joints in hand, pizza in plenty, she asked me if I'd like to go to this party (we don't really like to call them raves, don'tcha know) that was coming up in a week. I said yes. And so it began.
I was nervous, I mean reeeally god damn nervous. I was nervous because I didn't know what to expect, at all, but I was mostly nervous because of the little blue pill in a baggy that I carried concealed in my bra. Laura's talk of ecstasy had been nothing short of legendary - how beautiful and alive it made you feel, how pleasurable it made even the lightest touch out to be; the passion, the rush, the ecstasy... of it all. Having experienced only marijuana, and the occasional unsuccessful mushroom trip, the idea of putting a chemical toxin into my body was daunting, and while it's promises certainly seemed delicious enough, there are always the what-if's... So we went to this party, and I was nervous, and I was wearing black-and-blue-striped pantyhose, a short black skirt, and a Saturday Night Fever hooded shirt that I had borrowed from Laura, but I was ready. Ish. The place was like nothing I'd ever seen or experienced before. Techno so loud and intense you could feel it in your skeleton, glowing paraphenalia everywhere, boys and girls alike wearing almost nothing, it was fantastic. And then 11:30 came around, and Laura said it was time, and I swallowed that pill against my better judgement, and tried to pretend like it wasn't the biggest and most scariest thing I'd done since England. It's hard for me to remember things at the best of times, nevermind when my brain is being assaulted by chemical stimulants, so my memories of that night, and of all the other nights following it, are rather hazy and fragmented. But Brooke, I will never forget, not EVER, what it felt like when I felt it hit me for the very first time. I remember walking outside to have a cigarette - it had just rained, and everything was shiny and glittery with water, and the glaze over my eyes seemed to magnify it ten-fold. I felt more real and alive then ever before, and when I took a drag off my cigarette it sent chills down my spine. I felt like heaven, like the sun, like everything radiant and perfect and high.
And then the drug began to leave my system, and I didn't feel so fantastic anymore. As far from fantastic as I could possibly be. We stumbled home long after the sun had risen, and slept for a few hours. When Laura and I woke up, we talked about what had happened at that party, and decided with much vigor that we would do it again. And so we did. We did a lot, almost every weekend, and every weekend there were different pills, different DJ's, different boys.
And so that was my life for almost six months. Constant partying, sleeping around, being stupid. I had to lie to so many people, because no one understood as I understood that it was temporary. I knew I would come out of my ecstasy-using stage, I mean there is NO way that I could possibly have had any hope of maintaining a semi-normal life if I allowed myself to turn into a wild, crazed, flaming sex goddess every weekend. It sounds really wonderful, but that kind of shit tends to kind of carry over into other shit. I regret the lies that I told, but at the time, stopping wasn't an option, so I did what I felt I had to.
Eventually, the anxiety that I would feel before a party started to mount up so immensely that it actually made me feel sick to my stomach. It wasn't a negative anxiety, it was more like an excited anticipation, but it still messed me up. I would take my pills regardless, but all it did was intensify the bad stuff, and soon I stopped using it as much I had been, and eventually I stopped using it at all. Meeting Nathan was the biggest turning point in my life, since raves were such sexual hubs, conduits for exchanges of carnal electricity, and he filled the portion of me that truly needed that (no pun intended).
Now, recently I've become rather unemployed, although at the moment I'm doing this temporary receptionist gig, which is what is affording me the time the write this obscenely long letter to you, my dearest of Australian friends (read: only Australian friend). I had been working at a bookstore for over a year and a half, but business was dwindling, and alas, I couldn't afford to stay. I hated leaving, because I loved my job, fucking LOVED it, but I felt that I needed something full-time. I had just moved in with Nathan, and figured it would be a perfect opportunity to save up a sack of money, what with my low living costs (since Nathan could support himself and his kids on what he brought in), and maybe buy a car or something. So I got this new job, working as an Individualized Support Worker for the company that I'm working as receptionist for right at this very moment. ISW's work one-on-one with adults with mental handicaps; helping them find jobs, going to and assisting them with it if they need, going to the gym, just providing company and support as they go about their day.
Then I remembered that I am physically incapable of saving money, realized that I hated the job, and came to the conclusion that the only way I would be happy is if I finally went to university. So I quit the job, applied for admission and a massive student loan, and am now in the process of waiting not-so-patiently for someone to tell me that yes, my dream of post-secondary education is indeed possible.
I concluded with the usual inquiries, well-wishes, etc. But you get the idea. Happy FolkFest!
Hm, where to begin, ne? Perhaps it is best to start with the now, and move backwards. Currently, I am living in sin with the love of my life, and his two children, who are 3 and 4 – both boys. We've been together for over a year and a half, and it's... actually pretty surreal. When I met Nathan, I had just come to the realization that I was quite happy alone, that in time I would find someone, and that now was when I could allow myself to be a carefree, frivolous, and albeit, selfish 20-something. In retrospect, I was rather TOO carefree, and definitely did not exercise as much protection as I should have. /shiftyeyes
But then this boy came along, this beautiful boy, who was not so much a boy as a grown man and father, and he disproved everything that I had come to know as fact regarding the opposite sex. He was not self-centered, nor abrasively unintelligent. He spoke softly, treated me with respect, even opened doors. But most of all, he saw me. He took the time to listen to me, to engage me, to have real conversations with me; he took the time to create an… an atmosphere wherein I could be completely and entirely myself. He put me at ease. And so we embarked on this journey that we continue to this day. There have been a metric shit-tonne of obstacles that we've temporarily had to overcome, but that always seem to threaten on the horizon. But at the moment, we're happy enough; we never have any money, and the house we live in is tiny and in a severe state of disrepair, but we rarely argue, we try to have fun at all times, and despite our troubles, there is much, much love and adoration, so it could be worse.
So, what else... Did I tell you I went to England? Christ, that was almost two and a half years ago already, how fucking depressing. It was a magical journey, single-handedly changed my life, and part of me is in a perpetual state of longing to return to it's shores. When I left for Europe, I was living in a perfect little house with my best friend at the time, having just moved from a perfect little apartment that I shared with my OTHER best friend, who decided that living sans parent was not quite yet for her, which while I was angry at first, knew that it was entirely her perrogative, and for the best. That year that I was on my own was a pretty brutal year. I was going from job to job to job, smoking way too much weed, never eating, slowly losing my will to do anything but get high and have sex. I made a lot of shitty choices... One of which resulted in that perfect little house getting broken into, and all of my roommates brand new electronic toys getting stolen. Things kind of got worse between us from that point on, and I moved out a few months later.
It was then that my mum and I decided to get a place together. We'd been living apart for quite some time, (even when I wasn't living with my friends, I had been at my dad's house) and it was hard on us both, since we are such soulmates. So we picked up this big, bright, beautiful apartment in the Bohemian end of town, and spent two years doing the mother-daughter thing, meaning she did my laundry, and I drove her crazy. It was at the end of my stint in the house with Brendan, and during the first, oh, four months in the apartment with mum that I discovered... raving.
