PONCEY SOCKS

I just found a realisation.

I used to have a wonderfully nice boyfriend, very supportive.
Well, I've had a few wonderfully nice boyfriends..no offense to anyone.
This one wanted to marry me (yes, he was a little crazy).

We were very young. I forced a breakup.
I was his first serious girlfriend. I told him he would
kick himself in the ass in ten years if he married me at the age of twenty.
I didn't think that growing up in the 80's - early 90's
was about marrying your highschool sweetheart.
I did think it was a beautiful notion though.

So we broke up.
I didn't want to marry the guy, yet he was close to my heart.
We'd been living in separate cities for a long time, I always tried to stay in touch.

I visited with him over Christmastime one year.
He had grown his hair long and had taken to wearing it poofy.
He tucked his pants into his socks.
He looked like he wrote the lyrics for the Moody Blues.
Was he dating the early 90's equivalent to Stevie Nicks?
Did he fancy himself mining in a Velvet Goldmine?

I was Shocked...Confused.
There was something Very Wrong with him.
I became worried.

Reports of drug abuse, sexual shenanigans,
petty crimes, or fleas seemed par for the course of a young man's journey.
None of that bothered me about any of my old friends really, I expected it.

Yet those pants tucked into his trousers had me really freaked.

I'm a funny bird, obviously.
Strange girl or not, everyone out there must worry about someone
in their lives in the same way at some point.
I know I certainly went through phases that left
folks shaking their heads, wondering...what the f*ck is she doing?

Living learning growing...
hitting my head against a brick wall just to see how it feels.

CHANGES.

turn and face the strange changes......

CRAP FM

I've made no secret of the fact that the gals
who work downstairs from me listen to Crap Music..
Usually it's the generic CRAP FM station which
plays pop hits, but it's soft pop.
There's none of that Crazy Sum41 crap.
In thier defence I will state that it's
likely generic pop to suit all tastes,
they all prefer different music individually.

Joan Osborne's song about God was just playing.
And I burst out laughing.
This song made her famous.
Yet it's such a dumbass song.

Many thought it a deep song.

"What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us?
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home
Back up to heaven all alone
Nobody callin' on the phone
'Cept for the Pope, maybe, in Rome"
What the hell is that?

Maybe it is good to get those mid-western
Bible bunnies thinking philosophically.
Fine. Does it have to be so mindless?

We are assimilated.

Was she trying to say that God is every one of us?

The Buddha is you.
Now rub your belly and think of the lotus.

GUMP

I saw Legend for the first time last night as told below.

This wee quiz is far too cute.
Which Legend character are you?
I am Gump the Woodland Elf.
Gump was played by German actor David Bennent (who kicked ass in The Tin Drum).
Bennett looks frighteningly similar to Frankie Muniz from Malcolm in the middle.
That messed my head up during the movie.
YIKES.

Ridley's Believe it or Not

In honour of having no voice for two days,
then a cranky crickety voice today,
and no social activity due to my fabulously lame illness...

I went to most hated Blockbuster in search of a great movie treat.
I've been waiting a long time for it.
Have never seen it.
LEGEND

I didn't see it for a long time due to a loathing for Tom Cruise.
Sorry Tom, very mean of me.
Then I thought of my love for Ridley Scott, Tim Curry and of course...
Billy Bardy.
I figured I would just have to believe.

I am such a sucker for the fantasy genre.
Legend was no Willow, or Labrynth, or Dark Crystal for that matter.
It was full of choppy dialogue and other distractions,
but hey...it had Unicorns....and world saving!

This is the story which disappeared from my archive.
I am posting it again out of paranoia and relief to have it back.

I would like to thank Bill, Mr. Skinnyopolis himself, at The Skinny for linking it to the site.
And for his words of praise.
Bill, you are truly lovely!

[2/10/2003 10:28:29 PM | magpie jenkins]
CASUALLY DESTRUCTIVE

My father moved out when I was five. Quality time became visitation. He was my basketball coach in the YMCA league for years. He would take me on a camping or fishing trip every summer.

Dad and I went North with one of his buddies and his strange daugther (who I call Lolita) one year. I suppose Dad thought it may be a good idea to go away with another half-family containing a daughter my age. We flew to a lake, then took a boat to a cabin.We had our Own Lake. We had our own loon (which I still impersonate rather well).

