Actually, this wasn't really a letter. It would have been a letter, if I weren't such a lazy shit.
And this isn't really a blog, either, but since Ian is one of the people clamoring for me to blog moar, then this will have to do until I write a real blog.
Dear Ian,
A couple nights ago, I had a dream I was sitting at my living room desk writing a letter to you, very much like this one, except with more small talk.
As I wrote, I felt something moving in my arm. I poked at the movement with the end of my pen, and noticed a knob moving just beneath the surface of my skin. I prodded and squeezed it further, and a luminous green bulb emerged. I pulled at it, and another spherical segment followed, and then another. I deduced it to be some kind of worm. I pulled it out by wrapping it around my pencil. It was about three feet long, I thought. I would have measured the thing, but the segments would disconnect and float into the air, sometimes individually, sometimes in groups of three or four. They greww brighter as they hung in the air, then expanded and popped, with a flatulent little pfrtht noise.
After I had pulled the worm out entirely, I noticed my arm was covered with small purple abrasions. They didn't hurt, and apeared to be several days healed, as they were rough to the touch. None of them were near the site from whence the green thing emerged, but I was certain the two were related.
Not sure what the dream meant. Probably that I'm a lesbian.
Yours in Christ,
Damn Special Olympic E$%@ K@$*%!, Midwestern Division
As I was walking home from work this morning, heavy of head and foot, I noticed some scraps of notebook paper sticking out of the snow. Curiosity drew me to examine more closely, and, seeing that there were pencil marks on the paper, I gingerly lifted it from the damp place it had been carelessly dropped. I saw right away it was no jejune mash note, no girlish letter proclaiming empty threats of ass-kicking and bitch cutting. No, as I leafed ever more anxiously through the pages, I found myself drawn into a gripping tale fraught with betrayal,pathos and tragedy, a tale that through its raw simplicity cuts to very core of the human condition. My hands trembled, and not from the cold. I raced home, gingerly bearing home the damp and curling pages, knowing that this was a thing that had to be preserved for the ages. I regret only that we have no way of knowing what fathomless soul put Ticonderoga to paper to sear such a masterpiece into my consciousness.
You, my dear and gentle readers are the first people to see this besides the Artist and myself. And fortunate you are!
I give you:
DUDE PUSHING ANOTHER DUDE OFF A LEDGE
The action begins with the Push, as all actions do. Our protagonist already knows he is in danger, as if he knew all along his friend would turn on him. I see parallels to God casting Lucifer from heaven. His arms, now moving more frantically, appear to be wings. Of an angel? Perhaps. What does The Betrayer hold in his murderous hand? Is it a halo? A crown of thorns? Or simply some vulgar earthly treasure that has clouded his mind with avarice, thus leading him to his vile actions? Here, the antagonist is headless, as his bloodlust has rendered him senseless. The victim falls, still faceless to us. As he becomes fully cognizant of his plight, he cries out. His eyes widen in alarm. He cries out louder, for help, though he knows, there are none who can help him now. He attempts to bargain, should God or Devil hear him and make a deal to spare his life. Yet he knows he is not heard - he is truly alone now, more alive and present than he has ever been in these, his last moments. This reality overtakes him. His life flashes before his eyes. He is measured, and found wanting. As he falls, he comes closer to us. We can read every line in his face, now. And we know him His terror is ours. His face is the face of us all. As he falls toward us, his scream swallows us whole.
Just started it. It's not that I don't love you, I just haven't been into Myspace, so much, for some reason. Which is good, because Myspace is a heap of suck and annoyance, but also bad, because I don't want you to take it personally.
No really, you're cool. I guess having an offsite blog seems a bit more spontaneous and personal. More like I can just throw something up without thinking too much. Like a hairball.
To celebrate the release of the iPhone...
Current mood: discontent
Category: Web, HTML, Tech
... which I actually don't give a shit about.
"But... but... how is that possible?" you cry. "Obviously, this is, like, the coolest thing evar! You can do so much stuff with it! Like surf the web, and take pictures, and it's an IPHONE!"
Well, I can surf the web, take pictures and videos, and even call people with the phone I got for three dollars, too.
Probably sucks.
And, c'mon. I had an iPod. It worked for a year, and then it wouldn't play anything but Tom Waits. Then it wouldn't turn off. And then it was an expensive dead thing*. When my phone dies, it will be a three dollar dead thing. Plus, the all-touchscreeen interface kind of squicks me out, because I depend on touch to dial properly. I have a thing about being unable to dial phones in dreams, and the touchscreen-no-key thing is another thing for me to have nightmares about.
