I asked Jaccob what would be his one Celebrity fuck. I was
honest-to-God curious. He said, "Only one?" in a whiny voice. Then he
narrowed it down to two, which were Emma Watson and Emma Stone.
I told him, "Wow, we have different opinions."
"How?"
"I'm
going for older, like Frank Sinatra. Or, uh, George Orwell." Then I
stopped and bit my lip, "Could you imagine him just reading his drafts
to you? Oh God, Sinatra would be wonderful in bed. He could sing to you
afterward."
Then I realized, one, that I am turning to a freaky
girl. And, two, that I couldn't narrow to one either. I just want what I
want.
I am so happy right now. Don't ask me why. No, it's not drugs due to popular belief. I am just naturally full of dopamine and serotonin.
Should I list the little things in life that make it good?
1. My target dog came in from a couple of posts ago. It's so fucking adorable and the sweater is detachable.
2. Hung out with Amanda today and we had cookies. Always a good day with cookies. Which reminds me...
3. Got to eat cookies. Soft and moist cookies of different flavors.
4. My hair is super soft this fine evening.
5. I was actually enjoying The Voice tonight. Which is very fucking surprising.
6. Finally remembered to buy some cream cheese for my crackers. A FEAST OF A SNACK IS TOMORROW.
Knitting on Friday with Becky and Fallon was great. Becky brought her baby which wouldn't let go of a skein of yarn I had. She put her small fingers in it and even hugged it while rubbing her face against it, laughing. So, I'm going to knit her a gothic lace baby blanket.
Wish me luck.
So a couple of funny things have happened.
In Hobby Lobby today with Amanda, I spotted metal decorations. Within the aisle I spotted an outline of a keyblade. Of course it wasn't frantically nodding toward Kingdom Hearts. But it is almost like the silver version of Mickey's pimpin' golden keyblade.
In an alternate reality version of the game, the "Zora" character would've pawned the fucking thing or sold the gold to make a few hundreds to spend on paupo fruit. Lick each one and put it on Kairi's doorstep. So when she goes to eat one and thinks of Riku, she'll inadvertently fall for "Zora" because his DNA was slobbered on there. I wonder if Riku would have then been the protagonist instead of the antagonistic.
I was watching a train. Clearly written graffiti on the side read, "I fucking hate Mormons."
Man, did they want that known or what?
Ever since I've moved out, I miss my animals dearly. My lord, every time I see Molly or Princess I want to cry. Now, the new one, Muffy, we're still learning each other so there's always apprehension. Even from a cat. Which is a different feeling from a human. It's more of a, "WHY CAN'T THIS BEAST SENSE HOW MUCH OF A GREAT PERSON I AM?!"
She loves our hamper though, she moves the small, wiry thing with her paws into the kitchen, near the box she likes to chill in.
Alan's birthday was Monday. He turned 03. Wait, that joke doesn't until next year. Silly me. He's thirty years young and looks only twenty-nine. Good job, man! When you hit seventy, looking sixty-nine will bring in all the ladies. You need to find John from The Green Mile. Brought long-lasting and well-received life into a couple of mammals. Cured all aliments. Maybe he could cure your smart-ass mouth. It's getting bad, man.
So, Jaccob is all about hating symbolism because a person can look too far in it. Yet, I try to explain that that's the point of art. Draw anything you want. Look at the Bible.
But I was just thinking that John, from The Green Mile, represented the Fountain of Youth and what society would eventually do: drain it of its power, whether through corruption or overuse. And please don't bring that stupid, piece of shit vampire movie that sucked ass.
T-TH-THAT'S ALL, FOLKS.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
How Grief Changes One Person
WARNING: This post is completely depressing and will ruin your mood.
People have this generalized misconception that grief is like what it is in the movies. No one falls over each other or has a epiphany within the first month of said death. No. When I found out my father died at 2:25PM on November 21, 2012, I was stunned. The first thing I did was look at my family. My "grandparents," my cousins, my aunt (who watched her brother die), and my cousin who I think of as an Uncle (who also held my father as he took his last breath). My mom put her hands over her mouth and my sister's face turned so red that I didn't think she was breathing.
Someone said, "Oh God, oh no," and I continued to listen to the awkward nurse who was training someone that day. The someone silently stood behind him, with such a blank face that she could've been mistaken for a mannequin.