Lolita was a very attractive nymphette in a Lady of Shallot way, a few years older than my nine or ten years. She was experiencing mysteries which my pre-pubescent body had no interest or stomach for. She would giggle over things and then start to pout. It was my first direct exposure to that type of behaviour. I didn't get it. She knew things I couldn't possibly know, yet seemed to daft to teach.

My father and I managed some fishing and day tripping. We would get in the canoe and take off for the day, portaging to secret lakes where it seemed no one else had ever been. I thought it was magic. We'd stumble across the odd rusting "Old Milwakee" beer can. Then puzzled on whether to clean up after our disrespectful brethern or leave the beer cans as some sort of 20th century arrowhead replacement. We'd shake our heads with sadness. We were quiet. My father showed me tracks. We saw moose, deer, a lot of birds. I follwed my father through tall grass in a yellow T-shirt that the deerflies loved but I had to leave on because I always sunburned so badly (still do). We ate our lunch overlooking a lake in the shade of trees. Dad sliced cheese and apples with his buck knife, which I thought was especially cool.

Dad taught me how to use the Coleman lamp, change the wicks. I would knit panels for an afgan in the evenings when I finally consented to be indoors. I braided my long hair and Dad and I would play cards, cribbage. I had a few Lloyd Alexander books with me, I'd read for hours even exhausted and sunburned (crying over the last harp string feeding the fire to keep them all alive). On non-travel days I made birch bark bracelets and mud pies (which were a lot more fun when I was four). I befriended the animals, hoping for something magical to happen. I collected wildflowers for our table. I had a tiara made out of feathers and weeds. I did a lot of swimming. Diving for treasures. There were campfires, but no singing. I did a lot of discovering. I sat on a lot of rocks daydreaming across the lake.

Near the end of our trip my Dad got a little grumpy. His buddy was a bit of a wanker, it was showing. Lolita was bored, seemed horrified having to be stuck with us. I was simply trying to stay under the radar and please everyone.

Dad went to the fridge after an argument with his buddy, who was being a jerk. I stood behind him, knowing that was probably a bad place to be, but unable to resist trying to make my Dad feel better. A milk carton fell off the fridge shelf. It splatted to the ground with a thud-unk.

Bright red carton, pale chalky wet white insides drenching the brittle grey floor. I thought about my body. How I was white outside and red inside. I thought how beautifully the milk spread itself in liquid sheets as if to soothe the broken down slats. Like hair conditioner or something. I was enjoying all the variables.

"Don't just stand there like an idiot. Pick it up."

Shit. Things stopped being beautiful. I froze in fear, then scrambled to compensate. I started to cry. I started to laugh. I ran outside, I knew no one else was in the mood for my joke.

I was crying over spilled milk.

Two pissed -off adults, a Hidden Valley High junkie and a daydreaming milk-staring geek with ratty feathers in her hair.

I knew my Dad felt bad for yelling at me. He didn't mean to scar me for life or anything. From that day on I was extra careful with everything. I tripped much less often than most. I overcompensated. I was a great waiter, cut within the lines, always tried to say the right thing. It wasn't until a few years ago that I decided to let go - I started spilling stuff. Nothing bad happened. I even smashed a few plates to see how it felt. Nothing bad happened. It felt pretty good. My boyfriend calls me casually destructive. I would do silly things. I would attempt to hug him and end up stepping on his toes, poking him in the eye, and tripping him all at once. Making up for lost time, I guess. My inner child is spastic.

The day after the trippy drippy milk scene we packed up the little metal boat to go home to civilisation. Our vessel seemed not deep enough for its width, a motor was attached to its low stern. The boat was packed up pretty good. We took two trips in and were making one trip back. I stood bare foot on the dock thinking things didn't look too safe. I held a braid up to my cheek and scratched the bottom of my foot over my shin. Worried.

"Get in the boat Little Freak."

It doesn't look right

"Just get into the boat, it'll be fine."

Am I crying over spilled milk? Will it be fine? Do I risk yelling and anger?