ANYWAY... I told you I didn't care. And I don't. All of this is an elaborate ruse, so I can present you with this morning's Hangover Theater Feature:
So Dabi is doing this thing with the questions and the asking and answering and other people asking to be asked questions to answer, and I wanted to see what he would ask, so I said, "Yes, I will do this thing."
"Since you asked to be asked, I'm asking:"
1. So what does "Frumiousbandersnatch" mean? Is that a pet name for your hoohah? Also, what's up with the "Damn Special Secret Agent of..." name?
"Frumiousbandersnatch" is from Lewis Carrol's "Jabberwocky."
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimbol in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome raths outgrabe
Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite! The claws that catch!
Beware the jub-jub bird and shun
The frumious bandersnatch!
The Damn Special Secret Agent of... handle was originally Damn Special Secret Agent of God, which came from a comic in a compilation I read years ago. I don't remember much about it, except ther was a jester puppet saying "I'm a damn special secret agent... of God." I found the image with the words to be both hilarious and oddly touching, so it stuck in my mind. I needed to call myself something besides Bill O'Reilly's Prolapsed Rectum, since that just wasn't ladylike.
2. Tell us one thing about yourself you may think will be shocking to us if you reveal it. Like, for example, you harbor escaped criminals, or you don't recycle.
I am thirty five years old and I cannot drive a car. I have never had a driver's license. In fact, up until last year, I had never purchased gasoline. Sure, I've given up gas money on many occasions, but me actually purchasing gas was so odd that the bank called me up to make sure someone else wasn't using my card.
I know that's not terribly shocking to some, but this is America, and not driving is kind of an abomination.
3. Is there a cartoon/fad/toy from your childhood you wish would make a comeback?
Those little cartoon public service announcements and educational spots they showed during cartoons.
Like the awesome Schoolhouse Rock:
Or Time for Timer:
Who doesn't hanker for a hunk of cheese? Really?
4. If I were to ask your friends and family to describe you in one word, what would that word be?
They would probably say "creative" or "funny" if I were in the room. If not they would say "she's..... interesting" and kind of look off to the side.
5. You like beer. I like beer. I'm a Pabst Blue Ribbon man. If you had to kill a cross-dressing encyclopedia salesman with your bare hands to earn a six-pack of your favorite beer, what would that beer be? And why would I like that beer?
If I had to kill a cross dressing encyclopedia salesman with my bare hands, don't you think I'd be too busy violating the corpse to drink beer?
But seriously, I think my favorite was Pike's Pale Ale. As a PBR man, you would probably apprecitate its light, not too bitter flavor. Celis Grand Cru would also be worth the effort; made in Austin Texas by Belgian brewmasters, I think you would appreciate its somewhat sweet, complex flavor and its ability to knock you on your ass without you even realizing what was happening. I don't know if either of these beers are even made anymore, sadly.
Don't forget to post your answers in a blog, and to include the guidelines:
THE GUIDELINES:
1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
When I walked into my bathroom yesterday morning, a very odd thing indeed was standing there to greet me.
Naturally, I was a little disturbed by this. When one thinks of normal towel behavior, "standing around the bathroom like it owns the place" is not really something that is done.
It really did have a bit of an attitude, too. An air of menace that even the bright winter sunlight filtering through the shower curtain could not supress. It stood there all damn day, glowering out the door. Have you ever been glowered at by a towel? It's not nice.
To assure you that the towel is, in fact, standing completely on its own power, I've provided a rear and aerial view.
Why is it standing there? What does it want? If my towel is getting uppity, will other inanimate domestic objects join it in rebellion?
Archaeologists in Italy believe they have discovered an example of eternal love after the discovery of two skeletons buried between 5,000 and 6,000 years ago, hugging each other.
Elena Menotti, who led the team on its dig near the northern city of Mantova, described the find as "an extraordinary case".
"There has not been a double burial found in the Neolithic period, much less two people hugging, and they really are hugging," she said.
As many of you probably know by now, James Brown died this morning. I'm not going to write anything about him here; eulogies are not my strong suit. Instead, I suggest that when each of you have a chance, you all have a private dance party in his honor.
quiet
catalyzed
drained
discontent
bouncy
uncomfortable