Laura, my hetero-lifemate of another time, had been going to raves when we were in freaking HIGH SCHOOL, for fuck's sake, and had always tried to get me to go with her. I said no, over and over and over again, because at that time in my life, I lacked the confidence to wear a bathing suit, let alone dance to music that was foreign to me, in front of hundreds of people. And then, one night at that little house, whilst she was over for our weekly date - joints in hand, pizza in plenty, she asked me if I'd like to go to this party (we don't really like to call them raves, don'tcha know) that was coming up in a week. I said yes. And so it began.
I was nervous, I mean reeeally god damn nervous. I was nervous because I didn't know what to expect, at all, but I was mostly nervous because of the little blue pill in a baggy that I carried concealed in my bra. Laura's talk of ecstasy had been nothing short of legendary - how beautiful and alive it made you feel, how pleasurable it made even the lightest touch out to be; the passion, the rush, the ecstasy... of it all. Having experienced only marijuana, and the occasional unsuccessful mushroom trip, the idea of putting a chemical toxin into my body was daunting, and while it's promises certainly seemed delicious enough, there are always the what-if's... So we went to this party, and I was nervous, and I was wearing black-and-blue-striped pantyhose, a short black skirt, and a Saturday Night Fever hooded shirt that I had borrowed from Laura, but I was ready. Ish. The place was like nothing I'd ever seen or experienced before. Techno so loud and intense you could feel it in your skeleton, glowing paraphenalia everywhere, boys and girls alike wearing almost nothing, it was fantastic. And then 11:30 came around, and Laura said it was time, and I swallowed that pill against my better judgement, and tried to pretend like it wasn't the biggest and most scariest thing I'd done since England. It's hard for me to remember things at the best of times, nevermind when my brain is being assaulted by chemical stimulants, so my memories of that night, and of all the other nights following it, are rather hazy and fragmented. But Brooke, I will never forget, not EVER, what it felt like when I felt it hit me for the very first time. I remember walking outside to have a cigarette - it had just rained, and everything was shiny and glittery with water, and the glaze over my eyes seemed to magnify it ten-fold. I felt more real and alive then ever before, and when I took a drag off my cigarette it sent chills down my spine. I felt like heaven, like the sun, like everything radiant and perfect and high.
And then the drug began to leave my system, and I didn't feel so fantastic anymore. As far from fantastic as I could possibly be. We stumbled home long after the sun had risen, and slept for a few hours. When Laura and I woke up, we talked about what had happened at that party, and decided with much vigor that we would do it again. And so we did. We did a lot, almost every weekend, and every weekend there were different pills, different DJ's, different boys.
And so that was my life for almost six months. Constant partying, sleeping around, being stupid. I had to lie to so many people, because no one understood as I understood that it was temporary. I knew I would come out of my ecstasy-using stage, I mean there is NO way that I could possibly have had any hope of maintaining a semi-normal life if I allowed myself to turn into a wild, crazed, flaming sex goddess every weekend. It sounds really wonderful, but that kind of shit tends to kind of carry over into other shit. I regret the lies that I told, but at the time, stopping wasn't an option, so I did what I felt I had to.
Eventually, the anxiety that I would feel before a party started to mount up so immensely that it actually made me feel sick to my stomach. It wasn't a negative anxiety, it was more like an excited anticipation, but it still messed me up. I would take my pills regardless, but all it did was intensify the bad stuff, and soon I stopped using it as much I had been, and eventually I stopped using it at all. Meeting Nathan was the biggest turning point in my life, since raves were such sexual hubs, conduits for exchanges of carnal electricity, and he filled the portion of me that truly needed that (no pun intended).
Now, recently I've become rather unemployed, although at the moment I'm doing this temporary receptionist gig, which is what is affording me the time the write this obscenely long letter to you, my dearest of Australian friends (read: only Australian friend). I had been working at a bookstore for over a year and a half, but business was dwindling, and alas, I couldn't afford to stay. I hated leaving, because I loved my job, fucking LOVED it, but I felt that I needed something full-time. I had just moved in with Nathan, and figured it would be a perfect opportunity to save up a sack of money, what with my low living costs (since Nathan could support himself and his kids on what he brought in), and maybe buy a car or something. So I got this new job, working as an Individualized Support Worker for the company that I'm working as receptionist for right at this very moment. ISW's work one-on-one with adults with mental handicaps; helping them find jobs, going to and assisting them with it if they need, going to the gym, just providing company and support as they go about their day.
Then I remembered that I am physically incapable of saving money, realized that I hated the job, and came to the conclusion that the only way I would be happy is if I finally went to university. So I quit the job, applied for admission and a massive student loan, and am now in the process of waiting not-so-patiently for someone to tell me that yes, my dream of post-secondary education is indeed possible.
I concluded with the usual inquiries, well-wishes, etc. But you get the idea. Happy FolkFest!
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Unity here. Individualized Support Worker, at your service. Well, not your service, really. Just Neil’s. The point is, however…
I’m complete rubbish at this.
Do you know what I’m good at? I’m good at selling books to people. And shelving books. And receiving, and returns, and opening and closing a book store. I’m good at re-merchandising, re-alphabetizing, re-organizing book shelves. I’m good at setting up displays – for books. I’m just good at books. I have been forever. I’m good at talking to people, making conversation; honing in onto a person’s wavelength – adjusting the way I stand, and the words I use, to make them feel more comfortable.
I can’t talk to Neil. I mean I can. He understands what you say, for the most part. But he has about 10 words that he uses, and when I ask him a question, I can’t be sure if he’s answering “Yeah,” because he understood me, or because he liked the tone of my voice, or something I said to him a few days ago. This job is very solitary, and I don’t do so well with solitary. In a work sense, anyhow. When we go to work at the drug store, I do 75% of the work, because Neil can’t. A manager told me to try to teach him to do the little tasks, like making sure a Kleenex box is put on the shelf the right way. But trying to teach Neil how to do something – like teaching anyone anything, really – requires a lot of patience, an obscene amount of repetition, and a level head in the throes of frustration.
And perhaps, if you hadn’t quite noticed yet, I have a very limited capacity for all of those things. In me pulses the blood of The Dragon, my father, a man who learned in the very beginning stages of his life from his stepfather, that when you get angry, you hit someone. Even though I had my dearest Mum there to counteract my dad’s acidity in me as I was growing up, I have still come to be the kind of girl who Breathes Fire first, asks questions later. There is in me an inherent impatience, that comes from both my parents, I think. I despise repetition; perhaps the root of my inability to keep a job for an extended period of time. I can’t keep a level head in the throes of frustration.
