something i can't remember about zero|
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|Monday, March 10th, 2008|
|Wednesday, May 10th, 2006|
New story up here
. I'm not sure if technically it counts as rps, since it's me getting slashy with food, but there's sausage involved.
Well, sausage patties.
Also, I posted something at diaryland here
. I'm probably going to be posting more regularly there. I don't know if I'll post stuff both here and there- seems unnecessary. Current Mood: depressed
|Wednesday, April 19th, 2006|
I posted something here
. Current Mood: depressed
|Sunday, March 26th, 2006|
: hi t_riddle420
: what's up? Snape
: aren't you ever going to change your screen name? Snape
: not much, giving potter dententiont_riddle420
: yeha i keep meaning to you know? but i just don't want to deal with redoing my contacts list, esp all those people i added back in school, don't talk to, but you never know right? t_riddle420
: potter's still alive? :( Snape
: nice horcrux, btw. Current Mood: depressed
|Friday, March 3rd, 2006|
Jane's birthday present, which she prodded me to post. It's a Harry Potter fic. No slash (sorry miss).( Read more...Collapse ) Current Mood: depressed
|Wednesday, February 15th, 2006|
Me: "Hey, I'm subbing for your paraprofessional today."
Some Dude: "Okay, first you need to check in with Mrs. Somethingerother in room 111, then head back here."
(one sexy walk to room 111 later)
Me: "Hi, I'm subbing for Nichole, and I guess I was supposed to check in with you first."
Some Lady: "Oh, yes, actually, I wanted to get you here because I'm Justin's mom."
Me: "... erm?"
Some Lady With a Kid Named Justin: "Justin Porier."
Me: "Oh, heh, hi. Nice to meet you."
Totally Justin's Mom: "I saw your name on the substitute list and told Garry to send you my way."
Me: "Nice to meet you."
Totally Justin's Mom: "So, have you met Jenna?"
Just Justin's Mom: "We all think she's made up."
Me: "Probably. As a testament to his vanity, he probably just photoshopped his eyes onto some girls picture or something."
Justin's mom is ridiculously pleasing
. Current Mood: depressed
|Tuesday, January 24th, 2006|
|not a xaoiboing
I get spells on occasion. Usually late at night, and always when I’m typing. I’ll be sitting and then at once feel as though everything is out of place. I feel some acute awareness of space that’s been compromised. My hands are far away, and the room is just, well, off in some way. Like Alice when she just barely licked the mushroom.
Dizzy. Sudden. Sudden and I'm so far above the keyboard. My arms are longer than they could possibly be. How does it even work? I get tired just thinking about sending electricity down the length of my arms.
A line is the shortest distance between two points. The line from my hands typing on the keyboard to my eyes would be short enough to imagine, but still daunting. That line doesn't exist though. It's all just traveling down down down my arms, dropping to my elbows. How can it be so far? Then upupup the incline of my forearms to reach my hands, which seem to occupy a single point in space. My hands have no surface area. And my head. How can thoughts survive at this altitude? My eyes ache just from the assumption that the atmosphere is thinner up here. I put my feet flat on the floor and things sort themselves out, more or less. Current Mood: depressed
|Thursday, January 5th, 2006|
Everything should really be something. Everything should be really something. Everything should be something, really. I took a walk about in the snow.
I stumbled, here and there. My arms are tired and my eyes don't want to do the work needed to read what I'm typing. Struggle through. Everything is climbing a mountain, except watching television.
But I'm here, and that's something. Really something. Something, really. I've gotten to thinking about my future lately. Not by my own volition- well, not entirely. January is around the time graduate schools take admissions in, and law schools also.
A lawyer. I like arguing and persuading and making a point and all the different ways to say "showing my brain and tongue off" and I like logic and practice and ethics and all the other means of saying "I'm right because of my tongue and brain," and that's at the heart of lawyery.
The prospective heaps of money don't hurt either.