My father was a strong man who never believed in hospitals. They always treated him with utmost care since he was born with a heart defect called Tetralogy of Fallot. He didn't like the attention where they gathered every intern to hear his heart. It sounded so strained. I remember as a little girl seeing his chest vibrate with each heartbeat, or hearing it in a quiet room. He always said to not worry about it, that he would live to be an old man and escape from the home I would put him in and be at my breakfast table, ready to eat. Even the page said most people die around the age of twenty. My father lived to be 42-years-old. His whole life the doctors said he wouldn't live until he was five, or seventeen, or twenty-six. He made it to my twenty-third year.
And we waited. We waited for up to an hour so the coroner could, by tradition and law, tell the hospital that he was definitely dead. During that hour I took to being out of my family's sight. I went to the empty rooms around our quiet, little area. I picked up streets of different problems that the ER uses (I thought about stealing some). I looked through the see-through fridge that held medicine. I spun around in nearby chairs. My aunt came out once and said I didn't have to be like my father, I didn't have to be the strong one. I couldn't cry. I refused (which causes major sinus problems for the next month and headaches that crippled me some nights). I couldn't let my mother worry about one more thing. She, too, was holding herself together, trying to calm my sister whose face was still blood red.
My uncle came to sit next to me to tell me, too, that I didn't have to be strong like my father -- that no one would care if I cried. He cried. My entire family cried. I didn't. Sure, a few tears fell, but I cursed myself for them. In some strange way I felt my dad and I didn't want him to think I was weak, despite the death. My dad had always been on me for crying, just me. I guess I was the closest thing to a son he had. He always tried for me to fish, play chess, card games, work on cars, or weed eat as he mowed. I always said no. I didn't want to spend time with him. I was a spoiled little bitch who never got what real love was, or what it means to a person to be there for them. I never got my dad was trying later in life. We didn't get along for some of my life, but he was trying in his last few years and I couldn't pull myself together to see it. I regret that. I don't even remember the last "I love you," we said to each other. Not at all. I try to remember, but I just end up crying.
We were still waiting. All I did was wait at the hospital. They give you so much time to think which is horrible. Simple things are torture. I waited for the ambulance to arrive when I heard the news, with no information where the fucking thing was. No one knew. They all thought I was crazy trying to rush out words, but being calmly polite at the same time. All the nurses did was stare at me as I took a seat in the waiting room, hearing cars and other ambulances. I waited for ten minutes alone, watching fat fucks stuff their faces with more candy than their stomachs could hold, Ricki Lake in the background with more white trash. All of this was staring at me, wondering what I was doing there.
Not until my "grandparents" showed up did someone wait for me. But we said nothing to each other. I knew he was dead the moment my mom called me crying that he collapsed at work. I couldn't get anything from my aunt. Her phone was either busy or she was crying too hard to understand.
When the ambulance finally arrived with my father's already dead body, did the nurses start to care for me, and their stares turned to pity.
We were all still quiet and still thinking as I tinkered around the small place, trying to pull myself together for my family in case my mom couldn't handle it all. But she did. She spoke about his heart condition, she talked to the coroner, and she took care of all the paperwork, despite her husband of twenty-three years being dead. I've never been more proud of my mother than I have ever been in my life.
The walk to the room where his body laid was long and the stares of all our red faces were being judged it felt like. Every single person looked up. Every single person turned their normally happy expressions to the mannequin look the in-training nurse had. I walked ahead of everyone, to see the blow first in case I needed to warn my mother. And I had to too. I walked to the room and the awkward nurse pulled back the blue curtain and there was my father. Slightly reclined on an unpleasant table with the tissue paper, with the table, and stainless still glinting in the poor lighting surrounding him. He was pale, his lips a stronger blue than they normally were. His hands were over the cover they had on him, palm facing up to the sky. He was limp and slightly slack-jawed, since he couldn't keep his mouth closed anymore.
I stepped back and told my mother in a very serious tone, "Prepare yourself."
Everyone stopped walking at my words, hesitating for the worst. But then my mom and sister stepped up and my sister took one look and had to sit outside of the room. The mannequin nurse got her a chair. I held her head against my stomach until she stopped shaking. Then we both went inside the room, my father's body still waiting and she cried against mom.
Mom had a brown bag, breathing into it as she stared down at him. Around his mouth was bruised from the breathing tubes and mask. He didn't have on his shirt (they ripped it off, trying to save him at the job site). I saw my mom put a hand where his heart should be and the words slip from her mouth very quietly, "I don't know what I'm gonna do; I've been with him for so long."