So, I’ve decided that it’s not worth it to try too hard to teach Neil how to do certain tasks, as it takes too much time, and hinders his productivity. Is this really the kind of person the Company wants working with their clients? The funny thing about that, is that since no-one wants to do this job, they’re pretty fucking desperate. So they’re willing to settle. At the end of my first week I was feeling very negative, after having to clean up adult urine - I wanted to quit. I mentioned my concerns to Management; that I didn’t think I could do it. “Oh sure you can, just do this, you’ll be fine, see you on Monday!”
Great. So here I am. I can do it, I’ll just do this, I’ll be fine, see you Monday.
~*********************************************************************~
I’m a bad friend.
I’ve really come to realize this, in the past few years or so. I think that there are a couple of factors that contribute to this.
Firstly? I’m a selfish person. Not all the time, and certainly not in all ways. But I do what I want, with very little care or concern about how it may affect other people, although I am getting better at it. In most of the jobs I’ve had, I’ve always found several ways to fuck the dog, in order to make my work experience easier, regardless of whether or not it was making someone else’s experience harder. When I worked at Ipsos, for example, I decided that not going to work, without letting anyone know, and then having my mum’s ex-internet-flame pay for me to fly to England to have sex with him, leaving my roommate to fend for himself, was a really damn good idea! When I was partying a lot, that summer, it hurt Mum every time she had to see me drag my completely-burnt-out-from-Ecstasy-and-unprotected-sex body through the door at 9:00am, and listen as I lied to her about where I had been, and what I had been doing. And yet I still did it, because it was what I wanted, even though I knew her hurt.
Secondly, my imagination. Er, that is… When I was growing up, and fell in love with books, I discovered that being alone was the most fun I could possibly have. Why go over to my friends’ houses and watch movies, paint our nails, listen to The New Kids on the Block, talk about boys, and play Dream Phone, when I could stay at home, in my perfect comfortable room, and have adventures they couldn’t even dream about. So from an early age, solitude has been my preferred method of social interaction – which is quite funny given my interest in and talent for conversation.
PLUS, I have a bad memory. It was bad before I started smoking weed every day, and you know that only made it worse.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am a bad friend. I never call you. I don’t make time for the things that are important to you. I don’t make myself available to you the way I should, the way you deserve. I get so caught up in my own little immediate world… I forget about you, I guess.
Illustrious… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that I’ve never made watching you my first priority, because it should have been, it should be. You and I have watched each other through some of the most tumultuous years of our lives – sometimes not even that closely, but always watched. There is so much good in me that has come directly from you. You are my Best Friend, and I am so goddamn thankful for that, because I know that I don’t deserve you. I just want you to know that I am aware of how I fail you in that sense, and that I’m sorry for it. I love you.
Lanimal… It’s the Dragon in me that makes me seem like such a fucking bitch all the time. That inherent impatience, that inexcusable maturity, which contradict everything that you are, and believe in. But you ARE me, and I’m you, in all of the ways that really count, and matter, and I’m sorry for ruining your fun sometimes. Beautiful people like you, you don’t see ‘em anymore these days. It’s such a fucking pleasure to know you, and to let you take naked pictures of me. You’re my Best Friend – the female version, and I love you.
Laurimus… We’ve been ‘round this pasture time and time again. But just in case you forget, I love you too. It will be impossible for me to ever not love you, because you were It for me, back then. My Hetero-Lifemate. There will never be another. I know that I wronged you, in indefensible ways, and once more, I’m so sorry for that. I’m so fucking glad that you chose me, and that we stuck together for as long as we did. Who would we be without the other?
Have a good Wrong Leak-end.
P.S
Lan, I found that Scissor Sisters cd you made me way back when. It is making so happy, I fear for my life. Heart you sobad.
I’m complete rubbish at this.
Do you know what I’m good at? I’m good at selling books to people. And shelving books. And receiving, and returns, and opening and closing a book store. I’m good at re-merchandising, re-alphabetizing, re-organizing book shelves. I’m good at setting up displays – for books. I’m just good at books. I have been forever. I’m good at talking to people, making conversation; honing in onto a person’s wavelength – adjusting the way I stand, and the words I use, to make them feel more comfortable.
I can’t talk to Neil. I mean I can. He understands what you say, for the most part. But he has about 10 words that he uses, and when I ask him a question, I can’t be sure if he’s answering “Yeah,” because he understood me, or because he liked the tone of my voice, or something I said to him a few days ago. This job is very solitary, and I don’t do so well with solitary. In a work sense, anyhow. When we go to work at the drug store, I do 75% of the work, because Neil can’t. A manager told me to try to teach him to do the little tasks, like making sure a Kleenex box is put on the shelf the right way. But trying to teach Neil how to do something – like teaching anyone anything, really – requires a lot of patience, an obscene amount of repetition, and a level head in the throes of frustration.
And perhaps, if you hadn’t quite noticed yet, I have a very limited capacity for all of those things. In me pulses the blood of The Dragon, my father, a man who learned in the very beginning stages of his life from his stepfather, that when you get angry, you hit someone. Even though I had my dearest Mum there to counteract my dad’s acidity in me as I was growing up, I have still come to be the kind of girl who Breathes Fire first, asks questions later. There is in me an inherent impatience, that comes from both my parents, I think. I despise repetition; perhaps the root of my inability to keep a job for an extended period of time. I can’t keep a level head in the throes of frustration.
So, I’ve decided that it’s not worth it to try too hard to teach Neil how to do certain tasks, as it takes too much time, and hinders his productivity. Is this really the kind of person the Company wants working with their clients? The funny thing about that, is that since no-one wants to do this job, they’re pretty fucking desperate. So they’re willing to settle. At the end of my first week I was feeling very negative, after having to clean up adult urine - I wanted to quit. I mentioned my concerns to Management; that I didn’t think I could do it. “Oh sure you can, just do this, you’ll be fine, see you on Monday!”
Great. So here I am. I can do it, I’ll just do this, I’ll be fine, see you Monday.
~*********************************************************************~
I’m a bad friend.
I’ve really come to realize this, in the past few years or so. I think that there are a couple of factors that contribute to this.
Firstly? I’m a selfish person. Not all the time, and certainly not in all ways. But I do what I want, with very little care or concern about how it may affect other people, although I am getting better at it. In most of the jobs I’ve had, I’ve always found several ways to fuck the dog, in order to make my work experience easier, regardless of whether or not it was making someone else’s experience harder. When I worked at Ipsos, for example, I decided that not going to work, without letting anyone know, and then having my mum’s ex-internet-flame pay for me to fly to England to have sex with him, leaving my roommate to fend for himself, was a really damn good idea! When I was partying a lot, that summer, it hurt Mum every time she had to see me drag my completely-burnt-out-from-Ecstasy-and-unprotected-sex body through the door at 9:00am, and listen as I lied to her about where I had been, and what I had been doing. And yet I still did it, because it was what I wanted, even though I knew her hurt.