But tonight, outside in the snow, I put my umbrella down. I took off my hat. With nothing on or above my head, I could really see the snow falling. All of it at once, overwhelming in its unyielding uniform descent. I thought about sitting on an old railroad bridge, and watching traffic below. I thought about ponds and words and a lot of other things I like. I thought about the nameless apprehension that grasps me every now and then, when nothing bad is around.
Sometimes, without irony, I can just look up and say, "it's this miraculous love that i have for the world, miraculous," over and over, like a mantra, and everything becomes something more. It becomes really something. And I think that, if I could keep that, then nothing else exists to me, and I could all but starve and still be sustained by leaves, or snowfall, and that the unnecessary shelter of a pine tree is as much encouragement as I need.
And, you know, sometimes I can't see a lawyer doing that. Current Mood: depressed
|Monday, December 19th, 2005|
|finals = joy antithesis
The beginning of my history final paper. It's probably going to be painfully suck by the time it's done. If not, I'll post it. As it stands, its not unlike my earlier political bitching columns. Kinda sorta.( Read more...Collapse ) Current Mood: depressed
|Wednesday, December 7th, 2005|
Maybe they're not right when they say, whoever they are and whenever and wherever they say it, them with their fashionably chaffed lips wrapped around twenty-dollar singles sitting late on a thursday night complaining about some asshole named Dennis to the Peruvian waitresses who nod "si si" and wait for a moment to break away and get back to the kitchen for their other orders, maybe they're not right when they say that indifference is this year's black. If they aren't, them I'm out $1200 dollars for this Saint Bernard I have no use for, and I don't even know what I'm doing with all this salt.
I mean, fuck. Current Mood: depressed
|Thursday, November 17th, 2005|
I weigh two teeth less than I did this morning. The worst part about the pain of having your “impacted” wisdom teeth pulled is that you can’t make faces. You can’t grumble and mutter your discontent at the pointlessness of wisdom teeth, nor can you yawn or chat or parole or, most tragically of all, verbally speculate.
I speak in a fake accent sometimes that ranges between German and something else I can’t quite identify. A couple other things. I don’t actively recognize when I do it; only when someone who isn’t used to me notices it. I speak with my hands a great deal too, but once again I overlook that until someone unfamiliar comments.
And now, with a recently unnumbed and terribly sore lower yaw, I realize how readily I contort my face, even while remaining silient. Opening your mouth can be a luxury, as it turns out. Treasure it, my wealth friends. Current Mood: depressed
|Sunday, November 13th, 2005|
One of my brothers, who I will refer to as the sad clown
, got remarried this weekend. Short notice. Pond. I took some time before they got there, when it was just me by the pond, to leave a little message
The wind was cold, as was it. The ceremony was short, and sans ritual. Justice of the peace who conveniently worked in the marriage license office. The bride’s family dog was silent, until the couple kissed, at which point she went the least frightening sort of crazy a dog can go. The dog would perk up all photogenic-like when someone said the word “cookies.”
The reception was at Bub’s Barbecue, an establishment with perhaps the most apt name I’ve even heard. The food was tastey, but I think they would have been better served stuffing people full of chicken from here
. The wedding cake was easily worth the two miners who were lost unearthing it from it’s tomb beneith was is now Cairo. I’m not sure what that means. Current Mood: depressed
|Tuesday, November 8th, 2005|
The director is perpetually shouting. Not constantly, since that would defeat the whole purpose of the order. Just when I stumble over a line, or the lighting's off, or he doesn't like how a piece of dialogue sounds.
The writer fucking hates it when it's about the dialogue.
Makeup. Cameras set. Lighting change. Like they can't just fix it in post. I didn't sign on for this. Fucking hack.
What now? We didn't even start the damn tape. The stupid black and white clacker thing hadn't even snapped. How long is this scene going to take?
It feels like we've been shooting forever. I can't even remember the last movie I was in this late in the day. How sad is that?
We filmed this one part a while ago that must have been a ten minute continuous shot. No cuts. No repositioning the cameras. Just me and the stage and the others, for ten minutes, speaking, doing. Acting. Like magic. One take. Even when Brian dropped the envelop, the director didn't yell cut.