I glanced at her and moved to the other side of the bed, spotting all his personal items in a plastic bag on the counter. I took it. Just grabbed it. Didn't ask if I should. His boots, belt, nasal spray, knife, wallet, keys, and his hat. He always loved hats. I have his dark green fedora now. I still don't know where his straw hat he used for mowing is. I think my mother packed it away with the rest of his clothes. I sat down on the bench to his right. I sat there awkwardly with my bag of his things, the last of what he wore. His boots were so heavy. He always complained about his feet hurting.
I stared at him, trying to not look at my mom and sister who were crying and holding one another, so I took his hand. I thought it would be the right thing to do, to touch him like I never did when he was alive. I was always afraid of my father. Although he was only a couple of inches taller than I, he was still a very strong man. He was intimidating. I guess I was afraid of him in some ways. But whenever I had touched him, cuddling against him as a child, or sitting next to him at home, I could feel his body heat. It would make me sweat or move seats. He always just said, "I run hot." But his hand, as soon as I touched it, was cold. Like he was out shoveling snow without gloves.
I didn't let go, but looked at his face, wondering if he'd open his eyes or close his mouth. Nothing happened. I adjusted the bag of his items on my lap and took my other hand to his wrist. Cold. I moved it up to his elbow, and it was slightly warm. His heat was receding. I could almost see it start to retreat from his hands, trying to keep, maybe, his heart still warm.
That moment changed my life. I think about it when I'm alone. I think about it at night before I go to sleep. I think about it at work, on the toilet, in the shower, fixing food. My father's dead body just slackened in the reclined seat. It was traumatizing in a sense that's hard to explain. Yes, I can still function, but it sparked something in my head. It told me to grow up; it told me to live life; and it told me that, one day, that will be me.
I did tell my father that I loved him that day, when my mom and sister left the room and I was finally alone. I told him I was sorry. What else could I say? I wanted him to hear, in some atheist way, that he was my father, despite what we had been through.
Since he died I've had trouble sleeping alone. I think of everything I never got to do. I think of the tiny box his ashes are in. That strong man that intimidated me, who scared me, was in a small white box. Nothing else in my life mattered at that point. Still doesn't. I try to have anything that bothers put in that box. Sometimes it works, but I still can't stop caring about being alone, about not saying "I love you," about now showing how much I care for a person.
I tried putting my control issues in that box, but it just keeps getting worse.
I tried putting past relationships in that box, but they're like a slap in the fucking face.
I tried putting friends who don't understand in that box, but they're so fucking loud.
Although he changed me, even in his death, I am still the same. His death disarrayed who I was. Now, four months later, I'm trying to put myself back together, one piece at a time. I don't know who I am now. My identity has changed. My moods fluctuate at a tortuous level. I just see things in a more enlightened view. That girl that I was on the twentieth of November died with my father. Now I'm a woman and I'm trying to find my niche in life just so I can function again.
And figuring out who you are again takes patience, not only from myself, but others. I'm shifting through my childhood, through his stories, and through adulthood. He always tried to make me the person I am now, so I'm shifting through that guilt too.
All I want to conclude is that I'm no longer the same.
I'm sure everyone has seen the slightest difference in me although I try not to show it.
That's all I want to say. I could say more about how I missed him, now I miss his body, but this is too long already. I just want people to know that four months isn't enough. Four months is nothing on that life scale.
People have this generalized misconception that grief is like what it is in the movies. No one falls over each other or has a epiphany within the first month of said death. No. When I found out my father died at 2:25PM on November 21, 2012, I was stunned. The first thing I did was look at my family. My "grandparents," my cousins, my aunt (who watched her brother die), and my cousin who I think of as an Uncle (who also held my father as he took his last breath). My mom put her hands over her mouth and my sister's face turned so red that I didn't think she was breathing.
Someone said, "Oh God, oh no," and I continued to listen to the awkward nurse who was training someone that day. The someone silently stood behind him, with such a blank face that she could've been mistaken for a mannequin.
My father was a strong man who never believed in hospitals. They always treated him with utmost care since he was born with a heart defect called Tetralogy of Fallot. He didn't like the attention where they gathered every intern to hear his heart. It sounded so strained. I remember as a little girl seeing his chest vibrate with each heartbeat, or hearing it in a quiet room. He always said to not worry about it, that he would live to be an old man and escape from the home I would put him in and be at my breakfast table, ready to eat. Even the page said most people die around the age of twenty. My father lived to be 42-years-old. His whole life the doctors said he wouldn't live until he was five, or seventeen, or twenty-six. He made it to my twenty-third year.
