I'm looking at myself in the mirror. And I'm thinking, good lord. Where do they come from? I've got one painted on my collarbone, a quick splotch of fading yellow. Along my shoulders and back, barely even risen yet from a slide down the stairs. Just above my left elbow, a deep blue, nearly black, giving me a twinge every time I bend my arm. Small drips of blue and green along my legs. A large one just above my ankle, the color of a thick, murky twilight. My left foot is covered with them, red and blue and yellow, all in different stages of healing. Where do they come from?
Sometimes I think there is more than one reason I don't have a boyfriend. Is it because I'm afraid of being dumped? Hesitant to share myself with someone? Or is it simply because I don't want him to see the bruises? Maybe he'd see them as a work of art, a painted canvas, a reminder of who I am and where I've been.
But I doubt that.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
My Motto
If life bucks you off, you climb back on that bitch and you have a goddamn whip in your hand when you do it.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
It's good to have people in life who really understand you!
Ashtree: you know what I just realized?
Pants: ?
Ashtree: the good thing about boobs is...they are warm!
but the BAD thing about boobs is...
Pants: true
Ashtree: they don't really keep you warm.
Pants: that is true too
Ashtree: if you fold your arms right, then you might keep your forearms warm, but then you look like a deformed T-rex
Pants: LOL
i just tried it
and you're right
i do
Ashtree: I KNEW YOU WOULD!
Pants: jackass
Ashtree: I just thought you were the only one who'd really understand that
Pants: ?
Ashtree: the good thing about boobs is...they are warm!
but the BAD thing about boobs is...
Pants: true
Ashtree: they don't really keep you warm.
Pants: that is true too
Ashtree: if you fold your arms right, then you might keep your forearms warm, but then you look like a deformed T-rex
Pants: LOL
i just tried it
and you're right
i do
Ashtree: I KNEW YOU WOULD!
Pants: jackass
Ashtree: I just thought you were the only one who'd really understand that
Monday, December 8, 2008
Stay off. The crack.
I rather love the Nations game on Facebook. You invent a country and it pukes out up to two daily "issues" which you as supreme leader must solve. But methinks they're scraping the bottom of the barrel these days...
When sitting alone in your office today, a small chipmunk came in through a window and spoke to you saying, "If you plant it, it will grow", and then scurried back out the window. Do you:
...what?
For the record, I chose the fourth option as a lark and the result was this:
"Jadwiga has seen a rise in the use of marijuana when a very powerful strain has hit the streets out of nowhere!"
When sitting alone in your office today, a small chipmunk came in through a window and spoke to you saying, "If you plant it, it will grow", and then scurried back out the window. Do you:
| Remember that you forgot to plant your window box this year and mark it on the list of things to do, but disregard the silly daydream? | |
| Look into planting a few new trees in Jadwiga just in case the message was something real? | |
| Take it as a sign to keep cleaning up the environment and institute a nationwide initiative to plant more trees, shrubs and flowers? | |
| Go home and instruct your gardener to plant some marijuana plants in your garden this year? |
...what?
For the record, I chose the fourth option as a lark and the result was this:
"Jadwiga has seen a rise in the use of marijuana when a very powerful strain has hit the streets out of nowhere!"
Friday, November 28, 2008
Comfort
I've always loved Thanksgiving. The family cheer. The sense of togetherness. The food. Oh, how I love the food. But what I love even more than the drool-worthy turkey is the feeling of comfort when the meal is done and everyone has returned home. I am there right now, watching holiday specials on the television, my family surrounding me, most of them asleep. The quiet in the room, the gentle breathing, the occasional yip from a puppy or a yawn from a cat.
It is safety.
It is security.
It is comfort.
It is safety.
It is security.
It is comfort.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Nothing of substance at the moment...
...just an innnnnneresting music quiz-thingy. Definitely just realized that these things are self-esteem crushers, what with their insecure “does anybody like you?!” questions. Ugh. Anyway, I’m just putting the best ones. There were like twice as many questions, but that’s awfully tedious.
~
1. Put your music on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write that song name down no matter how silly it sounds. (HA I cheated and started over!)
If someone says, “Is this okay?” you say…
“A Hard Day’s Night” – The Beatles
How do you feel today?
“Get a Haircut” – George Thorogood and the Destroyers
...this could apply, yeah.
What is your motto?
“Under the Sea” – The Little Mermaid
...YES!
What is your life story?
“Bulls in Brooklyn” – The Academy Is…
What will they play at your funeral?
“Your Song” – Ewan McGregor (Moulin Rouge!)
…aw, I wish this one had come up for wedding song…dag, yo…
What is your favorite hobby?
“God Only Knows” – The Beach Boys
…HAHA!
What do you think of your friends?
“Are We the Waiting” – Green Day
What’s the best thing that could happen?
“The Dark of the Matinée” – Franz Ferdinand
What scares you the most?
“Pepperland” – Yellow Submarine soundtrack (George Martin)
…*giggles*
If you could go back in time what would you change?
“Only the Good Die Young” – Billy Joel
:(
~
1. Put your music on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write that song name down no matter how silly it sounds. (HA I cheated and started over!)
If someone says, “Is this okay?” you say…
“A Hard Day’s Night” – The Beatles
How do you feel today?
“Get a Haircut” – George Thorogood and the Destroyers
...this could apply, yeah.
What is your motto?
“Under the Sea” – The Little Mermaid
...YES!
What is your life story?
“Bulls in Brooklyn” – The Academy Is…
What will they play at your funeral?
“Your Song” – Ewan McGregor (Moulin Rouge!)
…aw, I wish this one had come up for wedding song…dag, yo…
What is your favorite hobby?
“God Only Knows” – The Beach Boys
…HAHA!
What do you think of your friends?
“Are We the Waiting” – Green Day
What’s the best thing that could happen?
“The Dark of the Matinée” – Franz Ferdinand
What scares you the most?
“Pepperland” – Yellow Submarine soundtrack (George Martin)
…*giggles*
If you could go back in time what would you change?
“Only the Good Die Young” – Billy Joel
:(
Thursday, November 13, 2008
THE EYE OF SAURON IS UPON US!!!!!
(Actually, it's a picture of a planet outside our solar system. I'm a lazy thing and didn't really read the article, but I could not resist the picture.)
Something Funny
I was intrigued, at the end of The Dark Knight, when the Joker suggested that he and Batman would share a padded cell once everything was over. This was the result of such interest.
“Good morning, Batman,” a voice crooned. Batman was awake in an instant, his hand a flash as it shot out to grab whoever it was by the throat. He focused through the eyeholes of his mask to see the Joker grinning back at him. His makeup was smudged, like he hadn’t been able to refresh it in awhile, and he was wearing a white jumpsuit instead of his usual purple suit. Batman looked down to see that he, too was dressed in a white jumpsuit, with the exception of his mask. Which wasn’t a surprise, as the base of it was wired with a high voltage shock device.
“Where are we?” he asked the Joker, his voice a harsh rasp. It was his normal Batman voice, but it mostly came out that way because he was so thirsty.
“Look around, Bat Boy,” the Joker said, his voice pinched under Batman’s pressure. “We’re in that padded cell you promised me. I told you they’d double us up.”
