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.

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.

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.

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...

Self-explanatory.

"Ashtree" (9:56:47 PM): that is my favorite picture of John McCain

"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"

"Sarah" (9:57:43 PM): LOL

~
Picture from http://harryallen.info/wp-content/uploads/2008/04/john-mccain2.jpg

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.

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.

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!)