And we waited. We waited for up to an hour so the coroner could, by tradition and law, tell the hospital that he was definitely dead. During that hour I took to being out of my family's sight. I went to the empty rooms around our quiet, little area. I picked up streets of different problems that the ER uses (I thought about stealing some). I looked through the see-through fridge that held medicine. I spun around in nearby chairs. My aunt came out once and said I didn't have to be like my father, I didn't have to be the strong one. I couldn't cry. I refused (which causes major sinus problems for the next month and headaches that crippled me some nights). I couldn't let my mother worry about one more thing. She, too, was holding herself together, trying to calm my sister whose face was still blood red.
My uncle came to sit next to me to tell me, too, that I didn't have to be strong like my father -- that no one would care if I cried. He cried. My entire family cried. I didn't. Sure, a few tears fell, but I cursed myself for them. In some strange way I felt my dad and I didn't want him to think I was weak, despite the death. My dad had always been on me for crying, just me. I guess I was the closest thing to a son he had. He always tried for me to fish, play chess, card games, work on cars, or weed eat as he mowed. I always said no. I didn't want to spend time with him. I was a spoiled little bitch who never got what real love was, or what it means to a person to be there for them. I never got my dad was trying later in life. We didn't get along for some of my life, but he was trying in his last few years and I couldn't pull myself together to see it. I regret that. I don't even remember the last "I love you," we said to each other. Not at all. I try to remember, but I just end up crying.
We were still waiting. All I did was wait at the hospital. They give you so much time to think which is horrible. Simple things are torture. I waited for the ambulance to arrive when I heard the news, with no information where the fucking thing was. No one knew. They all thought I was crazy trying to rush out words, but being calmly polite at the same time. All the nurses did was stare at me as I took a seat in the waiting room, hearing cars and other ambulances. I waited for ten minutes alone, watching fat fucks stuff their faces with more candy than their stomachs could hold, Ricki Lake in the background with more white trash. All of this was staring at me, wondering what I was doing there.
Not until my "grandparents" showed up did someone wait for me. But we said nothing to each other. I knew he was dead the moment my mom called me crying that he collapsed at work. I couldn't get anything from my aunt. Her phone was either busy or she was crying too hard to understand.
When the ambulance finally arrived with my father's already dead body, did the nurses start to care for me, and their stares turned to pity.
We were all still quiet and still thinking as I tinkered around the small place, trying to pull myself together for my family in case my mom couldn't handle it all. But she did. She spoke about his heart condition, she talked to the coroner, and she took care of all the paperwork, despite her husband of twenty-three years being dead. I've never been more proud of my mother than I have ever been in my life.
The walk to the room where his body laid was long and the stares of all our red faces were being judged it felt like. Every single person looked up. Every single person turned their normally happy expressions to the mannequin look the in-training nurse had. I walked ahead of everyone, to see the blow first in case I needed to warn my mother. And I had to too. I walked to the room and the awkward nurse pulled back the blue curtain and there was my father. Slightly reclined on an unpleasant table with the tissue paper, with the table, and stainless still glinting in the poor lighting surrounding him. He was pale, his lips a stronger blue than they normally were. His hands were over the cover they had on him, palm facing up to the sky. He was limp and slightly slack-jawed, since he couldn't keep his mouth closed anymore.
I stepped back and told my mother in a very serious tone, "Prepare yourself."
Everyone stopped walking at my words, hesitating for the worst. But then my mom and sister stepped up and my sister took one look and had to sit outside of the room. The mannequin nurse got her a chair. I held her head against my stomach until she stopped shaking. Then we both went inside the room, my father's body still waiting and she cried against mom.
Mom had a brown bag, breathing into it as she stared down at him. Around his mouth was bruised from the breathing tubes and mask. He didn't have on his shirt (they ripped it off, trying to save him at the job site). I saw my mom put a hand where his heart should be and the words slip from her mouth very quietly, "I don't know what I'm gonna do; I've been with him for so long."
I glanced at her and moved to the other side of the bed, spotting all his personal items in a plastic bag on the counter. I took it. Just grabbed it. Didn't ask if I should. His boots, belt, nasal spray, knife, wallet, keys, and his hat. He always loved hats. I have his dark green fedora now. I still don't know where his straw hat he used for mowing is. I think my mother packed it away with the rest of his clothes. I sat down on the bench to his right. I sat there awkwardly with my bag of his things, the last of what he wore. His boots were so heavy. He always complained about his feet hurting.