Batman tossed the Joker away from him, ignoring him as he sprawled across the admittedly soft floor. The room was white. White ceiling, white walls, white floor, white sheets on two white cots. The door was white, and there was a long narrow window that stretched about eighteen inches, allowing a view of a white hallway. The only color in the place was the Joker’s painted face.
“This is a mistake,” Batman said, striding across the squishy floor to the door, pushing against it with all his strength. Though he put a few dents in it, it remained stubbornly intact. “I’m not crazy.”
“Well, neither am I, but that didn’t stop them from putting me in here,” the Joker said, rising and brushing himself off as he made his way to sit on a cot.
“You’re a murdering psychopath,” Batman hissed, rounding on the Joker. A fight would do wonders for his temper right now. Plus, he had no peripheral vision in the mask.
“And what do you do in your spare time, hm? Help little old ladies across the street?” The Joker shook his head slowly. “No, no. You hunt down us murdering psychopaths, and you throw us off of buildings. Not so shiny a reputation, now is it?”
“It’s different,” Batman said. He really hated this man.
“How so? Just because you kill bad man and I kill, well, anyone really, doesn’t mean you had any more right to it than I did. At least that’s what the little people think.” He nodded toward the window where a nurse was walking purposefully down the hall, a clipboard held at her side.
Batman rapped his knuckles against the glass. She glanced up, but quickly averted her eyes, hurrying past.
“Wait,” he called. “There’s been a mistake!”
“Not so cool as a cucumber in here, are you?” the Joker asked, reclining back on the cot. “The big bad superhero have claustrophobia?”
“Quiet,” Batman said, watching the nurse hurry away.
“They can’t hear you out there, you know. The walls are soundproof.” The Joker examined the nails on one hand. “Good thing, too. You yell like a crazy man in your sleep.”
“I do not,” Batman said, turning again to face him. It was odd, wearing his mask but not feeling the protection of his armor constricting his body. Having his vision so constricted, but not having a cape to swirl around him.
“You do. You yell about, what was her name? Rachel? Yes, Rachel. And Alfred. And any number of other people you’ve failed to save over the years, I imagine. Although, I was disappointed not to hear my name amongst the others. Here I’d thought I’d invaded your psyche and set up camp there, torturing you little bits at a time.”
“Maybe you’re not as influential as you think.”
“Maybe the same could be said for you, oh Caped Crusader. Otherwise, why would you be locked up in here with me?” The Joker regarded him for a moment, licking his lips almost absently. “Doesn’t it get hot under that mask?”
“Doesn’t it get itchy under that makeup?”
“Touché.”
Batman turned back to the door, wanting to kick his way through it, claw his way through the walls, but at the same time knowing that if he did, the Joker would be set loose once again.
“Why would they lock me up in here with you?”
“Aside from the fact that you apparently indiscriminately killed five people while I was being cut down from that wire?”
“That wouldn’t land me in here with you.”
“Like I said before, Gotham seems to be going crazy one person at a time. This place is full up. Probably they figured if anyone could survive being locked up with you, it would be me.”
“Probably, they figured it was the other way around.” Another nurse walked by. Batman pounded on the window, feeling the glass shake under his fist. She whirled and glared at him, and he could see the words Knock it off! on her lips before she stalked off.
“That one’s a feisty one,” the Joker said, watching from his cot. He drew a finger under his left eye, coating it with black makeup, then smearing it along the wall in a long, jagged line that eventually faded into nothing.
“What’s that for?” Batman asked, eyeing the line suspiciously.
“Day one,” the Joker replied, and laughed.
“Good morning, Batman,” a voice crooned. Batman was awake in an instant, his hand a flash as it shot out to grab whoever it was by the throat. He focused through the eyeholes of his mask to see the Joker grinning back at him. His makeup was smudged, like he hadn’t been able to refresh it in awhile, and he was wearing a white jumpsuit instead of his usual purple suit. Batman looked down to see that he, too was dressed in a white jumpsuit, with the exception of his mask. Which wasn’t a surprise, as the base of it was wired with a high voltage shock device.
“Where are we?” he asked the Joker, his voice a harsh rasp. It was his normal Batman voice, but it mostly came out that way because he was so thirsty.
“Look around, Bat Boy,” the Joker said, his voice pinched under Batman’s pressure. “We’re in that padded cell you promised me. I told you they’d double us up.”
Batman tossed the Joker away from him, ignoring him as he sprawled across the admittedly soft floor. The room was white. White ceiling, white walls, white floor, white sheets on two white cots. The door was white, and there was a long narrow window that stretched about eighteen inches, allowing a view of a white hallway. The only color in the place was the Joker’s painted face.
“This is a mistake,” Batman said, striding across the squishy floor to the door, pushing against it with all his strength. Though he put a few dents in it, it remained stubbornly intact. “I’m not crazy.”
“Well, neither am I, but that didn’t stop them from putting me in here,” the Joker said, rising and brushing himself off as he made his way to sit on a cot.
“You’re a murdering psychopath,” Batman hissed, rounding on the Joker. A fight would do wonders for his temper right now. Plus, he had no peripheral vision in the mask.
“And what do you do in your spare time, hm? Help little old ladies across the street?” The Joker shook his head slowly. “No, no. You hunt down us murdering psychopaths, and you throw us off of buildings. Not so shiny a reputation, now is it?”
“It’s different,” Batman said. He really hated this man.
“How so? Just because you kill bad man and I kill, well, anyone really, doesn’t mean you had any more right to it than I did. At least that’s what the little people think.” He nodded toward the window where a nurse was walking purposefully down the hall, a clipboard held at her side.
Batman rapped his knuckles against the glass. She glanced up, but quickly averted her eyes, hurrying past.
“Wait,” he called. “There’s been a mistake!”
“Not so cool as a cucumber in here, are you?” the Joker asked, reclining back on the cot. “The big bad superhero have claustrophobia?”
“Quiet,” Batman said, watching the nurse hurry away.
“They can’t hear you out there, you know. The walls are soundproof.” The Joker examined the nails on one hand. “Good thing, too. You yell like a crazy man in your sleep.”
“I do not,” Batman said, turning again to face him. It was odd, wearing his mask but not feeling the protection of his armor constricting his body. Having his vision so constricted, but not having a cape to swirl around him.
“You do. You yell about, what was her name? Rachel? Yes, Rachel. And Alfred. And any number of other people you’ve failed to save over the years, I imagine. Although, I was disappointed not to hear my name amongst the others. Here I’d thought I’d invaded your psyche and set up camp there, torturing you little bits at a time.”
“Maybe you’re not as influential as you think.”
“Maybe the same could be said for you, oh Caped Crusader. Otherwise, why would you be locked up in here with me?” The Joker regarded him for a moment, licking his lips almost absently. “Doesn’t it get hot under that mask?”
“Doesn’t it get itchy under that makeup?”
“Touché.”
Batman turned back to the door, wanting to kick his way through it, claw his way through the walls, but at the same time knowing that if he did, the Joker would be set loose once again.
“Why would they lock me up in here with you?”
“Aside from the fact that you apparently indiscriminately killed five people while I was being cut down from that wire?”
“That wouldn’t land me in here with you.”
“Like I said before, Gotham seems to be going crazy one person at a time. This place is full up. Probably they figured if anyone could survive being locked up with you, it would be me.”
“Probably, they figured it was the other way around.” Another nurse walked by. Batman pounded on the window, feeling the glass shake under his fist. She whirled and glared at him, and he could see the words Knock it off! on her lips before she stalked off.