Secondly, my imagination. Er, that is… When I was growing up, and fell in love with books, I discovered that being alone was the most fun I could possibly have. Why go over to my friends’ houses and watch movies, paint our nails, listen to The New Kids on the Block, talk about boys, and play Dream Phone, when I could stay at home, in my perfect comfortable room, and have adventures they couldn’t even dream about. So from an early age, solitude has been my preferred method of social interaction – which is quite funny given my interest in and talent for conversation.
PLUS, I have a bad memory. It was bad before I started smoking weed every day, and you know that only made it worse.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am a bad friend. I never call you. I don’t make time for the things that are important to you. I don’t make myself available to you the way I should, the way you deserve. I get so caught up in my own little immediate world… I forget about you, I guess.
Illustrious… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that I’ve never made watching you my first priority, because it should have been, it should be. You and I have watched each other through some of the most tumultuous years of our lives – sometimes not even that closely, but always watched. There is so much good in me that has come directly from you. You are my Best Friend, and I am so goddamn thankful for that, because I know that I don’t deserve you. I just want you to know that I am aware of how I fail you in that sense, and that I’m sorry for it. I love you.
Lanimal… It’s the Dragon in me that makes me seem like such a fucking bitch all the time. That inherent impatience, that inexcusable maturity, which contradict everything that you are, and believe in. But you ARE me, and I’m you, in all of the ways that really count, and matter, and I’m sorry for ruining your fun sometimes. Beautiful people like you, you don’t see ‘em anymore these days. It’s such a fucking pleasure to know you, and to let you take naked pictures of me. You’re my Best Friend – the female version, and I love you.
Laurimus… We’ve been ‘round this pasture time and time again. But just in case you forget, I love you too. It will be impossible for me to ever not love you, because you were It for me, back then. My Hetero-Lifemate. There will never be another. I know that I wronged you, in indefensible ways, and once more, I’m so sorry for that. I’m so fucking glad that you chose me, and that we stuck together for as long as we did. Who would we be without the other?
Have a good Wrong Leak-end.
P.S
Lan, I found that Scissor Sisters cd you made me way back when. It is making so happy, I fear for my life. Heart you sobad.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
The Bookstore Edition
I ran into Slam completely and utterly by chance, one afternoon of tripping around downtown - in the most literal sense of the phrase, harhar. We had worked together a few years ago, at St. Vital. She, ever the large, imposing Boss, stretched far too thin, and stressed far too much; and I, the passionate, naive, wide-eyed Follower of the Written Word, believer in all things Bohemian, eager to please, ready to work.
How unfortunate for our heroine, however, that never before that time had she come to know the world of retail. How unfortunate that she was unprepared for what was about to come, severely lacking in the training that would provide her with the skills she would need to survive, grossly unaware of the beast she was to face. Yes, how unfortunate indeed that our heroine was about to embark on a horrific journey, the very name of which sends chills of terror down the spine of any whom have come to know it... Christmas in Retail...
Needless to say, it broke me. That bookstore broke me. Raped me of all my dignity – repeatedly, and at various speeds. At the end of my seasonal term, after which they did not elect to allow me to continue my employment with them, I was different. I had changed. You don't go through Christmas in retail without having your mind, and at times your very body, warped and violated and traumatized until it is barely recognizable.
But, despite all that, I had some reasonably positive memories of That Place, though none, quite honestly, of Slam. Not because she was a huge bitch (she was) but because I spent too much time having my ass raped over and over again to have extended conversations with anyone, really. I was glad to see her all the same. She told me about the management position she'd just taken over at the little bookstore nearby. Ever the comedic genius, I snickered, “Hiring right now?” recalling in my mind how I had been the only seasonal staff to not be offered regular employment.
“Actually, yes. Drop your resume off on Monday.”
She paid for her tobacco and left. The next night I went out with this weird dude named Nathan. He stayed for the weekend. I applied for the bookstore job on Monday. I got it.
The rest, my friends, is history. And as with all histories, somewhere down the road, there is an ending... For the most part. I think. Can histories be ongoing, what's the definition of history, CAN SOMEONE GET ME THE GOD DAMN DEFINITION OF HISTORY?!
But I digress. On Wednesday it shall be my final shift at the bookstore I have come to know and love so deeply and intimately and passionately and sexually. I'm really quite sad about the whole thing. That store has watched me metamorph into the freakishly huge butterfly that I currently am, somehow tapping away at these inexcusably small laptop keys with my massive wings. Thank god for spellcheck, hey-oooh!
It really has seen me at my best and at my worst, that store has. I wish I could say that about it's employees, but alas I can't, because most of them are big fat immature jerk-faced hors who care only about themselves. Wait, did I say most of the employees? Because I meant Trina. What a bitch.
I've seriously come to know that store like the back of my hand (soft, and covered in skin, with some hair, if you were wondering). I love every single one of those books, I really, honestly do. One of the biggest perks of my job was getting to see and to touch new pieces of art every day. A lot of them were terrible, but the ones that weren't – the ones that stimulated not only the eye, but when you read it, the mind, and the heart, and if you were lucky, the groin... They made weeding through all the shit worthwhile.
There is so much pleasure to be gained from simply holding a book in your hands. The feel of the dustjacket when you run your hand over it. Can you feel the power of the words that lie beneath? The sound of the spine straining when you open it for the first time. Can you hear the sound of doors being unlocked? The look of the shape and size of the type. Can you see worlds unfolding at it's will?
Such small, beautiful things, so grossly undervalued by so many, and yet so necessary; so powerful in that necessity.
So this is my written farewell to you, Bookstore, though I will see you often, and shop in you occasionally. You represent so much to me, and have had a profound effect and influence on my life. I will miss working in you. For you. I'll miss your Fantasy section, under-stocked and neglected though it was. It was always my favourite, how could it have not been. I will miss your kids section, where countless times I sold “The Golden Compass,” the first book of my favourite trilogy of all time, and where I helped hundreds of parents and kids alike find the right reading material to awaken the Imaginary Dragon within them. I'll just miss being a part of you in general. You were good to me. I hope I was able to return the favour.
I won't miss processing returns, mind you. Or recieving. Or fucking SETTING UP SIDEWALK SALES. I won't miss working on Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays, and I definitely won't miss YOU, Ms. You-Know-Who-You-Are. For a woman of your god damn age, you should be fucking ashamed of yourself. My pot-smoking ass of a younger brother (I love you kiddo) has more maturity and common sense than you do, and the idea of you one day having a store of your own is one of the most sickening thoughts a smart girl like me could think of. Face it chicky: your life is going nowhere, and you either don't care, or are too dumb to have come up with anything better for yourself. Either way, it's stupidity that got you where you are today, and I reckon it's stupidity that will lead you to wherever you go. Probably for the rest of your life. I don't respect you, I never did, and I can't think of any reason as to why I should start. You're a sweet girl, and I do like you, but you fucking suck at what you're supposed to do, and your seniority lets you get away with that. Good luck out there baby, you'll need it.