I got into the boat beside Lolita. She was nervous. She didn't like the water, or boats. She really didn't seem to like much of anything. The whole vacation was probably punishment for her, we certainly hadn't done anything she enjoyed the whole two weeks we were there. Dad sat in the middle of the boat facing me, anxious to get away form this man. I knew he was thinking that the two of us should have gone away together. It would have been quiet, in a good way. Dad's buddy had the tiller. We departed from the dock. I had a piece of the tie off rope in my hand. I liked to dangle the rope in the water, try to make patterns in the wake. This time, I fidgeted with the rope end, nervous. The bow was low. Even I knew that Dad's buddy would have to take it easy. He sped the boat up. I think he was half cut. I watched.

My perspective shifted as I watched, like when you stare at drawings with hidden pictures inside. I saw water rushing over the gunwhale slow-like. I saw the water rushing in. His shoes should be wet by now...doesn't he notice?

"Stop."

"Stop it."

This isn't milk dammit.

"DADDY MAKE HIM STOP"

My Dad turned to see. He waved his arms and yelled "CUT IT. CUT THE MOTOR."
He was using his hand to signal. He was pulling his hand across his throat the way you do when you promise and say "Cross my heart, Hope to die..." He didn't hear. He pretended he didn't know what Dad was talking about. As if it wasn't happening.

We sank.

I dog-paddled. I peeled off my trousers. They were heavy, useless. All of our posessions were sinking slowly to the bottom of the lake. We weren't far from shore, and not close for a weak swimmer. I turned to see my father helping Lolita. The rope I had been fidgeting with a minute ago had wrapped around her leg, she was panicking. My father saved her.

Lolita's Dad was swimming his way to shore without a backward glance. Once again my father was calling out for this man to stop and that screwed up man would not listen. He didn't stop. I realized then that some adults should not be obeyed or respected. I stopped being envious of Lolita, slender and pretty Lady of Shallot. No matter how much milk I spilled, my father would never leave me to drown.

I was a strong swimmer anyway.

I woke up painfully this morning.
Fair enough, considering some people didn't wake up at all today.

I was teary. Could not speak. Very sore throat.
Lucky for me, my fella called into my work for me.

I was a little teary again.
How do I expect to go into work when
I can not speak or even think properly?

I was teary - at how stubborn I can be.
Thankful my body was forcing a rest.

Craziness

Archives gone bonkers.

More disappearing stuff at Blogger...
Did my archives really eat my story?
What happened to the entry dated February 9th, 2003?
Will I ever find out from customer service?
Not bloody likely.

Of course the entry that disappered was linked to another site.
Here my ignorance of all things blog is leaving me foolish.

Foolish is fun.

FISHERMAN'S FRIEND
Not as bad tasting as Buckley's

OLD POEM

I do not know what it is about you that has me wax and wane

pure simple unknown

like moon or stars or anyone

I do not know how you do me into orbiting your throne

LEMON TEA

Today is an odd day for me.
I have a throat problem. It really hurts to speak.
I can barely find my voice.

I'm so happy.

My job is very social. I am on the phone all day with it.
Today, I can get out of all of that and be little miss silent film star.

A break from chatter. Small talk has it's place but
becomes tiring when you do so much of it.

I dream of SILENCE.
I dream in silence.

FAMILIAR PLACES

There are many stray cats in my neighbourhood.
My landlandy's mother takes care of them in a way.
Puts food out at times, and lined a box with some blanket on the porch.

Two cats seem to spend a lot of time under my front stairs.
I put food out for them at times, even though my boyfriend can't stand it.

I was shoveling the front and back of both yards last night
and realised that I was surrounded by familiar's.

They were all darting about, frollicking
Watching me shovel.
When I would stop, they would stop and watch me.

Cat's are weird.

Human nature is developed by profound serenity and lightness,
virtue is developed by harmonious joy and open selflessness.
When externals do not confuse you inwardly,
your nature finds the condition that suits it;
when your nature does not disturb harmony,
virtue rests in its place.

Huai-Nan-Tzi

Closed Book

Here's some bloody romantic poetry
for Valentine's day...you know

Words are too small
It is absurd
Unlike mere words
Look
Words miss marks
Hence metaphor
Or Book
-More words
What we are is
Closed to explanation
Side by sideways and
Words
Mere words
Absurd

David Bowie is my Alien Rock Star Valentine.

When David Bowie's Let's Dance came out,
it was certainly more pop that I could figure.
It was no Lodger, Aladdin Sane or starring role in The Hunger.
It was a big bright yellow suit...or something like that.
He reminded me of
"The Man With The Big Yellow Hat" for some reason.