“That one’s a feisty one,” the Joker said, watching from his cot. He drew a finger under his left eye, coating it with black makeup, then smearing it along the wall in a long, jagged line that eventually faded into nothing.
“What’s that for?” Batman asked, eyeing the line suspiciously.
“Day one,” the Joker replied, and laughed.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Finished
What's done is done, no more regrets,
Forgetting what I can't forget.
Wrap it up, so neat and clean,
Ignoring what it used to mean.
Push it back, inside my mind,
To places oh, so hard to find.
What's done is done, and leave it be,
No more regrets inside of me.
Forgetting what I can't forget.
Wrap it up, so neat and clean,
Ignoring what it used to mean.
Push it back, inside my mind,
To places oh, so hard to find.
What's done is done, and leave it be,
No more regrets inside of me.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Takin' care of business.
Soulie and I have decided just what to do with El Profe. An observer, FH, opines:
~
Facebook status, 12:46am: Ashtree is helping Soulie mail ol' Profe back to the A-Tina.*
1:35am, FH: hmm that must cost a bundle in postage
1:35am, Ashtree: hahaha Soulie and I were going to charge him for it ;)
1:36am, FH: why is he going to Argentina?
1:36am, Ashtree: um, we are sick of his crap and we are mailing him back where he came from
1:36am, FH: well he's going to the Dominican Republic soon anyway
1:36am, Ashtree: this is so
but Soulie and I decided that he spends all his free time thinking up ways to torture us, so we needed to dispose of him humanely;)
1:37am, FH: ahh
1:37am, Ashtree: we're gonna poke holes in the box, we're not that cruel!
1:37am, FH: how nice of you
1:37am, Ashtree: we're caring souls
~
*We've decided to abbreviate "Argentina" to "the A-Tina" much like rappers refer to "Atlanta" as "the ATL." Bonus points because it sounds like "A*Teens!"
~
Facebook status, 12:46am: Ashtree is helping Soulie mail ol' Profe back to the A-Tina.*
1:35am, FH: hmm that must cost a bundle in postage
1:35am, Ashtree: hahaha Soulie and I were going to charge him for it ;)
1:36am, FH: why is he going to Argentina?
1:36am, Ashtree: um, we are sick of his crap and we are mailing him back where he came from
1:36am, FH: well he's going to the Dominican Republic soon anyway
1:36am, Ashtree: this is so
but Soulie and I decided that he spends all his free time thinking up ways to torture us, so we needed to dispose of him humanely;)
1:37am, FH: ahh
1:37am, Ashtree: we're gonna poke holes in the box, we're not that cruel!
1:37am, FH: how nice of you
1:37am, Ashtree: we're caring souls
~
*We've decided to abbreviate "Argentina" to "the A-Tina" much like rappers refer to "Atlanta" as "the ATL." Bonus points because it sounds like "A*Teens!"
Friday, October 31, 2008
Happy Halloween.
Soulie showed this to me today. She was most distressed in her poetry class today, as she is dyslexic, and this poem is written how she might normally see things on the page! It was interesting to see. Try reading it out loud to yourself and imagine the trouble she had. Poor Soulie!
~
May Swenson
"A Nosty Fright"
The roldengod and the soneyhuckle,
the sack eyed blusan and the wistle theed
are all tangled with the oison pivy,
the fallen nine peedles and the wumbleteed.
A mipchunk caught in a wobceb tried
to hip and skide in a dandy sune
but a stobler put up a EEP KOFF sign.
Then the unfucky lellow met a phytoon
and was sept out to swea. He difted for drays
till a hassgropper flying happened to spot
the boolish feast all debraggled and wet,
covered with snears and tot.
Loonmight shone through the winey poods
where rushmooms grew among risted twoots.
Back blats flew between the twees
and orned howls hounded their soots.
A kumkpin stood with a tooked creeth
on the sindow will of a house
where a icked wold itch lived all alone
except for her stoombrick, a mitten and a kouse.
"Here we part," said hassgropper.
"Pere we hart," said mipchunk, too.
They purried away on opposite haths,
both scared of some "Bat!" or "Scoo!"
October was ending on a nosty fright
with scroans and greeches and chanking clains,
with oblins and gelfs, coaths and urses,
skinning grulls and stoodblains.
Will it ever be morning, Nofember virst,
skue bly and the sappy hun, our friend?
With light breaves of wall by the fayside?
I sope ho, so that this oem can pend.
~
May Swenson
"A Nosty Fright"
The roldengod and the soneyhuckle,
the sack eyed blusan and the wistle theed
are all tangled with the oison pivy,
the fallen nine peedles and the wumbleteed.
A mipchunk caught in a wobceb tried
to hip and skide in a dandy sune
but a stobler put up a EEP KOFF sign.
Then the unfucky lellow met a phytoon
and was sept out to swea. He difted for drays
till a hassgropper flying happened to spot
the boolish feast all debraggled and wet,
covered with snears and tot.
Loonmight shone through the winey poods
where rushmooms grew among risted twoots.
Back blats flew between the twees
and orned howls hounded their soots.
A kumkpin stood with a tooked creeth
on the sindow will of a house
where a icked wold itch lived all alone
except for her stoombrick, a mitten and a kouse.
"Here we part," said hassgropper.
"Pere we hart," said mipchunk, too.
They purried away on opposite haths,
both scared of some "Bat!" or "Scoo!"
October was ending on a nosty fright
with scroans and greeches and chanking clains,
with oblins and gelfs, coaths and urses,
skinning grulls and stoodblains.
Will it ever be morning, Nofember virst,
skue bly and the sappy hun, our friend?
With light breaves of wall by the fayside?
I sope ho, so that this oem can pend.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
At a Loss
Do you know, in all the time I've been a writer, and that's been quite some time, I've never before gotten writer's block? I've had moments where I wasn't in the mood to write. I've had moments where my stories and poetry and other sweet creations didn't turn out as they should have. But I've never stopped mid paragraph and stared at the screen thinking "Well shit."
I'm at a loss.
I'm at a loss.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Spooning
I was laying in my bed, my arms curled around my pillow, snuggled and warm. Content. I began to think about spooning. How good it feels to have the warmth and weight of someone against you, someone to make you feel safe and loved. And then I realized it. No one ever makes me feel safe and loved. Because I am always the big spoon.
With my sister, my sweet sister, I'm the big spoon, the protector. Same with the friends that I cuddle with when watching movies or when I'm keeping them from dying of alcohol poisoning in the night. I'm the big spoon. I thought about the boy that I'd spent a night with, how we hadn't cuddled, since there had been no room. But I know that if we had, I would have been the big spoon there too. No one is strong enough to be my big spoon. I do not trust them at my back, I do not believe they can protect me.
And so, I've got a new goal in life. I am searching for my Big Spoon.
With my sister, my sweet sister, I'm the big spoon, the protector. Same with the friends that I cuddle with when watching movies or when I'm keeping them from dying of alcohol poisoning in the night. I'm the big spoon. I thought about the boy that I'd spent a night with, how we hadn't cuddled, since there had been no room. But I know that if we had, I would have been the big spoon there too. No one is strong enough to be my big spoon. I do not trust them at my back, I do not believe they can protect me.
And so, I've got a new goal in life. I am searching for my Big Spoon.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
From the Minds of My Peers...