The drop just became part of the scene. But that was then, and this is now.
He's gone nuts. This isn't even the same film we were working on before. The words are all yibberish on every even numbered page, and the producers have changed. They all smell like Rye when they show up on the set. The writer looks anemic, and my trailer is bolted to the asfault.
I saw the director, one time, crying to himself. He was just sitting behind camera 2, holding a roll of celuloid. Was it blank? I couldn't tell, and I didn't want him to see me.
For the love of God, why doesn't someone say something? Why don't any of us leave?
PRINT Current Mood: depressed
|Wednesday, October 26th, 2005|
|glimpse (inspired by socioecomics reading)
"don't make me hurt you," he said. nonchalant to a fault. always so cool, he thought to himself.
"there are a million girls in a million allies, just waiting for a guy like me," he said. "you're just not anybody, though, or i wouldn't be grinning this much."
she backed up, slower than old blood, and twice as smooth.
"yeah, like that baby. so soft, looming under my shadow. you little nightmare," he paused to produce his blade.
"smooth action. i almost can't believe how perfect this is."
again, she backed up, her back touching the wall now in the most natural of ways.
"you're amazing, really. i'm sorry to beat this like a horse, but the way you move. wow," he said, momentary fluttering his eyelids- a nervous habit for years.
"sigh." the first sound she'd made since he appeared.
"i mean, seriously, here i am. alley wet with rain, but my shoes are dry. you in that perfect little red number. amazing baby. and your skin, it's like liquid leather."
she raised one eyebrow, her posture maintaining itself, but a mood began to creep over her form.
"no, not like bad leather. like your skin looks smooth, but thick. like i'd have to saw at it for a while, like cutting a tire or something. but hot."
her eyes flitted to the back of her head for a brief second. he didn't see.
"shit anyway, yeah. mmm... no one's hear to help you babe. time to meet mister midnight..."
"oh jesus," she said.
“that's it. i'm through. you fucked it up. i was totally gonna let you kill the fuck out of me and do whatever with my body, but you wrecked it."
"no, what the fuck?"
"i mean, what was this that 'mister midnight' shit? that's so 1984. and those similes? mother of cockfuck, man."
he put his hand to his head, taken aback by her sudden outburst.
"you know the worst part? you had it okay it the beginning. you'd found me, you know, like i wasn't waiting for someone to again. but you just kept on getting more and more fanboy on me..."
"well, yeah," he said, finding his tongue. "you're kinda an icon or whatever. niche celebrity, like an indie singer or whatever. i felt like letting you know how much this meant to me."
"fine, yeah, but don't do it right when it'll break the mood. whisper it as you’re fucking my slowly cooling corpse with a hunting knife or whatever."
"okay, so maybe i botched the transition. but fuck you on the 1984 shit. i'm sorry i'm not so cookie-cutter po’mo’ or gothic about this shit. i took a risk, went with the moment, and said some stuff from the heart that, yeah, sounded stupid. but it was fucking earnest. when's the last time you got an unrehearsed line?"
"oh please. if your sincerity is 'no one's here to help you' then stick to a script."
"you know what? that's it. what a fucking disappointment. maybe i broke character a bit, but you've fucking ruined your archetype for me. now every bitch i slice is gonna be a bitter, sarcastic gum-chewer like you. thanks a lot." and with that, he stormed off.
"jeez, some guys just have no rapetiquette."
months later, she realized that she loved him, too.
-fader Current Mood: depressed
|Tuesday, October 25th, 2005|
|my first blackout
i appearantly wrote this on my birthday; i don't remember it:
Poolhall sierra because it’s easy. The flow. The rush. how do you rush the flow, since the flow is, by nature, an invariable motion. A progression like the reccession of stone on the slopes of a frozen mountain. Rock covered in ice, politely receeding at the most meaningless of paces. Meaningless for anything that wasn’t a stone, and, indeed, a big boy stone not to be tossed around and shattered. Covered in ice and snow what’s more. Constantly cold. If you’d have cracked you would have already, you solid, boring bastard. Like a shameful secret the coldest of the upper bits just sit, not even waiting. Waiting denoted expectation, and there’s nothing of that sort in this sort. Just the malevolence of an apathy impossible for thinking beings, couple with a thusness that only things thought unblasphemous
to hate would be so maligned.