I stared at him, trying to not look at my mom and sister who were crying and holding one another, so I took his hand. I thought it would be the right thing to do, to touch him like I never did when he was alive. I was always afraid of my father. Although he was only a couple of inches taller than I, he was still a very strong man. He was intimidating. I guess I was afraid of him in some ways. But whenever I had touched him, cuddling against him as a child, or sitting next to him at home, I could feel his body heat. It would make me sweat or move seats. He always just said, "I run hot." But his hand, as soon as I touched it, was cold. Like he was out shoveling snow without gloves.
I didn't let go, but looked at his face, wondering if he'd open his eyes or close his mouth. Nothing happened. I adjusted the bag of his items on my lap and took my other hand to his wrist. Cold. I moved it up to his elbow, and it was slightly warm. His heat was receding. I could almost see it start to retreat from his hands, trying to keep, maybe, his heart still warm.
That moment changed my life. I think about it when I'm alone. I think about it at night before I go to sleep. I think about it at work, on the toilet, in the shower, fixing food. My father's dead body just slackened in the reclined seat. It was traumatizing in a sense that's hard to explain. Yes, I can still function, but it sparked something in my head. It told me to grow up; it told me to live life; and it told me that, one day, that will be me.
I did tell my father that I loved him that day, when my mom and sister left the room and I was finally alone. I told him I was sorry. What else could I say? I wanted him to hear, in some atheist way, that he was my father, despite what we had been through.
Since he died I've had trouble sleeping alone. I think of everything I never got to do. I think of the tiny box his ashes are in. That strong man that intimidated me, who scared me, was in a small white box. Nothing else in my life mattered at that point. Still doesn't. I try to have anything that bothers put in that box. Sometimes it works, but I still can't stop caring about being alone, about not saying "I love you," about now showing how much I care for a person.
I tried putting my control issues in that box, but it just keeps getting worse.
I tried putting past relationships in that box, but they're like a slap in the fucking face.
I tried putting friends who don't understand in that box, but they're so fucking loud.
Although he changed me, even in his death, I am still the same. His death disarrayed who I was. Now, four months later, I'm trying to put myself back together, one piece at a time. I don't know who I am now. My identity has changed. My moods fluctuate at a tortuous level. I just see things in a more enlightened view. That girl that I was on the twentieth of November died with my father. Now I'm a woman and I'm trying to find my niche in life just so I can function again.
And figuring out who you are again takes patience, not only from myself, but others. I'm shifting through my childhood, through his stories, and through adulthood. He always tried to make me the person I am now, so I'm shifting through that guilt too.
All I want to conclude is that I'm no longer the same.
I'm sure everyone has seen the slightest difference in me although I try not to show it.
That's all I want to say. I could say more about how I missed him, now I miss his body, but this is too long already. I just want people to know that four months isn't enough. Four months is nothing on that life scale.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Three Years And Nothing to Show But This Stuffed Dog
So, on the first of April, yes, the holiday of those fools, I will be working for Target for three years. A toddler's age where self-care is being learned, where they discover bodies, and talk back. In three years I could've raised a functional child.
The HR guy gives out cards each year you've worked there. My card included to redeem a gift online. I did.
I chose this piece of hot ass in the sweater vest.
I almost chose the suit and tie one because I could play Suit & Tie by Justin Timberlake and it be relevant. But this look just gets to me.
I kind of want to invest in this sort of outfit for work to look this amazing. These threads just do it for me.
I'm jamming to Taylor Swift while Jaccob plays with himself in the shower. Now it's Eagle Eye Cherry.
I've had an okay day so far. Of course it's just a couple of hours past midday. Jaccob and I are supposed to go out for ice cream tonight, after another dinner outing. I plan on waking up and cooking him breakfast before he goes to work, shhhhh, he doesn't know about it.
So that entry was earlier.
Now, six hours later, he's playing a game and he's been trying to tell me a story worth one minute into five. Ha.
We had Haru Sushi for dinner. Sushi was amazing, but he had me try the soup appetizer. Burned my tongue worse. And the spicy mayo didn't help matters either. It hurts so bad. I hope I don't get other white sores where it looks like I have HPV in my mouth. How embarrassing, ha ha ha.
Then we hurried to Stackz to cool down our mouths from the spices. I let that cold ass shit just soothe my tongue. I would keep it on there until it was warm liquid. My tongue is hurting again.