And now finally, without further adue, I present to you...
An Open Letter To The Bookstore Customers
Dear Customers,
I fucking hate you. No, I mean it, I do. I reeeally do. There were a handful of you that were quite lovely, but they couldn't make up for all the terrible wrongs you did not only to me, but to the store, and my fellow employees.
You fucking reeked. All the god damn time. We literally walked around with antibacterial sprays, so we could disinfect all of the merchandise and surfaces you touched and came near. What the hell were you thinking? What. The hell. Were you thinking.
You stole from us. Some of you unabashedly, and without shame, because you're fucking idiots, so we caught you, and you got BANNED, hard. But most of you... You were sneaky enough. You were able to take advantage of us. That's why you're going to hell. So fast. You have no idea.
You sexually harassed me. Most of you with your eyes, you fucking sub-human degenerates, but a portion of you actually found the balls to vomit up cat-calls and inappropriate comments. I don't even want to TALK about you, Wheels For Legs. It's people like you, people who take advantage of a stranger's trust, who are destroying our race, you disgusting pervert. If I ever see you on the street, you are like so totally dead.
In closing, thank you for barely keeping our store running, and for making me miserable all the time. And by thank you I clearly mean fuck you.
Sincerely,
Unity
Former Customer Experience Representative
I ran into Slam completely and utterly by chance, one afternoon of tripping around downtown - in the most literal sense of the phrase, harhar. We had worked together a few years ago, at St. Vital. She, ever the large, imposing Boss, stretched far too thin, and stressed far too much; and I, the passionate, naive, wide-eyed Follower of the Written Word, believer in all things Bohemian, eager to please, ready to work.
How unfortunate for our heroine, however, that never before that time had she come to know the world of retail. How unfortunate that she was unprepared for what was about to come, severely lacking in the training that would provide her with the skills she would need to survive, grossly unaware of the beast she was to face. Yes, how unfortunate indeed that our heroine was about to embark on a horrific journey, the very name of which sends chills of terror down the spine of any whom have come to know it... Christmas in Retail...
Needless to say, it broke me. That bookstore broke me. Raped me of all my dignity – repeatedly, and at various speeds. At the end of my seasonal term, after which they did not elect to allow me to continue my employment with them, I was different. I had changed. You don't go through Christmas in retail without having your mind, and at times your very body, warped and violated and traumatized until it is barely recognizable.
But, despite all that, I had some reasonably positive memories of That Place, though none, quite honestly, of Slam. Not because she was a huge bitch (she was) but because I spent too much time having my ass raped over and over again to have extended conversations with anyone, really. I was glad to see her all the same. She told me about the management position she'd just taken over at the little bookstore nearby. Ever the comedic genius, I snickered, “Hiring right now?” recalling in my mind how I had been the only seasonal staff to not be offered regular employment.
“Actually, yes. Drop your resume off on Monday.”
She paid for her tobacco and left. The next night I went out with this weird dude named Nathan. He stayed for the weekend. I applied for the bookstore job on Monday. I got it.
The rest, my friends, is history. And as with all histories, somewhere down the road, there is an ending... For the most part. I think. Can histories be ongoing, what's the definition of history, CAN SOMEONE GET ME THE GOD DAMN DEFINITION OF HISTORY?!
But I digress. On Wednesday it shall be my final shift at the bookstore I have come to know and love so deeply and intimately and passionately and sexually. I'm really quite sad about the whole thing. That store has watched me metamorph into the freakishly huge butterfly that I currently am, somehow tapping away at these inexcusably small laptop keys with my massive wings. Thank god for spellcheck, hey-oooh!
It really has seen me at my best and at my worst, that store has. I wish I could say that about it's employees, but alas I can't, because most of them are big fat immature jerk-faced hors who care only about themselves. Wait, did I say most of the employees? Because I meant Trina. What a bitch.
I've seriously come to know that store like the back of my hand (soft, and covered in skin, with some hair, if you were wondering). I love every single one of those books, I really, honestly do. One of the biggest perks of my job was getting to see and to touch new pieces of art every day. A lot of them were terrible, but the ones that weren't – the ones that stimulated not only the eye, but when you read it, the mind, and the heart, and if you were lucky, the groin... They made weeding through all the shit worthwhile.
There is so much pleasure to be gained from simply holding a book in your hands. The feel of the dustjacket when you run your hand over it. Can you feel the power of the words that lie beneath? The sound of the spine straining when you open it for the first time. Can you hear the sound of doors being unlocked? The look of the shape and size of the type. Can you see worlds unfolding at it's will?
Such small, beautiful things, so grossly undervalued by so many, and yet so necessary; so powerful in that necessity.
So this is my written farewell to you, Bookstore, though I will see you often, and shop in you occasionally. You represent so much to me, and have had a profound effect and influence on my life. I will miss working in you. For you. I'll miss your Fantasy section, under-stocked and neglected though it was. It was always my favourite, how could it have not been. I will miss your kids section, where countless times I sold “The Golden Compass,” the first book of my favourite trilogy of all time, and where I helped hundreds of parents and kids alike find the right reading material to awaken the Imaginary Dragon within them. I'll just miss being a part of you in general. You were good to me. I hope I was able to return the favour.
I won't miss processing returns, mind you. Or recieving. Or fucking SETTING UP SIDEWALK SALES. I won't miss working on Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays, and I definitely won't miss YOU, Ms. You-Know-Who-You-Are. For a woman of your god damn age, you should be fucking ashamed of yourself. My pot-smoking ass of a younger brother (I love you kiddo) has more maturity and common sense than you do, and the idea of you one day having a store of your own is one of the most sickening thoughts a smart girl like me could think of. Face it chicky: your life is going nowhere, and you either don't care, or are too dumb to have come up with anything better for yourself. Either way, it's stupidity that got you where you are today, and I reckon it's stupidity that will lead you to wherever you go. Probably for the rest of your life. I don't respect you, I never did, and I can't think of any reason as to why I should start. You're a sweet girl, and I do like you, but you fucking suck at what you're supposed to do, and your seniority lets you get away with that. Good luck out there baby, you'll need it.
And now finally, without further adue, I present to you...
An Open Letter To The Bookstore Customers
Dear Customers,
I fucking hate you. No, I mean it, I do. I reeeally do. There were a handful of you that were quite lovely, but they couldn't make up for all the terrible wrongs you did not only to me, but to the store, and my fellow employees.
You fucking reeked. All the god damn time. We literally walked around with antibacterial sprays, so we could disinfect all of the merchandise and surfaces you touched and came near. What the hell were you thinking? What. The hell. Were you thinking.
You stole from us. Some of you unabashedly, and without shame, because you're fucking idiots, so we caught you, and you got BANNED, hard. But most of you... You were sneaky enough. You were able to take advantage of us. That's why you're going to hell. So fast. You have no idea.