In this, we agree. And by “we” I mean "you and I," and by "agree," I mean "both have read this," which is, itself, but a step away from assent in the broader scale.
This is what liquor does to me. I don’t know if I like it, or what it does to me. Neither. Both. One or the other. All possibilities left banal examined in so few lines. How horrific.
Do you think God would like to be me every once in a while? You?
|Monday, October 24th, 2005|
You can add yourself to your friends list. That's a little bit happy and a little bit sad.
-fader Current Mood: depressed
|Sunday, October 16th, 2005|
At this moment, a comet the size of the recently formed Yucatan peninsula is drifting towards our planet. With its impact, all life larger than an egg will vanish. Men, women, children, pets- all dead.
At this moment, the candles are burning steadily on the table I’ve set up here in my lab. Their flames lean to the left, an enchanting effect brought about by the circulation vent on the rightmost wall.
Spinning through space, the massive ball of ice and rock is older than mountains, and, indeed, probably has mountains on it. Having circled our yellow sun for ages beyond reason, our path through space and its own have finally come into synch.
The food is almost ready; I make some last arrangements to the table. Salad fork, diner fork. Three spoons. Two knives. I hope I did this right- I know how much details matter to you.
I fold your clothe napkin into a swan and place it atop your empty water glass. I hope you find it charming, or at least cute.
It wasn’t easy getting a formal dining table in the lab, what with it being a Sunday and no one but me still being in the facility. But my work needs me, and I can spare little time away. Our world needs me. You need me.
But I wouldn’t miss our anniversary, my dear. Never.
Until tonight, I’d hardly ever used the kitchen area out back. I’d subsisted on preprocessed snacks and whatever you brought me during my work.
I hope I chose the right wine for the meal. You chill white and serve red warm, right?
My thoughts drift towards the comet. Spinning as it is, we have to time a missile strike perfectly to knock it off course, rather than blowing it to countless pieces that would rain down upon our wor- enough about work. I have time still for calculations. Tonight is our own.
I’m wearing a suit. The only suit I have. I love watching you stifle laughter when you see me in it. My tail always pulls my shirt up in the sides when it moves for balance. Whoever designed men’s formalwear wasn’t a velociraptor.
The food is ready.
* * *
I hear the elevator descending; you’re here. I quickly remove my spectacles and put them in my breast pocket. I want to take them out and snap them open when you come in the room. You always say I look sexy putting on my glasses.
The doors open and out you step. My, you’re a vision. A sweeping gown that seems to lay on you like a cobweb sheet. Cobweb, because you always hated the word “gossamer.”
Your hands, tucked up against your chest, both hold on to the handle of your purse. Adorable. Your shoes are simple and elegant, with your slicing claw resting daintily atop them.
I have no words to tell you how much better you look than this explains. I simply stare as you enter the room, looking at me. I take a step forward and stumble over a chair. You laugh.
Damn presbyopia. My glasses, I need my glasses. Flustered, I pull them out and put them on. Why did I take them off?
Then I look up, and see one delicately clawed hand covering your mouth, holding in a torrent of hysterics. But your eyes. Your eyes smolder with longing. We’ve had so, so little time for each other.
Vision restored, I continue forward, and you come to meet me by the table. I take your hand in both of mine and gaze upon your soft, leathery scales.
“I’ve missed you, my Mireille. I wish every night could be like this,” I say.
“If only,” you say, drawing yourself close to me. “Your work will be done soon enough, my four-eyed claw foot. And then we can always be together.”
I hold you close. Tomorrow, I will wrestle an ice giant from his celestial trajectory, and throw him helplessly into the blackness of outermost space. For you, I am strong enough to do this.