Dropped my favorite lighter with the painted face in the bath today. It's dead. Pity me.
Jaccob and I were racing a few days ago. Full on race. Well, he went to pass me and he was so close his shoulder touched mine. I tried to nudge him away, but he was un-nudgeable and I completely skidded onto the concrete with my palms face down. I skinned my elbow through my thick cardigan. And I bruised and skidded up my right knee through my jeans. My right palm was the worst. Tore the skin right off. It kept opening up and bleeding for a couple of days. Now it's, what Jaccob calls, "Dragon skin." Sore to touch and look at. If I worked in food service as a server, then they would ask me to wear gloves.
When I was on the ground, I kept saying, "Ow, it's so painful."
Jaccob was laughing, and was trying to help me up, but the pain.
I said, "Stop touching me! It hurts! Ow! Ow! Stop!"
He kept laughing.
"I'm bleeding!"
"No you're not."
I flashed my right palm at him, "See, I am."
He rolled his eyes when I finally stood and couldn't full stretch out my right leg. I was hobbling. Jaccob then decided to try and pick me up and I was trying to slide my foot faster so I could drag race out of his reach (ha, get it?).
Today, at work, the electricity went off due to the storm. The long-ass storm. About forty-five minutes there were hardly any lights and no one could clock in or out. So, yeah. But I don't know why that's blog-worthy.
I'm going to go finish Stardust now.
Wish me the best reading.
No love,
Me
The HR guy gives out cards each year you've worked there. My card included to redeem a gift online. I did.
I almost chose the suit and tie one because I could play Suit & Tie by Justin Timberlake and it be relevant. But this look just gets to me.
I kind of want to invest in this sort of outfit for work to look this amazing. These threads just do it for me.
I'm jamming to Taylor Swift while Jaccob plays with himself in the shower. Now it's Eagle Eye Cherry.
I've had an okay day so far. Of course it's just a couple of hours past midday. Jaccob and I are supposed to go out for ice cream tonight, after another dinner outing. I plan on waking up and cooking him breakfast before he goes to work, shhhhh, he doesn't know about it.
So that entry was earlier.
Now, six hours later, he's playing a game and he's been trying to tell me a story worth one minute into five. Ha.
We had Haru Sushi for dinner. Sushi was amazing, but he had me try the soup appetizer. Burned my tongue worse. And the spicy mayo didn't help matters either. It hurts so bad. I hope I don't get other white sores where it looks like I have HPV in my mouth. How embarrassing, ha ha ha.
Then we hurried to Stackz to cool down our mouths from the spices. I let that cold ass shit just soothe my tongue. I would keep it on there until it was warm liquid. My tongue is hurting again.
Dropped my favorite lighter with the painted face in the bath today. It's dead. Pity me.
Jaccob and I were racing a few days ago. Full on race. Well, he went to pass me and he was so close his shoulder touched mine. I tried to nudge him away, but he was un-nudgeable and I completely skidded onto the concrete with my palms face down. I skinned my elbow through my thick cardigan. And I bruised and skidded up my right knee through my jeans. My right palm was the worst. Tore the skin right off. It kept opening up and bleeding for a couple of days. Now it's, what Jaccob calls, "Dragon skin." Sore to touch and look at. If I worked in food service as a server, then they would ask me to wear gloves.
When I was on the ground, I kept saying, "Ow, it's so painful."
Jaccob was laughing, and was trying to help me up, but the pain.
I said, "Stop touching me! It hurts! Ow! Ow! Stop!"
He kept laughing.
"I'm bleeding!"
"No you're not."
I flashed my right palm at him, "See, I am."
He rolled his eyes when I finally stood and couldn't full stretch out my right leg. I was hobbling. Jaccob then decided to try and pick me up and I was trying to slide my foot faster so I could drag race out of his reach (ha, get it?).
Today, at work, the electricity went off due to the storm. The long-ass storm. About forty-five minutes there were hardly any lights and no one could clock in or out. So, yeah. But I don't know why that's blog-worthy.
I'm going to go finish Stardust now.
Wish me the best reading.
No love,
Me
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Up in Knots
Todd knows what my title is in reference to.
Okay, so what if I'm not blogging like I have no life anymore. Todd said that I'm making facebook my new blogger. Go to hell. That would never happen. Only this place gets the funniest, raunchiest stories ever.
She's got you high and you don't even know....
I have my headphones on while Jaccob plays that Odyssey game. This game is stupid.