You sexually harassed me. Most of you with your eyes, you fucking sub-human degenerates, but a portion of you actually found the balls to vomit up cat-calls and inappropriate comments. I don't even want to TALK about you, Wheels For Legs. It's people like you, people who take advantage of a stranger's trust, who are destroying our race, you disgusting pervert. If I ever see you on the street, you are like so totally dead.
In closing, thank you for barely keeping our store running, and for making me miserable all the time. And by thank you I clearly mean fuck you.
Sincerely,
Unity
Former Customer Experience Representative
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
A lot of people will tell you that they are the most themselves when they are doing something that brings out what they feel is the best in them. Being on stage, for example. Making love with someone they feel passionately about. Painting, writing, anything creative. Skydiving. Dancing, doing drugs, even. We associate euphoric happiness with a sense of true self knowledge. "This is the real me," we think. And maybe to a degree it's true.
But personally... I think who we really are is the person we are in the dark. When all the light is gone, when we can barely see our hands in front of us, nevermind the adoring audience, or the masterpiece before you, or the earth moving toward you at a rapid pace. When all the atmosphere is gone - sultry candlelight, invigorating sunshine, penetrating spotlights; cool breeze, fast wind, hot breath, thick air. Without adrenaline. Without something, anything, to drive you to feel passionate.
When it's just you and your thoughts. Because when it really comes down to it, who the hell are you but what happens inside your brain, a sentient muscle? So when the world around you is asleep, when all the stimuli is removed... I think that's when you are the most you.
But personally... I think who we really are is the person we are in the dark. When all the light is gone, when we can barely see our hands in front of us, nevermind the adoring audience, or the masterpiece before you, or the earth moving toward you at a rapid pace. When all the atmosphere is gone - sultry candlelight, invigorating sunshine, penetrating spotlights; cool breeze, fast wind, hot breath, thick air. Without adrenaline. Without something, anything, to drive you to feel passionate.
When it's just you and your thoughts. Because when it really comes down to it, who the hell are you but what happens inside your brain, a sentient muscle? So when the world around you is asleep, when all the stimuli is removed... I think that's when you are the most you.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Office life suits me. A receptionist's job is one of leisure, at least around this place. I read books and the news and funny things on websites, and I answer the phone. Sometimes I photocopy things. Occasionally typing is required. But mostly... I read. It is quite possibly the perfect job, and I am sublimely happy doing it, for these three weeks. Eventually the happiness will fade, and I'll go back to the frumpy, dust-covered book store, filled with hygienically-challenged customers who have every intention of picking something up, but absolutely no intention of paying for it.
Anyhow. The craziest part of this desk job is that one of the big wiggs is none other than my mum's ex-girlfriend. The woman I never looked at as a second mother, but more like a grown-up best friend who I loved like the real thing. My mom and A, they were going to be together forever. That was just the way things were going to happen - although I always kind of had a hard time imagining them as two old ladies together - the way my parents where never able to make work.
And then one night, I was in bed, reading, and my mom and A came downstairs to talk to me. I wish I could remember what exactly they told me, but obviously they were breaking up. I do remember crying until I didn't think I would ever cry again - not because I wouldn't want to, but because surely, this had to be all of the salty water and mucus my body could ever possibly create, and here I was, expelling it at a rapid pace.
I found out in the days to come that not only were the two people I loved the most not going to be together anymore, but my mom and my brother and I would be moving out of the house.
The House. The house I grew up in. The house I watched transform into something kind of ugly, into something completely comfortable and warm; the house I learned how to read in, had Chicken Poz in, had my first kiss... nearby to. It was the most perfectest place to me; still is, even. My own Shangri-La. Our life then, while nothing spectacular, was so blissfully happy, and normal. We were such a terrific family.
And then it was gone, one day, some of it packed into the boxes, the rest of it left behind. I cried a lot, that first week, because this wasn't my life, my life was in that house, why couldn't we still be in that house? Only it wasn't my life that had stayed behind, obviously; what had remained in that house was my childhood. I was only 13 when we moved, but the second we did, I couldn't be a kid anymore, I had to grow up. It had to be fast, and I had to be strong(er), so that we could make this work. We didn't, mind you. We had no money. We moved from place to place, always hoping that the next one would be better; we could afford this one, and we never could, and on and on it went. Scraping and fighting and struggling to keep our heads above the water, but it seemed were always just short. Worry became the biggest, most imporant word in my vocabulary, since that was all we did. Good god, that was almost 10 years ago, and here I am today, still scraping.
So I work with A now, and every time I hear her voice, it brings me back to that house. To that time of summer vacations and crazy birthday parties, of family dinners and dogs and that Sega Genesis. It makes my heart hurt. My first day, I got all teary, it came up on me so sharp and so fast, that sudden recollection of the happiest time of my life - localized entirely within the sound of her voice. She's so mean now, maybe it's bitterness, I don't know. There is so much about her that is exactly the same, though, it's like I'm 10 again, watching her, only we're wearing nicer clothes. It hurts a lot, I wish it didn't.
When I was a kid, I could never understand why A loved grocery shopping so much. Grocery stores were the most foulest place in the world to me, they were cold and filled with people and it was boring. But she always loved it, I thought it was crazy. Today she told me it was to get away from us. Perspective's a funny thing.
Anyhow. The craziest part of this desk job is that one of the big wiggs is none other than my mum's ex-girlfriend. The woman I never looked at as a second mother, but more like a grown-up best friend who I loved like the real thing. My mom and A, they were going to be together forever. That was just the way things were going to happen - although I always kind of had a hard time imagining them as two old ladies together - the way my parents where never able to make work.
And then one night, I was in bed, reading, and my mom and A came downstairs to talk to me. I wish I could remember what exactly they told me, but obviously they were breaking up. I do remember crying until I didn't think I would ever cry again - not because I wouldn't want to, but because surely, this had to be all of the salty water and mucus my body could ever possibly create, and here I was, expelling it at a rapid pace.
I found out in the days to come that not only were the two people I loved the most not going to be together anymore, but my mom and my brother and I would be moving out of the house.
The House. The house I grew up in. The house I watched transform into something kind of ugly, into something completely comfortable and warm; the house I learned how to read in, had Chicken Poz in, had my first kiss... nearby to. It was the most perfectest place to me; still is, even. My own Shangri-La. Our life then, while nothing spectacular, was so blissfully happy, and normal. We were such a terrific family.
And then it was gone, one day, some of it packed into the boxes, the rest of it left behind. I cried a lot, that first week, because this wasn't my life, my life was in that house, why couldn't we still be in that house? Only it wasn't my life that had stayed behind, obviously; what had remained in that house was my childhood. I was only 13 when we moved, but the second we did, I couldn't be a kid anymore, I had to grow up. It had to be fast, and I had to be strong(er), so that we could make this work. We didn't, mind you. We had no money. We moved from place to place, always hoping that the next one would be better; we could afford this one, and we never could, and on and on it went. Scraping and fighting and struggling to keep our heads above the water, but it seemed were always just short. Worry became the biggest, most imporant word in my vocabulary, since that was all we did. Good god, that was almost 10 years ago, and here I am today, still scraping.