So, as I was speaking with a new friend of mine on instant messenger, I made the clever move of reading his buddy info. This is what I found.
"Some time ago there was a place. A place called Hope. And in this place, there was a time. A time called Desire. And in this place at this time someone decided that pieces of chocolate were delicious and decided to put them inside of sugar dough. That was an awesome idea. But then you, the ass-licking, vindictive raisin, got jealous and lonely and decided to be inside of my cookies sometimes too. That was not awesome. In fact, it fucking sucked. You're a chewy, obnoxious, healthy interruption to my cookies.
Nature's candy? You know what-- fuck you. You're just the pathetic misshapen remnants of a grape, a mediocre fruit to begin with. You're in my cookie because you think you're so much better than chocolate chips, which happen to be awesome. You happen to suck.
In conclusion, fuck you. Fuck you and your motherfucking vitamins and your minerals. I don't respect your sexuality. Fuck you and your cocky-ass fucking wrinkles. You look like my scrotum. And while you may or may not be significantly larger than my scrotum, you taste much worse. My scrotum is delicious. Chocolate chips are delicious. You are a punk. But this isn't about my scrotum. This is about the blood of my forefathers, spilt on the land that you defile with your miniaturized goodiness. This is about liberty, justice, and other various things that are really awesome, like tiger sharks. And velociraptors. Goddamnit are they kick ass. With their strong jaws and their many rows of razor teeth and sickle-shaped talons. I saw on the Discovery Channel that a flock of seven could tear apart Joe Lieberman in 18 seconds flat on a moderately humid day. That's so fucking cool. I wish I was like that sometimes--all powerful and strong. Sometimes when my roommate leaves I take all my clothes off and pretend I'm a velociraptor and pounce upon my roommate's desk as would a ferocious bloodthirsty velociraptor, knocking over his lamp with my semi-erect penis. And then I drink apple juice.
Fuck you, raisins. Stay out of my cookies."
I may be in love w/ this boy...
Nature's candy? You know what-- fuck you. You're just the pathetic misshapen remnants of a grape, a mediocre fruit to begin with. You're in my cookie because you think you're so much better than chocolate chips, which happen to be awesome. You happen to suck.
In conclusion, fuck you. Fuck you and your motherfucking vitamins and your minerals. I don't respect your sexuality. Fuck you and your cocky-ass fucking wrinkles. You look like my scrotum. And while you may or may not be significantly larger than my scrotum, you taste much worse. My scrotum is delicious. Chocolate chips are delicious. You are a punk. But this isn't about my scrotum. This is about the blood of my forefathers, spilt on the land that you defile with your miniaturized goodiness. This is about liberty, justice, and other various things that are really awesome, like tiger sharks. And velociraptors. Goddamnit are they kick ass. With their strong jaws and their many rows of razor teeth and sickle-shaped talons. I saw on the Discovery Channel that a flock of seven could tear apart Joe Lieberman in 18 seconds flat on a moderately humid day. That's so fucking cool. I wish I was like that sometimes--all powerful and strong. Sometimes when my roommate leaves I take all my clothes off and pretend I'm a velociraptor and pounce upon my roommate's desk as would a ferocious bloodthirsty velociraptor, knocking over his lamp with my semi-erect penis. And then I drink apple juice.
Fuck you, raisins. Stay out of my cookies."
I may be in love w/ this boy...
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Self-explanatory.
"Ashtree"
"Sarah" (9:56:50 PM) : oh. my. god.
"Sarah" (9:57:06 PM) : that is terrifying
"Ashtree" (9:57:32 PM) : "why won't you vote Republican, Ashley?"
*whips out picture*
"oh. it's all very clear now...excuse me, I must go BLEACH MY EYES NOW"
*whips out picture*
"oh. it's all very clear now...excuse me, I must go BLEACH MY EYES NOW"
"Sarah" (9:57:43 PM) : LOL
~
Picture from http://harryallen.info/wp-content/uploads/2008/04/john-mccain2.jpg
~
Picture from http://harryallen.info/wp-content/uploads/2008/04/john-mccain2.jpg
Monday, September 29, 2008
f.m.l.
Oh god. Who had the horriblest day today? *raises hand*
Today had a promising start, as promising as a Monday can be. My shower was nice and warm, absolutely perfect. Nevertheless, I still can't shake my head cold. Which sucks.
So I got to English, that useless waste of time they dubbed "Critical Writing" (I'm quite critical of it), and my prof, Beastly Lady, handed back our drafts. She'd scribbled over and crossed out practically my whole damn thesis. The same thesis she helped me friggin' write on Thursday, mind you. So I complained. And then BL was like, "Oh yeah....forget about it then." Never mind that you'd sullied my glorious 2.5 double-spaced pages of 12-pt. Calibri with your CHICKEN SCRATCH, Madam!
On to breakfast with the Unfathomably Tall Swimmer, a wonderful soul from my class. His friend, the Sheltered Bostonian, wouldn't eat with us, however. He'd previously deemed UTS's attitude "too negative." But then UTS informed me that SB doesn't like me. And he wasn't joking, ha-ha. Which, of course, was news to me! This may be a D-thing to say, but I'm entirely unused to being disliked. I dislike many people and things, but I thought I was generally well-liked, or at least tolerable. Apparently I am "annoying" and "socially awkward." Not that SB could let me know any of this, no. What really bothers me isn't that he doesn't like me, it's that he is a big fake jerk to my face about it. Gawd. What happened to the natural social order of things, where if you like someone you talk to them, and if you don't, you pretend they fell off the face of the planet?! I mean, I'm good at being fake too, but that's more useful in high school. This is college, where you don't owe it to these random people to be nice if they aren't nice to you. If you're gonna dislike me, dislike me, dammit!
(Side note: I asked my roommate, Mrs. Icky, "I'm not annoying, right?" and all I got was a non-committal "mm." Ouch.)
Anyway, on top of the head cold, my breakfast disagreed with me and I threw it up 10 minutes after returning to my dorm. I definitely thought people would walk in the bathroom and be like "She's hungover/bulimic/stupid." I felt bad because the cleaning lady had seriously just left like 2 seconds ago. I could tell by the nauseous smell of lemony bleach. Augh.
That's when I realized my day had reached the point of total suckage. My only solace was that I'd be going to see a soccer game with Lil Joey the Class Scapegoat later. It was our high school versus their rival and it was going to be good.
So then I had to watch a video for Spanish, and I had no idea where to find said video. I went down to El Profe's office and he gave me the "Dear God, woman, are you completely retarded?!" face and mumbled, in Spanish, that it was in the library. I then encountered many technical difficulties in the library with said video.
By the time I got back to my dorm, I hadn't heard from Lil Joey about our soccer-game plans, so I Facebook Chatted him. He informed me that he "didn't feel so good" and that the plans were off. I offered my get-well sympathies and headed to class. El Profe came in a couple minutes late, as usual, and informed us that he was canceling class because HE didn't feel well either! (All college inhabitants, be they students or faculty, are squashed together so closely that plagues can spread at an epidemic pace, so I'm not terribly surprised that El Profe got taken down with us.) This was all well and good, right? I got out of class early and I didn't have chamber orchestra rehearsal. The only engagement I had was a photo op with the Anthropology Club for the school newspaper, and that wasn't for another hour.