But I loved it.
I still love it.
All hail the reinventor.

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues

Tomorrow is the day...

The Un Valentine in you will appreciate this.

(Hats off to Miss K for posting the link)

Llongyfarchiadau

You have just tried to read a very long word in Welsh.
Congratulations.

I have been 'boning up' on my Welsh.
I can't tell if I'm saying much properly at all though.

I'm going to have to suck it up and buy tapes or something.
I don't really know anyone who speaks Welsh anymore.
Most people I meet don't even know where Wales is.

PISSED UP JIGGERED

This bit was posted by me somewhere else. I think it's time to share a drunk story here and there...so here it is.

Powerade. Breakfast of Champions.

If you know you'll be getting jiggered ahead of time, eat a good meal (starch) and - plan a lumpy, lumpy day after. Bad movies whilst laying on the couch type thing. This does not remove a hangover, but makes it so much more pleasant. Everyone deserves a good lump day here and there.

Drunk Stories - Strangers? Well, it seems most of my really horribly juicy drunk stories take place with strangers, it seems right to share them with strangers.

30th birth day debacle. Actually too long to tell. Recap? The band played me happy birthday whilst my hammered friend and self were telling each other how much we loved each other whilst we attempting to put our legs over each others shoulders. Thus causing quite an underwear scandal since we were in skirt and sarong. The band were friends trying very hard to not laugh their asses off too hard while most of the other women in the crowd thought we were ho's and glared unreasonably. Like we cared.

Afterward I went to a crazy late night dancing place with the band friends. I was informed that a table of men wanted to speak to me. I innocently approached the table full of stockbrokery types smiling. One man spoke nicely to me. "we heard it was your birthday, have these flowers." They had all been at a wedding rehearsal and were taking the groom out for a party. That was so sweet, aw. I said thank you and turned around. Simultaneously, one of the 'men' at the table made a very shitty comment. I turned, I smiled, I bit my teeth into that bouquet. I spat a gazillion tulip petals at that mook's face and smiled sweetly. Fuck you. I took another bite and spewed bloom on the groom. I walked away slowly. My friends were cheering. I spent a good part of the rest of my time at the Matador puking and meeting nice strangers.

I hooked a ride back to the band's hotel and then realised that I was in a band's room at a hotel and that could be seen as slutty. So I prepared to leave just as one of the members whose nickname was 'cornbread' asked me for a tampon. What? A man asks you for a tampon and there isn't another woman around, you get to wonder. "No man, you can use the wrapper as rolling paper." I handed him some rolling papers and split.

That doesn't beat blacking out at my best friends' wedding or cops trying to beat me in Kentucky or anything...but hey, I enjoyed it!

TIP

If you don't ask you have a definate "NO"
Whereas if you ask,
Yes would be a pleasant surprise.

TIP

If you find yourself in a really deep hole
Stop digging.

CAUGHT MID-RIFF

Catching random bits of things that make me stop and wonder.
A favourite thing of mine.

I was flipping through channels last night.

Everwood.
Which has been called the biggest piece of crap on TV (besides all the total crap on television?)

Quote:"I hate that their eggrolls smell like lasagna "

I stared at the television happily. I hate that too!
I always opt out of eggrolls and go for the spring rolls instead.

Everwood was calling to me. I watched the show.
Treat Williams is still the dude fron HAIR.

CASUALLY DESTRUCTIVE

My father moved out when I was five. Quality time became visitation. He was my basketball coach in the YMCA league for years. He would take me on a camping or fishing trip every summer.

Dad and I went North with one of his buddies and his strange daugther (who I call Lolita) one year. I suppose Dad thought it may be a good idea to go away with another half-family containing a daughter my age. We flew to a lake, then took a boat to a cabin.We had our Own Lake. We had our own loon (which I still impersonate rather well).

Lolita was a very attractive nymphette in a Lady of Shallot way, a few years older than my nine or ten years. She was experiencing mysteries which my pre-pubescent body had no interest or stomach for. She would giggle over things and then start to pout. It was my first direct exposure to that type of behaviour. I didn't get it. She knew things I couldn't possibly know, yet seemed to daft to teach.