So I work with A now, and every time I hear her voice, it brings me back to that house. To that time of summer vacations and crazy birthday parties, of family dinners and dogs and that Sega Genesis. It makes my heart hurt. My first day, I got all teary, it came up on me so sharp and so fast, that sudden recollection of the happiest time of my life - localized entirely within the sound of her voice. She's so mean now, maybe it's bitterness, I don't know. There is so much about her that is exactly the same, though, it's like I'm 10 again, watching her, only we're wearing nicer clothes. It hurts a lot, I wish it didn't.
When I was a kid, I could never understand why A loved grocery shopping so much. Grocery stores were the most foulest place in the world to me, they were cold and filled with people and it was boring. But she always loved it, I thought it was crazy. Today she told me it was to get away from us. Perspective's a funny thing.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Listen, Anonymous.
It really doesn't matter what kind of comments you post here. It doesn't matter how thouroughly thought-out, well-planned, impeccably-worded, scathing, biting, "hurtfully truthful" what you have to say is - no matter what kind of a dazzling display of sarcastic, intellectual trash-talking you feel you're presenting for all to see - I will always have something funnier, smarter, and more relevant to respond with.
Seriously! I'm telling you now that there is no point to your mindless "belittlement", or whatever you would call it, because a) I don't care, and b) the people who read this?; they don't care either. Now of course, obviously I do in fact care on some level, otherwise I obviously wouldn't be responding to you. However, it has absolutely nothing to do with a desire to prove you wrong - for surely, that is written all over everything you say - but because I DO love me a good, old-fashioned catfight. And let's face it, all fights on the internet are catfights.
So if you would like to insist on continuing this senseless exchange of petty diatribe, I will by all means humour your wishes, and respond in kind to any negative things you feel you need to say to and about me.
I have to admit, I am curious about who you are... I only gave this address to my friends, so you are either one of them, or a random nothing. Your refusal to leave some kind of name points to the former, but your lack of knowledge about the kind of person I am points to the latter. *shrug* Time will tell.
Ciao!
It really doesn't matter what kind of comments you post here. It doesn't matter how thouroughly thought-out, well-planned, impeccably-worded, scathing, biting, "hurtfully truthful" what you have to say is - no matter what kind of a dazzling display of sarcastic, intellectual trash-talking you feel you're presenting for all to see - I will always have something funnier, smarter, and more relevant to respond with.
Seriously! I'm telling you now that there is no point to your mindless "belittlement", or whatever you would call it, because a) I don't care, and b) the people who read this?; they don't care either. Now of course, obviously I do in fact care on some level, otherwise I obviously wouldn't be responding to you. However, it has absolutely nothing to do with a desire to prove you wrong - for surely, that is written all over everything you say - but because I DO love me a good, old-fashioned catfight. And let's face it, all fights on the internet are catfights.
So if you would like to insist on continuing this senseless exchange of petty diatribe, I will by all means humour your wishes, and respond in kind to any negative things you feel you need to say to and about me.
I have to admit, I am curious about who you are... I only gave this address to my friends, so you are either one of them, or a random nothing. Your refusal to leave some kind of name points to the former, but your lack of knowledge about the kind of person I am points to the latter. *shrug* Time will tell.
Ciao!
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Yeah, I'll admit it; I've never seen Reservoir Dogs. I'm not a big Tarantino fan. Not because I've got anything against the guy, I mean I loved Kill Bill, who didn't. Sin City, a glorious feat of cinematic accomplishment. Four Rooms... freaked me out a little, because I first saw it when I was 14, awake at 2 a.m., and totally unprepared for the body underneath that bed. I don't even remember the segment Tarantino directed. I've seen seen snippets of Pulp Fiction, but I just never got around to seeing the whole thing, nor Reservoir Dogs, nor Jackie Brown; The Classics.
I have, not but 30 minutes ago, finished sitting through my very first screening of Reservoir Dogs. Finally. After all this time. After aaall these people saying, "Omg, you've never seen Reservoir Dogs, what the christ, it's so awesome, you don't even know. Tarantino is like a fricking genius man." No shit. But let me tell YOU something, everyone.
I hated that movie. Yeah, I hated it, and it wasn't because everyone dies, or the blood, or any other girly reason. The cinematography was fantastic; the acting first fucking rate (although I really dislike Michael Madsen, the only thing I've ever loved him in was Free Willy); the script and the soundtrack were awesome... But all in all, I found that movie to be a complete waste of my time. There was no point to it. "Nono, see, it's like... it's about the MEN, and a robbery gone bad, and what criminals will do to and for each other and like, yeah, it's about relationships," you might tell me, and if I did, I would reply to you with a swift and cutting, "Fuck you, son," because it just barely told a story. Just. Barely. And personally, I watch movies to be told stories. They don't have to be happy stories, or fun stories, or stories about unicorns (although that is a definite +10,000 to my rep with the director), but they should be GOOD stories. In MY opinion. I'm sure a lot of you think a story about a bunch of guys who fuck up a diamond heist, and all get their asses SHOT is a good story, but I don't, and so I hated Reservoir Dogs, and was indeed exceptionally pissed off that I did. And, consequently, pissed off at all the people who told me it was a "fucking awesome" movie, which is a lot of god damn people, so you can imagine how mad I am right now.
So that's it, that's my thing, I hated Reservoir Dogs, and I hate you for liking it, so you go to hell. You go to hell and you DIE.
I have, not but 30 minutes ago, finished sitting through my very first screening of Reservoir Dogs. Finally. After all this time. After aaall these people saying, "Omg, you've never seen Reservoir Dogs, what the christ, it's so awesome, you don't even know. Tarantino is like a fricking genius man." No shit. But let me tell YOU something, everyone.
I hated that movie. Yeah, I hated it, and it wasn't because everyone dies, or the blood, or any other girly reason. The cinematography was fantastic; the acting first fucking rate (although I really dislike Michael Madsen, the only thing I've ever loved him in was Free Willy); the script and the soundtrack were awesome... But all in all, I found that movie to be a complete waste of my time. There was no point to it. "Nono, see, it's like... it's about the MEN, and a robbery gone bad, and what criminals will do to and for each other and like, yeah, it's about relationships," you might tell me, and if I did, I would reply to you with a swift and cutting, "Fuck you, son," because it just barely told a story. Just. Barely. And personally, I watch movies to be told stories. They don't have to be happy stories, or fun stories, or stories about unicorns (although that is a definite +10,000 to my rep with the director), but they should be GOOD stories. In MY opinion. I'm sure a lot of you think a story about a bunch of guys who fuck up a diamond heist, and all get their asses SHOT is a good story, but I don't, and so I hated Reservoir Dogs, and was indeed exceptionally pissed off that I did. And, consequently, pissed off at all the people who told me it was a "fucking awesome" movie, which is a lot of god damn people, so you can imagine how mad I am right now.