So I jaunted upstairs, unlocked my door, and what? Mrs. Icky had put the chain up. She was in there with her disgusting boyfriend! I got the message and skedaddled to the lounge, fretting quite a bit. Then Mr. Icky opened the door, and I slunk in to get my books. The Missus was cuddled under the covers of her bed. Now, when I last left her, Mrs. Icky had just gotten out of the shower and was in her skimpy bathrobe-y type-thing. I assumed she was wearing that, or less, under said covers. (Strangely enough, Mr. Icky answered the door fully clothed...?) All the same, AWKWARD. I ran to the library to do research for a paper.
I was lucky enough to make dinner plans with a perfectly acceptable specimen, a.k.a. Future Husband. (Haha.) We discussed our mutual dislike of Mr. Icky and his putrid manners, which include, but are not limited to: smoking, crude language, disrespect of women, skipping class, and not knocking. Or knocking too much. Gawd. Unfortunately, I had to skip out early for this Anthro Club photo shiz. Most tedious, and in drizzly weather besides.
After my anthropological duties, I swung by the computer lab to check the ol' homework (aaaaaand the ol' Facebook). And what do I see?! "Lil Joey is going to the soccer game, GO FALCONS!!!...some people dont know how good they had it."
Ohh, Lil Joey. You are gonna have it. And not so good. Not that any of this is Lil Joey's fault, it just so happens that he put the cherry on my crap sundae of a day. Since then I have been sulking in my dorm, and it's a good feeling, let me tell you.
Today had a promising start, as promising as a Monday can be. My shower was nice and warm, absolutely perfect. Nevertheless, I still can't shake my head cold. Which sucks.
So I got to English, that useless waste of time they dubbed "Critical Writing" (I'm quite critical of it), and my prof, Beastly Lady, handed back our drafts. She'd scribbled over and crossed out practically my whole damn thesis. The same thesis she helped me friggin' write on Thursday, mind you. So I complained. And then BL was like, "Oh yeah....forget about it then." Never mind that you'd sullied my glorious 2.5 double-spaced pages of 12-pt. Calibri with your CHICKEN SCRATCH, Madam!
On to breakfast with the Unfathomably Tall Swimmer, a wonderful soul from my class. His friend, the Sheltered Bostonian, wouldn't eat with us, however. He'd previously deemed UTS's attitude "too negative." But then UTS informed me that SB doesn't like me. And he wasn't joking, ha-ha. Which, of course, was news to me! This may be a D-thing to say, but I'm entirely unused to being disliked. I dislike many people and things, but I thought I was generally well-liked, or at least tolerable. Apparently I am "annoying" and "socially awkward." Not that SB could let me know any of this, no. What really bothers me isn't that he doesn't like me, it's that he is a big fake jerk to my face about it. Gawd. What happened to the natural social order of things, where if you like someone you talk to them, and if you don't, you pretend they fell off the face of the planet?! I mean, I'm good at being fake too, but that's more useful in high school. This is college, where you don't owe it to these random people to be nice if they aren't nice to you. If you're gonna dislike me, dislike me, dammit!
(Side note: I asked my roommate, Mrs. Icky, "I'm not annoying, right?" and all I got was a non-committal "mm." Ouch.)
Anyway, on top of the head cold, my breakfast disagreed with me and I threw it up 10 minutes after returning to my dorm. I definitely thought people would walk in the bathroom and be like "She's hungover/bulimic/stupid." I felt bad because the cleaning lady had seriously just left like 2 seconds ago. I could tell by the nauseous smell of lemony bleach. Augh.
That's when I realized my day had reached the point of total suckage. My only solace was that I'd be going to see a soccer game with Lil Joey the Class Scapegoat later. It was our high school versus their rival and it was going to be good.
So then I had to watch a video for Spanish, and I had no idea where to find said video. I went down to El Profe's office and he gave me the "Dear God, woman, are you completely retarded?!" face and mumbled, in Spanish, that it was in the library. I then encountered many technical difficulties in the library with said video.
By the time I got back to my dorm, I hadn't heard from Lil Joey about our soccer-game plans, so I Facebook Chatted him. He informed me that he "didn't feel so good" and that the plans were off. I offered my get-well sympathies and headed to class. El Profe came in a couple minutes late, as usual, and informed us that he was canceling class because HE didn't feel well either! (All college inhabitants, be they students or faculty, are squashed together so closely that plagues can spread at an epidemic pace, so I'm not terribly surprised that El Profe got taken down with us.) This was all well and good, right? I got out of class early and I didn't have chamber orchestra rehearsal. The only engagement I had was a photo op with the Anthropology Club for the school newspaper, and that wasn't for another hour.
So I jaunted upstairs, unlocked my door, and what? Mrs. Icky had put the chain up. She was in there with her disgusting boyfriend! I got the message and skedaddled to the lounge, fretting quite a bit. Then Mr. Icky opened the door, and I slunk in to get my books. The Missus was cuddled under the covers of her bed. Now, when I last left her, Mrs. Icky had just gotten out of the shower and was in her skimpy bathrobe-y type-thing. I assumed she was wearing that, or less, under said covers. (Strangely enough, Mr. Icky answered the door fully clothed...?) All the same, AWKWARD. I ran to the library to do research for a paper.
I was lucky enough to make dinner plans with a perfectly acceptable specimen, a.k.a. Future Husband. (Haha.) We discussed our mutual dislike of Mr. Icky and his putrid manners, which include, but are not limited to: smoking, crude language, disrespect of women, skipping class, and not knocking. Or knocking too much. Gawd. Unfortunately, I had to skip out early for this Anthro Club photo shiz. Most tedious, and in drizzly weather besides.
After my anthropological duties, I swung by the computer lab to check the ol' homework (aaaaaand the ol' Facebook). And what do I see?! "Lil Joey is going to the soccer game, GO FALCONS!!!...some people dont know how good they had it."
Ohh, Lil Joey. You are gonna have it. And not so good. Not that any of this is Lil Joey's fault, it just so happens that he put the cherry on my crap sundae of a day. Since then I have been sulking in my dorm, and it's a good feeling, let me tell you.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Diary of a Desperate Traveler
June 12, 08
12:44 PM
Greyhound Terminal, Binghamton
Waiting. I hate waiting. Waiting for a bus that I shouldn't have to catch. This trip, or "vacation" as someone foolishly called it, is thus far nothing more than a foray into Hell's inner circle.
I woke up at six thirty this morning, blinked at the surprisingly strong morning light, and smiled. Today was the day we catch the bus to D.C. to spend some time with Dad. While Liz and I both had some misgivings about this, we were willing to overlook them. We packed our bags with the essentials (laptops, swim suits, and hair spray) and headed to town to catch our bus.
We showed up at the seedy little terminal and hauled our luggage into the waiting room.
"Wish I had some paint," I said. The walls had been white at one point, but had turned gray with cigarette ash and the general dirt of a city.
Liz smiled. "Hey, at least there's shelves," she said. Good point. So I could, what, stack the paint that I didn't have on them?
We sat for a few minutes, joking about alligators and other adventures that were waiting for us in Florida, our ultimate destination. A woman, a large lady with a brightly colored shirt and cheap khaki shorts walked by the waiting room, whistling blithely. She paused when she caught sight of us.
"Are you waiting for the Greyhound?" She asked. We nodded. "You do know it doesn't come here, right?"