But this night is our own. The food on the table is warm, the candles are lit, and a pack of dino-condoms awaits. Tonight belongs to us. Current Mood: depressed
|Tuesday, October 11th, 2005|
|There's only a future for Algeria
I get tunnel vision when I'm at the computer. Everyone does, probably. That's the great thing about there being so many people: unless you can only get an erection while singing "cat scratch fevah, i've got cat scratch feeevvvaaahhh!" and drowing a baby elephant, then you're probably not the only one who does something.
But this is the reddest desk I've ever sat it. Here, in the library, my arms rest comfortably on a smooth computer desk whose color and shape remind me of sickle-cell anemia.
A tiny catwalk, big enough only perhaps for cats, holds up bundles on ethernet wires that run overhead to all the computer stations. This section of the library's computer lab, called the "new writing center" is gloriously inefficient in its use of space. Spinning, tumbling, jumping. All these naughty, illicite activities are possible here. I dare say we could hold a cockfight with live internet feed here. Several cockfights. Online betting.
You know, roosters are kind of dicks when you think about it. Current Mood: depressed
|Monday, October 10th, 2005|
Ten-thirty pm, Tuesday, September 27, 2005. Look at the 10:30 on the computer screen. Glance away. It’s 10:31 when you look back, as though vast, formless things behind the scenes shape an elusive world half made of misremembered song lyrics and the rest a perpetually snickering joke that you’re not privy to.
Personal jokes are the micromedia of that insufferable blasé way we go about our ceaselessly examined lives.
But time marches on. Drags on. Rolls on like the great tides of some primordial ocean. Whatever. Time moves, however we want to imagine it. T = f(V) if you prefer. It’s all the same only because we’re all the same.
There will be minimal pauses, and no interruptions. Just a continual stream of remarked, if not remarkable me. Vanity is the laziest sin, requiring no imagination, just presence.
I spoke to a man on the bus today. Short, short, scouringly short hair. Friction hair. He spoke to me, really. The bus was taking forever. We traded odd jabs and gripes about minor inconveniences, and were generally perfunctory and alien to each other.
Politeness is the essence of inhumanity.
I almost spoke to a man in the 7-11 today. “Excuse me,” I’d say, “but is your name Josh? I ask because your voice sounds like someone I once went to school with, I’m am partially face blind so I can’t tell if I know you.” He had a gamer’s voice.
I’m most certainly full of shit about the face blindness. It’s more uncertainty than non-recognition. Usually.
* * *
I simply cannot see the romantic appeal in the cowboy’s life, or in drifting through the American southwest. I just don’t get it. I’m sorry.
There are certain moments of my life I’d truly love to relive. Not to get a second chance, but rather to experience the same moment again.
Several years ago, my friends and I decided to hold a gathering. Something along the lines of the SCA meets Dungeons and Dragons. The details aren’t important, only distracting. Suffice to say we needed a woodsy area with nearby parking and maybe a couple short walking paths in the forest.
So we’d tried almost everywhere we could think of. State parks. Private parks. Some land owned by the power company(?).
Just as hope was all but given up, we found, not far from out various homes, Wendell State Forest. The park manager/ranger/helpful itinerate bum even had a daughter who was into similar stuff. So I went there and scouted the place out. It was perfect, or at least “really good.”
Later that day, or maybe the next, I was sitting at the pink room table telling Justin all about it.
“There’s a main area raised up an incline where people can park out of sight, then walk down to the main field here,” I said, sketching out a map on a pad in my lap.
“There’s a pavilion around here, and two paths on the other side of the field, leading in a loop.” Justin was tuning out, just waiting for my to finish the map of the event site so he could look at it.
“We could build the PVC pipe maze near the cars, and have a little tunnel leading to it like so. What do you think?” I said, handing him the pad.
If you know us, you know this
is what was really on the pad. But you weren’t there, and you can’t know the satisfaction I got out of that joke, so for the last nine paragraphs I’ve just been wasting your time. Current Mood: depressed