So that's it, that's my thing, I hated Reservoir Dogs, and I hate you for liking it, so you go to hell. You go to hell and you DIE.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Okay - dear Anonymous.
1) World of Warcraft is greater than you, greater than me, greater than anything you've ever known. It's greater than Jesus. It's the people that don't play the game that are the problem, not us.
2) I'm assuming you only read, about, every fifth word or so that I write, as that would explain your inability to understand anything I'm trying to say. Read: my scratching of the crotch is in direct correlation with my shaving of the pubes.
NOT that I feel obligated in any way to explain myself to you, whatever ghost of my past you may be, but I thought you might be interested in knowing how much of afucking idiot you are. Although something tells me you already know.
Cheers eh? I look forward to your next poorly written, barely comprehensible, stemming from a complete lack of knowledge about who I am, and possibly some kind of jealousy, flame. Thumbs up.
1) World of Warcraft is greater than you, greater than me, greater than anything you've ever known. It's greater than Jesus. It's the people that don't play the game that are the problem, not us.
2) I'm assuming you only read, about, every fifth word or so that I write, as that would explain your inability to understand anything I'm trying to say. Read: my scratching of the crotch is in direct correlation with my shaving of the pubes.
NOT that I feel obligated in any way to explain myself to you, whatever ghost of my past you may be, but I thought you might be interested in knowing how much of afucking idiot you are. Although something tells me you already know.
Cheers eh? I look forward to your next poorly written, barely comprehensible, stemming from a complete lack of knowledge about who I am, and possibly some kind of jealousy, flame. Thumbs up.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
I CAN'T STOP SCRATCHING MY CROTCH.
I would love to stop, truly I would, especially because I find myself doing it all the time at the store, and if people wanted to see me scratch my crotch instead of buying my books, I'd be in an entirely different line of work, and would be making better money. So I've concluded that the only rational decision is to resort back to having my pubic hair ripped out of me.
In light of recent events, I'm feeling exceptionally optimistic about the life ahead of me, the people I'm going to get to share it with, and no longer will I commit anyamount of time to the useless pursuit of imagining scenarios that may come to pass. It's fucking stupid, I'm stopping immediately. Thank you all for everything you did for me, over these last few days. If it weren't for you, who knows where I would be. Lost and alone, I know that for sure, but maybe dead, or dangling from a precipice somewhere, or worse.
I'm off to nuke mobs. Ciao.
I would love to stop, truly I would, especially because I find myself doing it all the time at the store, and if people wanted to see me scratch my crotch instead of buying my books, I'd be in an entirely different line of work, and would be making better money. So I've concluded that the only rational decision is to resort back to having my pubic hair ripped out of me.
In light of recent events, I'm feeling exceptionally optimistic about the life ahead of me, the people I'm going to get to share it with, and no longer will I commit anyamount of time to the useless pursuit of imagining scenarios that may come to pass. It's fucking stupid, I'm stopping immediately. Thank you all for everything you did for me, over these last few days. If it weren't for you, who knows where I would be. Lost and alone, I know that for sure, but maybe dead, or dangling from a precipice somewhere, or worse.
I'm off to nuke mobs. Ciao.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Have you ever come home from work, eaten a danish for dinner, and known immediately that it was the worst decision you made all day, and possibly for the entire week, or even month?
Me either, I was just asking.
So, as you can tell, my life has once again descended into swirling vortex of doom that is playing World of Warcraft. On the plus side, my Priest is level 63, my Hunter 43, and my Mage 28, so really, I feel like I've come out on top.
What to tell then, eh? You all know me so well, any tales I might have to spin you've all heard, which reduces my current writing to having no purpose save for my own benefit, and if I'm writing purely for my own benefit, then truly how foolish am I to be allowing public access? The answer to that is quite simple, I believe.
Very.
Now, I'm currently reading, "A Briefer History of Time" - a, for lack of a better term, "dumbed down" revision of "A Brief History of Time" - by Stephen Hawking, and I must say, if I could understand a single word of it, I just might find it fascinating. Haha, just jokes. ...I understand some of it. For instance: Did you know that it is quite actually impossible for an object to reach the speed of light? Yeah, cuz, as an object begins to near moving at the speed of light, it's mass begins to increase, and thusly, it requires that much more energy to keep it moving. As that object got close to the speed of light (which is.. 256,000 miles a second?) it's mass would be infinite, and would need an infinite amount of energy to sustain it's movement.
I personally was completely dumbfounded upon discovering this, for truly what is the point of Star Fleet launching all those Enterprises and Voyagers and god knows what else into space, IF NOT TO FIND A WAY TO TRAVEL AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT??? To explore strange new worlds? To seek out new life, and new civilizations? To boldly go where no one has gone before?
FUCK no, son. It's to find a god damn way to go as fast as is the FUCK possible, so to conquer with greater efficiency, BITCH. So, it looks like we're all fucked, I guess.
And I guess that's all, for now.
I love you. More than you know.
Me either, I was just asking.
So, as you can tell, my life has once again descended into swirling vortex of doom that is playing World of Warcraft. On the plus side, my Priest is level 63, my Hunter 43, and my Mage 28, so really, I feel like I've come out on top.
What to tell then, eh? You all know me so well, any tales I might have to spin you've all heard, which reduces my current writing to having no purpose save for my own benefit, and if I'm writing purely for my own benefit, then truly how foolish am I to be allowing public access? The answer to that is quite simple, I believe.
Very.
Now, I'm currently reading, "A Briefer History of Time" - a, for lack of a better term, "dumbed down" revision of "A Brief History of Time" - by Stephen Hawking, and I must say, if I could understand a single word of it, I just might find it fascinating. Haha, just jokes. ...I understand some of it. For instance: Did you know that it is quite actually impossible for an object to reach the speed of light? Yeah, cuz, as an object begins to near moving at the speed of light, it's mass begins to increase, and thusly, it requires that much more energy to keep it moving. As that object got close to the speed of light (which is.. 256,000 miles a second?) it's mass would be infinite, and would need an infinite amount of energy to sustain it's movement.
I personally was completely dumbfounded upon discovering this, for truly what is the point of Star Fleet launching all those Enterprises and Voyagers and god knows what else into space, IF NOT TO FIND A WAY TO TRAVEL AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT??? To explore strange new worlds? To seek out new life, and new civilizations? To boldly go where no one has gone before?
FUCK no, son. It's to find a god damn way to go as fast as is the FUCK possible, so to conquer with greater efficiency, BITCH. So, it looks like we're all fucked, I guess.
And I guess that's all, for now.
I love you. More than you know.
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