Aw, Kaim was poisoned in battle. He has a green orb of light emanating from his head like some cool outer shell of hair.
This is fucking awesome....
Yeah, I'm listening to Thrift Shop.
The other day Jaccob and I went to the mall. While he went in the game shop, I walked into the nearest clothing store that is reputably known for having "men's style numbers" for pant size. Ladies, we all know what I'm talking about. Anyway.
I was talking to the sales associate who just finished this really mean older lady with her nose-picking kid. She turned around, tried to help me by asking what size I wore. I told her "thirty-three by thirty-three." (That's right, I'm being the strong woman here.)
She stopped, looked back up at me from the pants and said, "Wow, I'd never think you'd be that big! Nothing over a...." She hesitated, looking at the surprise in my eyebrows I guess and finished with, "a thirty." While quickly going back to looking at the sizes.
She was a skinny, tan, pink-nailed blonde. She was nice, just no prelude to her mouth.
So, I was tinkering in the kitchen when Jaccob needed some hot water for something or another. Well, I'm tinkering and he's running the water. And running the water. And running the water. I look over and he's all knitted-brow staring at the facet.
I smiled and asked, "So, what'cha doing?"
He replied, "The water isn't turning hot."
I looked and he had it up and right. The exact and perfect way to get cold water. I told him so. He tried to act as if he knew.
My cousin dropped his iPhone 4S in a bucket of his own vomit.
That almost beats the time when he dropped it in the full Port-a-Potty.
Okay, so what if I'm not blogging like I have no life anymore. Todd said that I'm making facebook my new blogger. Go to hell. That would never happen. Only this place gets the funniest, raunchiest stories ever.
She's got you high and you don't even know....
I have my headphones on while Jaccob plays that Odyssey game. This game is stupid.
Aw, Kaim was poisoned in battle. He has a green orb of light emanating from his head like some cool outer shell of hair.
This is fucking awesome....
Yeah, I'm listening to Thrift Shop.
The other day Jaccob and I went to the mall. While he went in the game shop, I walked into the nearest clothing store that is reputably known for having "men's style numbers" for pant size. Ladies, we all know what I'm talking about. Anyway.
I was talking to the sales associate who just finished this really mean older lady with her nose-picking kid. She turned around, tried to help me by asking what size I wore. I told her "thirty-three by thirty-three." (That's right, I'm being the strong woman here.)
She stopped, looked back up at me from the pants and said, "Wow, I'd never think you'd be that big! Nothing over a...." She hesitated, looking at the surprise in my eyebrows I guess and finished with, "a thirty." While quickly going back to looking at the sizes.
She was a skinny, tan, pink-nailed blonde. She was nice, just no prelude to her mouth.
So, I was tinkering in the kitchen when Jaccob needed some hot water for something or another. Well, I'm tinkering and he's running the water. And running the water. And running the water. I look over and he's all knitted-brow staring at the facet.
I smiled and asked, "So, what'cha doing?"
He replied, "The water isn't turning hot."
I looked and he had it up and right. The exact and perfect way to get cold water. I told him so. He tried to act as if he knew.
My cousin dropped his iPhone 4S in a bucket of his own vomit.
That almost beats the time when he dropped it in the full Port-a-Potty.
Honesty is the best policy, Folks. Very sweet of Fallon to think of me in such light. Amen.
I asked Jaccob before we left if I should try with my hair. He said no, that it looked fine. Yeah, Todd, Malachai, and May all had something along the lines of asking me, "What's wrong with your hair?"
True story.
It's okay to squee. I do.
I have to fold three loads of clothes. I know, stop being jealous.
Also, my tongue does that painful itch that you can't stop scraping with your tongue. It's slowly driving me crazy.
Been watching Freaks and Geeks. I'm in love.
Hey, no, babe, what you wanna do? I think I could stay with you....
Name that song and I'm out.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Oh Shit...
So I thought about writing a post about how much I like sucking dick, but I realized that Fallon has been guest-posted on iwillnotdiet.com and I am linked inside. This didn't bother me and until I realized some of the subject matter on here.
It's like I dropped the soap on purpose or something.
So maybe I need to cool it and act like Virgin Mary.
Today I woke up.
Today I thought about my name being Mary.
Today I was thankful that it was.
Then I thought about if I was related to Bloody Mary.
Finally, I thought about how innocent I'm not.
Todd's birthday was nice and well-paced. His cake was so much better than Scotty's (I am sorry that the time crack founds it way into the Tardis). It was just neater, I guess. Learned all the ways to avoid another time crack (that's why it's round).