WHAT!? "Nope, didn't know that," I said as Liz flipped open her phone to call Mom to pick us up.
"Yeah, it stops on Central Ave," she said, then trundled on her merry way.
Great. Thanks lady.
"Mom? Funny story. Can you pick us up?" Liz said into the phone as we hauled our suitcases back outside. "Apparently this isn't where we're supposed to be."
Mom rode to our rescue, driving us to the "real" bus stop. The real bus stop was three benches in front of the county office building. And a sign that said "Bus Stop." Well, at least it wasn't too sketchy in the sunlight at any rate.
"If this isn't where the bus stops, I'll be pissed," I muttered, hauling my shit over to a bench and propping my feet up on it.
Liz shrugged, sitting down beside me. "It says bus stop," she said. She tugged her iPod out of her purse, offering me an ear bud. "You'll love this," she said. TLC's "Creep" started to play. I couldn't understand a word except for the chorus. "So I creep! Oooh Ah!"
I cracked up, and Liz and I sat on a bench on Central Ave jamming to "Creep."
As if on cue, a man wandered over to us.
"Excuse me," he said. "Did you two see me get out of that cab?"
We stared at him blankly. He was tall, nearly six feet, with untamed brown hair and a scraggly beard. He was missing several teeth, and I didn't realize until later that he was missing an arm as well.
"No," I said slowly, shaking my head to drive the point home. "We didn't see that."
"Oh," he said, and wandered off.
"Speaking of creepers," Liz whispered. I giggled, then dug a book out of my bag.
It was only a matter of minutes before he was back. "I'm looking for my family," he said. "Have you seen anyone leanin' out of cars, wavin' and hollerin'?"
We shook our heads no. He wandered off again.
We waited for an hour, until ten fifteen. No bus.
"Should I be worried?" I asked. It didn't matter. I already was.
"No," she said. "Buses are always late."
Ten minutes passed.
"Are they this late?" I asked.
"I...don't know," she said.
The Creeper came ambling back over. "Are you taking the Greyhound?" he asked. We nodded. He smiled and sat down on the bench next to us. "I think I'll go to Binghamton," he said. Great, I thought. Just great.
Liz looked down the street. "Is that it?" she asked. Sure enough, there was a Greyhound, sitting smugly at the stoplight.
"Oh, excellent," I said, eager to get away from The Creeper.
The bus rolled to a stop in front of us. We started to get up, moving our luggage out of the way. We needn't have bothered. The driver merely paused for a moment, then pulled away from the curb.
"Wait, what?" I said, staring dumbly at the retreating bus.
"Go after it!" Liz said, grabbing her purse and shoving her iPod and cell into it.
"Wait, me?" I asked.
"Yes, you!" she said, struggling to pull up the handle on her suitcase.
"Oh," I said, turning to follow the runaway bus. Too late, as it had already turned to corner. "Did we just miss the bus?" I asked Liz, in shock that such a thing could happen.
The Creeper jogged up to us. "Was that the bus?" he asked. "He didn't even stop did he?" I shook my head slowly, trying to make my brain remember how to work. I looked over at Liz to see how she was taking it. Her lip was trembling, and I could hear her breath coming in short, sharp sobs. Uh oh.
She flipped open her phone to call Mom. "The bus left without us," she wailed into it the minute Mom answered. "It didn't even stop. It just drove right by."
An old man and his buddy trundled over to us. Both were small, bald, had glasses, and were the approximate shape of beach balls. The only discernible difference between them was their shirt colors. One blue, one red.
"Were you s'posed to get on that bus, missy?" Red Shirt asked me. I tuned out Liz, who was growing increasingly hysterical behind me.
"He didn't even stop," Blue Shirt observed. I nodded. I had noticed.
"Is there a number you can call?" Red Shirt asked. I dug out my ticket and started looking.
"Dad?" I heard Liz say. That conversation wouldn't end well. Her voice was loud, as it often gets when she's upset. Tears were slowly leaking out from under her sunglasses. "The bus left without us." She paused. "We were in the right place, Dad!" she yelled, and Red and Blue Shirts took a step back. The Creeper just stood there creepily.
I tuned her out again as a policeman started across the lawn toward us. "Uh oh," I said.
Red Shirt shook his head. "Don' worry. He's talking to him." He pointed a gnarled hand at Creeper.
"Hey," the cop said. He was talking to Creeper. Go figure. "Are you bothering these people?" he asked. "Because I had enough complaints about you yesterday."
Creeper muttered some excuse, and the cop was distracted by Blue Shirt waving him over. The little man explained what had happened, leaving me to just nod along.
"Is there a number you can call?" the cop asked. I handed him my ticket. Liz was flat out yelling now, but I couldn't hear what she was saying. She snapped her phone shut.
"Give me your pen," she said. I handed it over. "Mom found a number," she said as she picked up her ringing phone. Mom, presumably. She was still hiccuping and sobbing as she spoke to her.
The policeman grabbed his radio, handing me my ticket back. He called all the troopers in the area, telling them to be on the lookout for a Greyhound that had left without his passengers.
"Be advised, we have witnesses," he said, winking at me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I excused myself to answer it. Dad.
"Hi, Sarah?" he said, his voice worried. Of course, Sarah. Who else would answer her phone?
"Yeah," I answered.
"What's happening? I was talking to Liz, but I think she lost signal. Or she hung up on me."
I glanced at Liz's face, an interesting shade of red, tears glistening on her cheeks, all the way to her chin. her eyes were furious behind her glasses, and she was saying "fuck" every three words.
"Yeah. She lost signal," I soothed him. I told him what was happening, then hung up, assuring him that we would call when we knew more.
The cop went inside, telling us to stay put until he could figure something out. Like we had a choice? The two old men trundled off, wishing us luck. I had no idea where Creeper had gotten to. Probably had crawled back under his rock.
Liz and I sat on our luggage, and I worked at getting her calmed down. One man asked if she was alright. I shrugged and said, "It's Thursday."
Ten minutes passed, and the cop came back out, waving me over and beaming proudly. "I got it figured out," he said. "They'll hold your bus in Binghamton, and you can take the next bus that goes there, so you can catch your bus to D.C."
Brilliance. I thanked him profusely. And all went as planned. We caught the next bus, having to sit apart because of the modern American's fear of sitting with a stranger.
Liz showed me a text she had sent to her boyfriend. It read: "I have decided that this is not a trip to Florida. It is a trip to the inner circle of Hell. I've already missed a bus, yelled fuck at my father in front of a cop, and had a tantrum. And it's not even noon. xxxxx."
I laughed. So true.
We reached Binghamton with no more excitement, though Liz did have someone tell her that we were beautiful. Unfortunately when we got there, there was no other bus waiting for us. We grabbed our luggage out of the bus's belly and went inside the terminal.
"That bus left," the man at the ticket desk said. "He said that he picked up passengers in town, at the bus stop."
"No he didn't," Liz said.
"He said he stopped and boarded passengers," he said. "You can take the 2:20 bus to D.C. though." The lying bastard bus driver...
And so I'm waiting. Only two more hours to go until the NEW bus arrives.
12:44 PM
Greyhound Terminal, Binghamton
Waiting. I hate waiting. Waiting for a bus that I shouldn't have to catch. This trip, or "vacation" as someone foolishly called it, is thus far nothing more than a foray into Hell's inner circle.
