| Sep. 7th, 2008 @ 12:57 am people who are allergic to cats probably shouldn't sit next to me |
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The dude coasting down mill street with his jaw hanging open like a whale fishing for krill probably looks that way perpetually. A mouth breather. I wonder if he caught anything. Mouth breathers should wear baylene masks while bike riding. Just an idea.
Ever since I was in high school chemistry class, where I made the friendly comment,
“Dude, you should close your mouth when you're not using it, you look retarded,”
And my lab partner replied “um, I have (insert slack jaw medical condition here),”
I try to be a little more considerate in the suggestions I make. For the most part.
I started reading Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus after my ex raved about it being the answer to the massive miscommunication problem between the sexes, and then 'forgot' it on my coffee table. About 8 pages into it, I'm toeing the line between honest consideration and absolute revulsion. This doctor author guy seemed to have everything worked out; disected and pinned down under glass: men are martians, women are venutians... We're different! It's so simple that we all forget! Do you remember where we parked the space ship?
My favorite bit in these 8 pages, were the example phrases the author lists.
“Did you remember to turn the lights off? Are you sure?”
A question of this callibur is a sure-fire way to piss off your man and make him feel like an incompetant child. Are you going to put your laundry away? Do you want my help?
Men are actually fragile creatures who need the freedom to fly into freshly windexed windows when they leave the nest. This is what makes them men.
Meanwhile, women are painted as the home improvement committee. Always trying to change a man from his comfortable and most natural existence, to something “better.” Observations, suggestions, improvement; these things are negative and inherently feminine..? I know, let's get new drapes! Herein lies the conflict.
If you happen to get further than 9 pages into this staggering work of genius, you let me know how it goes.
Apparently the clutch was stuck.
I saw something truly facinating on Tuesday; three tiny wrens hopped out onto the edge of shelf in the garage where they'd hatched weeks ago, and took to the sky. And then to the ground. They were aimless and wreckless, flying into walls and corners, tripping on their little pitchfork feet upon meeting with the concrete. Remember learning to ride a bike? Me either, but it's pretty sad to think that there are people on this earth who could see this little miracle and not smile.
And on the subject of Sarah Palin, this is a big year for American politics. One way or the other, there's a “minority” in the white house. Are women still a minority? Last I heard, the sexes are relatively neck and neck population wise. I've never been so torn about the lack of cable in my home. Do I really want to know anything about the political olympics? I do like to uphold the Ignorant American Standard. Now there's a name for news! Or is that Fox?
I made the mistake today of opening up the waterford box I keep all my memories in. Isn't it funny how six years and a photograph can put an ocean between today and any negativity previously associated with that smile?
... I gotta sign up for basic, at least.
I have recently discovered, thanks to the requirements of obtaining a degree from an institute of 'higher learning,' that geology is one dirty subject. I wonder if I'm the only one sitting in the lecture with my legs crossed, considering the erotic qualities of magma. Natural science has this effect.
“Oh, Professor Mike, can you help me with the cleavage on this mineral? I'm not sure if it's bilateral... but it sure made a pretty white streak on the plate there. And it has a hardness of 5.”
I dated a forestry graduate who used to try to teach me the names of trees. I found this highly captivating. And sexy. Who knew trees were sexy? Oh. Me.
“Oh, what's this big one in the lake?”
“This is cyprus. See the roots sticking out of the water like that? Those are called nodes.”
Have you ever seen a cyprus tree in a lake? Tell me that's not suggestive.
Maybe I'm just bored and/or easy.
Honestly, I haven't been single in 2 ½ years. During that time, I dated two different males. The first I was highly invested in for about 20 months, which was pretty retarded since he was a drug addict, and I happen to be one of those females cursed with a highly developed improvement instinct. *This is also called “bad taste in dudes.” I'm working on changing that, at least when it comes to boys. Find me a man, and things could be different (or the same I suppose). The second boy was highly invested in me, and the latter 10 months of this relation-ship-hood. And that charade started the same week I ended prior engagements. Epic sensibility fail!
Post-market-crash, the new deal: I'm in the position of reclaiming my life sans the 4am boner poking my ass. It's a little more comfortable, and at the same time uncomfortable after 2odd years of dirty sheets and morning breath. These foolish things.