I learned I'm more of a maid than a hostess. I just couldn't stop washing the dishes that were dirtied. Maybe that's how I take out my nervousness. Cleaning up after boys. Should I even call myself a feminist anymore?
By the way, Flamingo has been mentioned before on here, if you want to know the history (which I doubt you do), just search through my entries like you're a Historian or something (Fallon, I'm nodding my head to you right now).
By the way, again, take a mirror to "83."
I painted this for my Amanda.
Took me like three days and a whole lot of patience I usually have reserved for knitting to finish it.
It says, "Meet some friends of mine," on the bottom. I don't know why that violet color would be good for black lettering.
I painted this old shelf I found in my garage. It used to be my great-grandmother's.
It's now standing in our living/dining room area.
I bought a bowl for it. It's sort of pity-looking. Shame too. Just like my great-grandmother.
I also bought these purposely girly plates. They're light blue with snowflakes. They never said a word about them. Har. My plan to get reactions failed. On to another way then....
We bought all that I've mentioned at Kohl's. We went shopping because we missed each other. Too bad I can't just not be busy, or her.
Right now, Jaccob is playing the Batman game. I'm not going to try and look up the name. Batman slammed Hugo Strange against the glass. I yelled out, "OH YEAH, THAT'S HOT. MAN ON MAN ACTION."
No reaction from Jaccob. Didn't even act like I was talking.
It's jellybean season! And we all know what that means -- Heather is aiming for a new cavity!
It's only 8PM and all I want to do is sleep.
Jaccob looked back at me while his game was loading and saw me laying out on the bed with my eyes half-lidded from fatigue. He smiled and asked, "Bored?"
I slid my eyes over to him, saying, "Yes. Immensely."
He laughed, asking, "Then why don't you talk to me?" He went back to his game.
I looked back at the game too, "Because you don't have a good response time."
He waited ten seconds and then said, "Ha, no I don't."
And to end this:
I was texting my sister through my mother's phone.
It's like I dropped the soap on purpose or something.
So maybe I need to cool it and act like Virgin Mary.
Today I woke up.
Today I thought about my name being Mary.
Today I was thankful that it was.
Then I thought about if I was related to Bloody Mary.
Finally, I thought about how innocent I'm not.
I learned I'm more of a maid than a hostess. I just couldn't stop washing the dishes that were dirtied. Maybe that's how I take out my nervousness. Cleaning up after boys. Should I even call myself a feminist anymore?
By the way, Flamingo has been mentioned before on here, if you want to know the history (which I doubt you do), just search through my entries like you're a Historian or something (Fallon, I'm nodding my head to you right now).
By the way, again, take a mirror to "83."
Kyle's head looks odd, I know.
DUNDUNDUNDUNDUNDUN.I painted this for my Amanda.
Took me like three days and a whole lot of patience I usually have reserved for knitting to finish it.
It says, "Meet some friends of mine," on the bottom. I don't know why that violet color would be good for black lettering.
It's now standing in our living/dining room area.
I bought a bowl for it. It's sort of pity-looking. Shame too. Just like my great-grandmother.
I did not bother to clean off the table so you can see them in use.
Fallon bought me these gorgeous place mats for my apartment. The guys like them, but I honestly didn't care if they liked them or not, they were staying.I also bought these purposely girly plates. They're light blue with snowflakes. They never said a word about them. Har. My plan to get reactions failed. On to another way then....
We bought all that I've mentioned at Kohl's. We went shopping because we missed each other. Too bad I can't just not be busy, or her.
Right now, Jaccob is playing the Batman game. I'm not going to try and look up the name. Batman slammed Hugo Strange against the glass. I yelled out, "OH YEAH, THAT'S HOT. MAN ON MAN ACTION."
No reaction from Jaccob. Didn't even act like I was talking.
It's jellybean season! And we all know what that means -- Heather is aiming for a new cavity!
It's only 8PM and all I want to do is sleep.
Jaccob looked back at me while his game was loading and saw me laying out on the bed with my eyes half-lidded from fatigue. He smiled and asked, "Bored?"
I slid my eyes over to him, saying, "Yes. Immensely."
He laughed, asking, "Then why don't you talk to me?" He went back to his game.
I looked back at the game too, "Because you don't have a good response time."
He waited ten seconds and then said, "Ha, no I don't."
And to end this:
I was texting my sister through my mother's phone.
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