My father and I managed some fishing and day tripping. We would get in the canoe and take off for the day, portaging to secret lakes where it seemed no one else had ever been. I thought it was magic. We'd stumble across the odd rusting "Old Milwakee" beer can. Then puzzled on whether to clean up after our disrespectful brethern or leave the beer cans as some sort of 20th century arrowhead replacement. We'd shake our heads with sadness. We were quiet. My father showed me tracks. We saw moose, deer, a lot of birds. I follwed my father through tall grass in a yellow T-shirt that the deerflies loved but I had to leave on because I always sunburned so badly (still do). We ate our lunch overlooking a lake in the shade of trees. Dad sliced cheese and apples with his buck knife, which I thought was especially cool.

Dad taught me how to use the Coleman lamp, change the wicks. I would knit panels for an afgan in the evenings when I finally consented to be indoors. I braided my long hair and Dad and I would play cards, cribbage. I had a few Lloyd Alexander books with me, I'd read for hours even exhausted and sunburned (crying over the last harp string feeding the fire to keep them all alive). On non-travel days I made birch bark bracelets and mud pies (which were a lot more fun when I was four). I befriended the animals, hoping for something magical to happen. I collected wildflowers for our table. I had a tiara made out of feathers and weeds. I did a lot of swimming. Diving for treasures. There were campfires, but no singing. I did a lot of discovering. I sat on a lot of rocks daydreaming across the lake.

Near the end of our trip my Dad got a little grumpy. His buddy was a bit of a wanker, it was showing. Lolita was bored, seemed horrified having to be stuck with us. I was simply trying to stay under the radar and please everyone.

Dad went to the fridge after an argument with his buddy, who was being a jerk. I stood behind him, knowing that was probably a bad place to be, but unable to resist trying to make my Dad feel better. A milk carton fell off the fridge shelf. It splatted to the ground with a thud-unk.

Bright red carton, pale chalky wet white insides drenching the brittle grey floor. I thought about my body. How I was white outside and red inside. I thought how beautifully the milk spread itself in liquid sheets as if to soothe the broken down slats. Like hair conditioner or something. I was enjoying all the variables.

"Don't just stand there like an idiot. Pick it up."

Shit. Things stopped being beautiful. I froze in fear, then scrambled to compensate. I started to cry. I started to laugh. I ran outside, I knew no one else was in the mood for my joke.

I was crying over spilled milk.

Two pissed -off adults, a Hidden Valley High junkie and a daydreaming milk-staring geek with ratty feathers in her hair.

I knew my Dad felt bad for yelling at me. He didn't mean to scar me for life or anything. From that day on I was extra careful with everything. I tripped much less often than most. I overcompensated. I was a great waiter, cut within the lines, always tried to say the right thing. It wasn't until a few years ago that I decided to let go - I started spilling stuff. Nothing bad happened. I even smashed a few plates to see how it felt. Nothing bad happened. It felt pretty good. My boyfriend calls me casually destructive. I would do silly things. I would attempt to hug him and end up stepping on his toes, poking him in the eye, and tripping him all at once. Making up for lost time, I guess. My inner child is spastic.

The day after the trippy drippy milk scene we packed up the little metal boat to go home to civilisation. Our vessel seemed not deep enough for its width, a motor was attached to its low stern. The boat was packed up pretty good. We took two trips in and were making one trip back. I stood bare foot on the dock thinking things didn't look too safe. I held a braid up to my cheek and scratched the bottom of my foot over my shin. Worried.

"Get in the boat Little Freak."

It doesn't look right

"Just get into the boat, it'll be fine."

Am I crying over spilled milk? Will it be fine? Do I risk adults yelling at me and causing a scene?

I got into the boat beside Lolita. She was nervous. She didn't like the water, or boats. She really didn't seem to like much of anything. The whole vacation was probably punishment for her, we certainly hadn't done anything she enjoyed the whole two weeks we were there. Dad sat in the middle of the boat facing me, anxious to get away form this man. I knew he was thinking that the two of us should have gone away together. It would have been quiet, in a good way. Dad's buddy had the tiller. We departed from the dock. I had a piece of the tie off rope in my hand. I liked to dangle the rope in the water, try to make patterns in the wake. This time, I fidgeted with the rope end, nervous. The bow was low. Even I knew that Dad's buddy would have to take it easy. He sped the boat up. I think he was half cut. I watched.