I woke up at six thirty this morning, blinked at the surprisingly strong morning light, and smiled. Today was the day we catch the bus to D.C. to spend some time with Dad. While Liz and I both had some misgivings about this, we were willing to overlook them. We packed our bags with the essentials (laptops, swim suits, and hair spray) and headed to town to catch our bus.
We showed up at the seedy little terminal and hauled our luggage into the waiting room.
"Wish I had some paint," I said. The walls had been white at one point, but had turned gray with cigarette ash and the general dirt of a city.
Liz smiled. "Hey, at least there's shelves," she said. Good point. So I could, what, stack the paint that I didn't have on them?
We sat for a few minutes, joking about alligators and other adventures that were waiting for us in Florida, our ultimate destination. A woman, a large lady with a brightly colored shirt and cheap khaki shorts walked by the waiting room, whistling blithely. She paused when she caught sight of us.
"Are you waiting for the Greyhound?" She asked. We nodded. "You do know it doesn't come here, right?"
WHAT!? "Nope, didn't know that," I said as Liz flipped open her phone to call Mom to pick us up.
"Yeah, it stops on Central Ave," she said, then trundled on her merry way.
Great. Thanks lady.
"Mom? Funny story. Can you pick us up?" Liz said into the phone as we hauled our suitcases back outside. "Apparently this isn't where we're supposed to be."
Mom rode to our rescue, driving us to the "real" bus stop. The real bus stop was three benches in front of the county office building. And a sign that said "Bus Stop." Well, at least it wasn't too sketchy in the sunlight at any rate.
"If this isn't where the bus stops, I'll be pissed," I muttered, hauling my shit over to a bench and propping my feet up on it.
Liz shrugged, sitting down beside me. "It says bus stop," she said. She tugged her iPod out of her purse, offering me an ear bud. "You'll love this," she said. TLC's "Creep" started to play. I couldn't understand a word except for the chorus. "So I creep! Oooh Ah!"
I cracked up, and Liz and I sat on a bench on Central Ave jamming to "Creep."
As if on cue, a man wandered over to us.
"Excuse me," he said. "Did you two see me get out of that cab?"
We stared at him blankly. He was tall, nearly six feet, with untamed brown hair and a scraggly beard. He was missing several teeth, and I didn't realize until later that he was missing an arm as well.
"No," I said slowly, shaking my head to drive the point home. "We didn't see that."
"Oh," he said, and wandered off.
"Speaking of creepers," Liz whispered. I giggled, then dug a book out of my bag.
It was only a matter of minutes before he was back. "I'm looking for my family," he said. "Have you seen anyone leanin' out of cars, wavin' and hollerin'?"
We shook our heads no. He wandered off again.
We waited for an hour, until ten fifteen. No bus.
"Should I be worried?" I asked. It didn't matter. I already was.
"No," she said. "Buses are always late."
Ten minutes passed.
"Are they this late?" I asked.
"I...don't know," she said.
The Creeper came ambling back over. "Are you taking the Greyhound?" he asked. We nodded. He smiled and sat down on the bench next to us. "I think I'll go to Binghamton," he said. Great, I thought. Just great.
Liz looked down the street. "Is that it?" she asked. Sure enough, there was a Greyhound, sitting smugly at the stoplight.
"Oh, excellent," I said, eager to get away from The Creeper.
The bus rolled to a stop in front of us. We started to get up, moving our luggage out of the way. We needn't have bothered. The driver merely paused for a moment, then pulled away from the curb.
"Wait, what?" I said, staring dumbly at the retreating bus.
"Go after it!" Liz said, grabbing her purse and shoving her iPod and cell into it.
"Wait, me?" I asked.
"Yes, you!" she said, struggling to pull up the handle on her suitcase.
"Oh," I said, turning to follow the runaway bus. Too late, as it had already turned to corner. "Did we just miss the bus?" I asked Liz, in shock that such a thing could happen.
The Creeper jogged up to us. "Was that the bus?" he asked. "He didn't even stop did he?" I shook my head slowly, trying to make my brain remember how to work. I looked over at Liz to see how she was taking it. Her lip was trembling, and I could hear her breath coming in short, sharp sobs. Uh oh.
She flipped open her phone to call Mom. "The bus left without us," she wailed into it the minute Mom answered. "It didn't even stop. It just drove right by."
An old man and his buddy trundled over to us. Both were small, bald, had glasses, and were the approximate shape of beach balls. The only discernible difference between them was their shirt colors. One blue, one red.
"Were you s'posed to get on that bus, missy?" Red Shirt asked me. I tuned out Liz, who was growing increasingly hysterical behind me.
"He didn't even stop," Blue Shirt observed. I nodded. I had noticed.
"Is there a number you can call?" Red Shirt asked. I dug out my ticket and started looking.
"Dad?" I heard Liz say. That conversation wouldn't end well. Her voice was loud, as it often gets when she's upset. Tears were slowly leaking out from under her sunglasses. "The bus left without us." She paused. "We were in the right place, Dad!" she yelled, and Red and Blue Shirts took a step back. The Creeper just stood there creepily.
I tuned her out again as a policeman started across the lawn toward us. "Uh oh," I said.
Red Shirt shook his head. "Don' worry. He's talking to him." He pointed a gnarled hand at Creeper.
"Hey," the cop said. He was talking to Creeper. Go figure. "Are you bothering these people?" he asked. "Because I had enough complaints about you yesterday."
Creeper muttered some excuse, and the cop was distracted by Blue Shirt waving him over. The little man explained what had happened, leaving me to just nod along.
"Is there a number you can call?" the cop asked. I handed him my ticket. Liz was flat out yelling now, but I couldn't hear what she was saying. She snapped her phone shut.
"Give me your pen," she said. I handed it over. "Mom found a number," she said as she picked up her ringing phone. Mom, presumably. She was still hiccuping and sobbing as she spoke to her.
The policeman grabbed his radio, handing me my ticket back. He called all the troopers in the area, telling them to be on the lookout for a Greyhound that had left without his passengers.
"Be advised, we have witnesses," he said, winking at me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I excused myself to answer it. Dad.
"Hi, Sarah?" he said, his voice worried. Of course, Sarah. Who else would answer her phone?
"Yeah," I answered.
"What's happening? I was talking to Liz, but I think she lost signal. Or she hung up on me."
I glanced at Liz's face, an interesting shade of red, tears glistening on her cheeks, all the way to her chin. her eyes were furious behind her glasses, and she was saying "fuck" every three words.
"Yeah. She lost signal," I soothed him. I told him what was happening, then hung up, assuring him that we would call when we knew more.
The cop went inside, telling us to stay put until he could figure something out. Like we had a choice? The two old men trundled off, wishing us luck. I had no idea where Creeper had gotten to. Probably had crawled back under his rock.
Liz and I sat on our luggage, and I worked at getting her calmed down. One man asked if she was alright. I shrugged and said, "It's Thursday."
Ten minutes passed, and the cop came back out, waving me over and beaming proudly. "I got it figured out," he said. "They'll hold your bus in Binghamton, and you can take the next bus that goes there, so you can catch your bus to D.C."
Brilliance. I thanked him profusely. And all went as planned. We caught the next bus, having to sit apart because of the modern American's fear of sitting with a stranger.