My cat has since claimed my second pillow.
I'm under the impression that my life hasn't quite started yet, and that when I finally graduate college with a bachelors in applied arts and sciences at the tender age of 25, the world will magically change and I will emerge reborn as a real live grown up. In my mind, this amounts to nothing more than an office with a desk. But more importantly, a new wardrobe: peeptoe heels, thigh highs, pantsuits, fedoras, bangles, manicures and waxings. For the last 12 years I've been sporting boy's sneakers, thrift store jeans, cartoon t-shirts, pony tails and a bush. I think I may be a bit delusional.
The most recent debacle i've been tackling in my mind is whether to take out a federal loan in order to buy a motorcycle. It's nothing I need, just something I want. It looks absurd in print, doesn't it.
I wonder if everyone listens to music the way I do: I am always the subject of the song; animal, mineral or vegetable; and this makes dancing a lot of fun.
The last time I was in chicago, I drank a little too much vodka/beer/wine, and hosted a one woman dance party for myself- and a peep show for a dozen of my closest friends.
“You took your top off, grabbed your tits, and were like... dancing and moving them to the beat. I wish you could've seen it. You've got some moves, girl.”
it is unfortunate that I know exactly what she's talking about, that I have seen it, and that I would never be caught (sober) doing that outside my own bathroom. Let alone at a pool party. In the span of 4 hours or so i'm told, I managed to smah a wineglass on the pool deck of a posh michigan ave apartment high-rise, concuss my skull while racing underwater, rock out to christina aguilara in the nude, and make out with my ex.
I'd initially been dressed to kill because of this ex in particular- the same one who's smiling pictures I probably should've burned six years ago, but still cherish. I settled for killing my own braincells and blacked out, a result of the vodka/head injury cocktail. And somehow, there is one smiling image burned into my memory- And it's not six years past. This absolutely kills me.
What won't kill me, is the brain tumor that I don't have. Thanks, CAT scan!
The hospital visit was a real treat. I didn't break down and go until 2 days after hitting my head, thinking I could tough it out, but not quite thinking right. They gave me a warm blanket, rubbed my belly, and sent me through the whirring chamber of fear to be sure my brain wasn't bleeding along with my pride. When the doctor gave me anti-nausea medication and 3 days off work, I asked him if he would cover my shift. He graciously declined, and I returned to the kennel the next day full of the anti-nausea pills whos side effects included 'headaches.' Marvelous.
I've become acutely aware of the fact that I need to give up smoking. It's very difficult because I love cigarettes. I would marry cigarettes and make love to them if that were plausable. Meanwhile, my teeth are turning brown, I have zero lung capacity, and I smell like I rolled in a giant ashtray while wearing a damp wool sweater. How I manage to attract the opposite sex is a mystery to me. I wish these southern tobacco lords could enhance the appeal of us addicts, at least make this toxic smoke smell like lavender or laundry detergent. Or what about creating a vitamin-infused blend? Vitarettes.
Cigarettes and coffee are probably two of my favorite pleasures on the planet, besides an orgasm. I cannot remember the last time I didn't start my day without coffee. If only it were possible to percolate an orgasm every morning, my teeth might be a little whiter.
When I was too lazy to brew it myself, I would go to burger king where they knew me as Turbo. It should probably be a sad day when the fast food servers call you what you order, but I found it rather endearing. Thank god I don't have a fetish for Whoppers or Thick Burgers. They would see me come walking up the sidewalk and set up my cup -6 creamers, 2 sugars- before I even walked in the door. The day that I discovered better and cheaper coffee at BP was a real sad day, and I felt guilty, as though I betrayed my steady. The burger king cashier called me a traitor. Maybe I should send them a card or some flowers.
No matter where she's hiding in the house, my cat's asscheek-to-toiletseat radar is impeccable, and the moment I sit down to take a crap, she's in the crotch of my jeans like a hammock, drooling and purring her little brain out. I find this both pleasing and innappropriate, because of course I pet her until I have to wipe my ass. Doesn't that seem wrong? Why isn't she with me now, as I sit on the couch and entertain the idea that my life is worth writing about?
if I named my tits Bebop and Rocksteady, do I need to start calling my vagina Shredder? |
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monsterbreath11's journal
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