My perspective shifted as I watched, like when you stare at drawings with hidden pictures inside. I saw water rushing over the gunwhale slow-like. I saw the water rushing in. His shoes should be wet by now...doesn't he notice?

"Stop."

"Stop."

This isn't milk dammit.

"DADDY MAKE HIM STOP"

My Dad turned to see. He waved his arms and yelled "CUT IT. CUT THE MOTOR."
He was using his hand to signal. He was pulling his hand across his throat the way you do when you promise and say "Cross my heart, Hope to die..." He didn't hear. He pretended he didn't know what Dad was talking about. As if it wasn't happening.

We sank.

I dog-paddled. I peeled off my trousers. They were heavy, useless. All of our posessions were sinking slowly to the bottom of the lake. We weren't far from shore, and not close for a weak swimmer. I turned to see my father helping Lolita. The rope I had been fidgeting with a minute ago had wrapped around her leg, she was panicking. My father saved her.

Lolita's Dad was swimming his way to shore without a backward glance. Once again my father was calling out for this man to stop and that screwed up man would not listen. He didn't stop. I realized then that some adults should not be obeyed or respected. I stopped being envious of Lolita, slender and pretty Lady of Shallot. No matter how much milk I spilled, my father would never leave me to drown.

I was a strong swimmer anyway.

Getting Personal

Alot of what I blog about is commentary.
It isn't often very personal or even particularly deep.
I haven't avoided that type of content consciously.
It's just personal.
When you air personal things you can often leave your attendees feeling imposed upon.
Of course there are those who live for these things exactly, poised at the edge of their seats craving filler.
There are those who sagely think upon it and idenitfy or disect. Whatever.

If you hold my heart up to the light you can see a lacey pattern made from all the holes in it.
An accquaintance of mine once told me he didn't buy my fabulous attitude. I was far too perky and positive to be not faking it. I thought, "how about...f*ck you?" It wasn't until a long time later that I told him a few things about my life. He then understood me better. I was resentful for having to explain that I'd earned my good attitude. Sometimes people assume that happy folks have never been through anything. I'm not certain that's the case. Birth, death, rebirth. Coping skills. I am not interested in a competition to see who is the most jaded, who has been through the worst, who deserves more pity, understanding or respect. We all deserve these things in degrees. The important thing is that we are all here to get through this thing called life (quoting Prince on purpose, yes).

I used to feel powerless, alienated, insecure.
I have had my fill.

I came.
I saw.
I left.

I changed. I no longer cared about judgement, so long as I was true to myself. I suddenly fit in easily. I let much of the past go. I wasn't worried about silly things. I stopped trying to blend in with the supposedly normal. I became lighter. I could give more. I came to enjoy myself. I was much stronger and healthier than I even knew. I wouldn't settle. I haven't settled. And I am pretty f*cking happy, thank you very much. There is always work to be done. There is always something to acknowledge within, something to shed, something to feed. It's about facing those things and allowing myself non-judgement and acceptance. It sounds like hippy shit, and maybe it is - but it certainly works for me.

If you're bored
You're boring

That's an observation I made years ago.
I was sitting around bored.

When I am bored.
I see that it is my doing.
sometimes it's very good to be boring.

Freak Girl

I'll take painkillers for cramps,
but I won't take them for a headache usually.

Sometimes I think I'm a real
little nutter.

Two litres of water and a chocolate bar later,
I stilll have a headache.

Time to take a pill.

Sad Observation

I realise that I have become a slave (finally)
to my 9-6, Monday to Friday life.

Work used to be a thing that I did between
having fun and being groovy.

Work is now a carreer.
I behave throughout the week,
so that I can be fresh for work.

I look forward to Saturday mornings in a ridiculous way.
It's embarassing.

I've become one of those people,
daydreaming about the week off they get in July.
I am no longer the girl who takes the summer off
to fart around making jewelry and chasing bands.
I'm still me and everything, I'm just domesticated.

I miss roaming, yet I like this newfound stable thing.
Wierd.

She comes in colours everywhere
She combs her hair
She's a Rainbow

I suppose most who know me know
that I am anti-label.
I am anti-popular things.
I am anti-establisment (hee).

I am disgusted and frightened by our
North American mentality.