Liz showed me a text she had sent to her boyfriend. It read: "I have decided that this is not a trip to Florida. It is a trip to the inner circle of Hell. I've already missed a bus, yelled fuck at my father in front of a cop, and had a tantrum. And it's not even noon. xxxxx."
I laughed. So true.
We reached Binghamton with no more excitement, though Liz did have someone tell her that we were beautiful. Unfortunately when we got there, there was no other bus waiting for us. We grabbed our luggage out of the bus's belly and went inside the terminal.
"That bus left," the man at the ticket desk said. "He said that he picked up passengers in town, at the bus stop."
"No he didn't," Liz said.
"He said he stopped and boarded passengers," he said. "You can take the 2:20 bus to D.C. though." The lying bastard bus driver...
And so I'm waiting. Only two more hours to go until the NEW bus arrives.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Dear Dan Gibson...
...Please marry me.
"Get Ready to Loathe No Age by the End of the Week: Maybe Pete Wentz Did Bring the Music Video Back"
Another Friday, another installment of FNMTV starring our pal Pete Wentz. This week, there are mysteriously only three new videos (T.I., No Age, and Day 26) to go with two live performances (Rihanna and Maroon 5 featuring Rihanna). I wondered what effect the program had on the number of videos played on MTV, and there's good and bad news. The good (?) news: MTV is certainly devoting a larger amount of its airtime to music videos. The bad news: I hope you like Boys Like Girls. ...
(Read more here.)
Did I not just say like all of those things last week??
(Picture from Sony BMG or something. Side note: If I were famous, I'd want to have joint birthday parties with Lil Mama!)
Friday, June 20, 2008
Kicks keep getting harder to find
Oh, me. Some days I wonder if I’m really mature enough to be graduating and going off to college next year. But then I remember what college kids are really like and I’m okay.
Today I was tossing around a tennis ball with my sister’s new puppy, Annabelle. (This isn’t her in the picture, but it’s the same breed.) The ball’s gotten kind of muddy and gross, so I tried to figure out how to wash it without:
a) Killing the washing machine
or
b) Letting the dog get a mouthful of soap. Yum.
So I pulled up my ol’ buddy Google and typed in “how to wash tennis ball.” Is this where I went wrong, or was it somewhere earlier in the process? We shall see.
I must say, the tennis players’ forum I stumbled across was most interesting. Apparently, one can wash tennis balls in the washing machine, but the forum educated me on a much greater level. I present the most informative (and highly entertaining) responses:
- “I'd say tolerate the dirty or new balls, washing them is not a good idea IMO.”
- hummer23
- “After washing, the balls may look a bit pale, bald, and even appear to shrink a bit. But the dryer really firms up the bounce nicely….this may lead to knocking the stuffing out of your balls, exploding [upon] impact. So unless you can tolerate exploding balls, may want to just wash your really dirty balls.”
- Ronaldo
- “The structural integrity will only be compromised if the balls are left soaking wet for some time. If they get wet, just leave them out to dry in the open.”
- jonolau
- “I've seen someone brushing his balls :o It wasn't a pretty sight, all the fur was being taken off.”
- carpetgrub
- “After washing and drying my balls, they were a bit fluffy so tried to shave the fuzz off the balls. Ended up with hard bald balls that were tough to handle.”
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Things are shaping up to be pretty odd...
Okay. So. I watched Pete Wentz' new "video" show, FNMTV, which premiered last week. Much like communism, it's good in theory, cruddy in practice.
The live performances (Panic at the Sexy---I mean, Disco---and Snoop Dogg) were pretty good, but I felt misled by the "video" part. I mean, the whole hyped-up promotion said, "MTV is gonna show more videos!" And what does Pete Wentz do? He shows like 4 videos the whole damn hour. And then he shows 10-second clips of Michael Jackson and the Cure. *Yawn.* If these videos "made you who you are" or whatever, then show the whole damn thing!
Pete wasn't a bad host. He had a good connection with the crowd and he's not too hard to look at, but he's so....white. And short. Of all his guests only the Ting Tings weren't taller than him. (But they're English. Less sun means stunted growth, yes/no?) It was pretty amusing watching him try to do some ghetto-type gesturing while Flo Rida stood there smiling like, "Lookit the cute li'l white boy, subconsciously highlighting the fact that I am nearly a foot taller than he is." And why did Pete have to yell everything he said? He had a microphone!
Oh, and he had the Pussycat Dolls on there. Do not even get me started on the freakin' Pussycat Dolls. Yes, let's make all women look like skanks! And let's drool on them too! Yum-yum. At least Flo Rida had a pretty catchy new video/song and a thing about growing up in Miami...which I...didn't watch. Oops. I'm sure it was good, though. Also, the nursery rhyme about the Ting Tings was really cute.
I see that what they are trying to do is give MTV'ers more voice about the videos and crap, but I really could have done without the sorry excuse for a panel discussion. Travis McCoy acted totally strung out and really had nothing more significant to say than "the Pussycat Dolls are hot *Drooly-McDroolerson*" and the one British dude on the end was really obnoxious. I'm still trying to figure out what the purpose of the middle dude with the computer was. Pretty sad stuff.
I was awfully disappointed with the whole program. It left me wanting more, but not in the good sense of the term. More like, "...That's it??" But be careful what you wish for, because now MTV shows like, 5 videos an hour (when there aren't Made reruns--*gag*), complete with video commentary from viewers like you! Now you can dance like PCD or critique the tightness factor of Panic at the Disco's pants. More videos, and more crap too. I really wish they'd do it like VH1 does...a few hours of uninterrupted videos in the morning, no whining bloggers (*coughhypocrite!cough*), no dancing losers, no slurring commentary from sad rappers. Boo, MTV and Pete Wentz, boo.
...but I'll watch tomorrow's episode 'cause Duffy and Lil Wayne are gonna be there.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Lessons Learned
So, while here in Key West for a bit of vacation, I've learned some things about life. I want you to share these experiences with me.
1. If you don't want to be groped, don't go to a drag show. Because Inga will touch you inappropriately, be you lady or man.
2. When going out into tropical sun after living in cloudy NY your entire life, PLEASE, for the love of God, wear sunblock. Preferably SPF 70. Otherwise, you'll burn your ass and not be able to walk properly for a week.
3. The creepers come out at night. If you don't want to be creeped, stay inside.
4. Touching lizards is fun. As long as they're little.
5. Don't have sex with the dead manatees on the beach. They'll arrest you. (Note: I did, in fact, hear referance to this act from one of the locals while avoiding creepers. See lesson 3.)
1. If you don't want to be groped, don't go to a drag show. Because Inga will touch you inappropriately, be you lady or man.
2. When going out into tropical sun after living in cloudy NY your entire life, PLEASE, for the love of God, wear sunblock. Preferably SPF 70. Otherwise, you'll burn your ass and not be able to walk properly for a week.
3. The creepers come out at night. If you don't want to be creeped, stay inside.
4. Touching lizards is fun. As long as they're little.
5. Don't have sex with the dead manatees on the beach. They'll arrest you. (Note: I did, in fact, hear referance to this act from one of the locals while avoiding creepers. See lesson 3.)
So that's how it is in their family.
This is how I'd like to live life.Yeah. There's no rhyme or reason here on this blog, just ranting and randomness.
(Image from nationalgeographic.com .)
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