I now realise that
I am So Pro Painkillers.
Thank you Universe, for painkillers.

I'm talking about gurlie cramps.
I'm talking about
"you'd better shut up if you've never had it 'cause I'll smack you"
pain and nausea.

If I didn't take 2 apo mefenamic acid tablets
a few hours ago, I would be at home
curled up in a ball, crying and trying
to push the hot water bottle far enough
into my stomach to change the pain somehow

I know how
horrid I'd feel if I hadn't taken
those two little pills.
Now I feel very happy.

Don't worry, I'm not driving anywhere.

LOVE PHILOSOPHY

I forgot to post
that my boyfriend knows all
the words to The Philosopher's Song.
The first time I heard him sing it,
I was very, very impressed.

Years later, the man
still manages to impress
me with hidden
skills and knowlegde
at unexpected times.

He's really great.

You'd better not f*ck up
Valentine's Day again though Buddy.

*Snort*

How I feel

Change, time, place
light, thought, space
I take little happy sips
Swish my bicycle hips

It's really fun to work at a laid back office.

"Hi, this is Freakgirl from Spew,
I am Very Professional and Competent.
You owe my client fifteen thousand dollars
which he worked very hard for,
could you please pay it?
Oh no...that's not a Dog barking,
I think it's just someone coughing.
Singing? Someone singing Prince's
"Raspberry Beret" really loudly?
Oh yeah...sorry. My co-workers like to
burst into song whenever
the mood strikes them.
Yeah, we're ummmm...artsy? "

It's better than being a wanker.

PHILOSOPHER'S SONG

Whenever I Need Inspiration...
I just hum a little bit of this

Immanuel Kant was a real pissant
Who was very rarely stable,
Heidegger, Heidegger was boozy beggar
Who could think you under the table,

David Hume could out-consume
Wilhelm Freidrich Hegel.
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
Who was just as schloshed as Schlegel.

There's nothing Nietzche couldn't teach ya
'Bout the raising of the wrist,
Socrates, himself, was
permanently pissed.

John Stuart Mill, of his own free will,
On half a pint of shandy was particularly ill,
Plato, they say, could stick it away,
Half a crate of whisky every day.

Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle,
Hobbes was fond of his dram,
And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart,
"I drink, therefore I am."

Yes, Socrates, himself, is
particularly missed,
A lovely little thinker,
But a bugger when he's pissed.


Thank you, luverly men of Monty Python

This is not about my sex life

I was just out at the mailbox across from work.
I was walking back to the office and a straight laced
man in a BMW beamer type car was parking nearby.

I was crossing the street diagonally.
He climbed out of his repulsomobile.
I saw the keychain remote mechanism.
He was going to press a button and make
that damn "coo-cheek" sound I dislike so much.

I willed the sound away as he pressed the button down.

It worked.
No beepy "coo-cheek" noise.

The only sound I heard was that of
a shocked yuppy
murmering disbelief.

Yeah Buddy, your gizmo didn't work.
You're going to have to do it manually!
Oh, The Horror......

Loose Semantics

I've never really gotten the term "Spitting Image."
Does that mean it's so good that you want to spit on it?

What is that about?

Then I thought it may be "Splitting Image."
So close you would have to split hairs over which was which.

Doesn't that make better sense?
It did at twelve and it still does at this advanced age.

Looking it up will of course ruin it all,
but I think I must in the name of "intellectual growth."

IRE

My boss decided on an impromptu
"where this branch of the company is going"
meeting today.

Contrary to my sweet nature
this pissed me off.

How about strategically planning a meeting
with a tactic involving respect?

It would be different if he wanted to chat.
About things and stuff and how's that going?

He got all creative in his head and wanted to spew
about things he hadn't though out and
were therefore illogical.

I feel better for venting.
My boss is an all right guy.

I'm still all pissy though.

Rarh!

The end of January was
well celebrated Friday night.
We hit the ROM with some friends.
Went for some kick ass Vietnamese food.

We bid our friends adeiu and got some Greg's Ice Cream.
Strolled down Bloor Street in a leisurely fashion,
with our coats undone, eating ice cream.

We watched a lot of stylin folks doing the
Friday Night Scramble.
On their way to trouble, fun, intrigue, culture even....
Entertain us.
Who knows?

It was some damn fine ice cream.