Folks, it’s that time of the year again. You (points to the heckler), shut up! Sorry, ‘bout that. Anyway, as I was saying, it’s that time of the year again. No, not Christmas in September (shakes head at the cute, but impossibly dumb guy in the crowd), my birthday, which happens to coincide with cabaret artist/clown Pierre Olaf’s death anniversary. Random shit. Moving on. Without further ado, here be my wish list:
1. Fug hat, (http://fug-hat.urbanup.com/4042039) because seriously who wouldn’t want a hotness decimator like that? If Zachary Quinto didn’t wear his on a daily basis, we’ll all be dead right now. I mean, the human eye is not designed to accommodate such level of attractiveness. Thus, the existence of le fug hat.
2. Why? I’ll tell you why. Because I’m tired of explaining why I want a new book every year I age. STFU, you’re turning me into a raging alcoholic.
3. Because every girl needs a perfect white shirt (or countless plain shirts that only a true slacker/lazyass like me can appreciate). Also, since I’m sporting quite the pooch these days, I suggest you skip the small sizes and get the mediumish upgrade (if they have it, which they do).
4. Because I’m running out of ideas. And it’s not like you’re gonna buy me this stuff anyway. What am I saying? Screw you, person who won’t buy me this stuff for my birthday!
5. Because I spend 80 hours of my week, watching infomercials. At least, don’t make me waste my life by not purchasing anything. (80 hours? I wish I could say I was kidding you.)
That’s it for now. Can’t think of anything else, except for piles and piles of money, which you can always deposit directly to my account. With that said, I greet myself a very happy birthday and hope everybody’s miserable tomorrow so I can have a marginally blessed existence for at least a day.
God bless us everyone! (Hah! Bet you didn’t think I’d end with a Dickensian quote.)
Friday, September 4, 2009
disappointed by ~hanabie on deviantART
It happens gradually, this acceptance of a fate that spits in the face of your capabilities. It begins with the little things - things that make you boil in righteous anger, leaving you exhausted and reduced to the mental capacity of an infant. As you age, you start thinking it’s time to train yourself, time to muster control to contain the rage. You mature and you succeed. Years later you see that you have lost the ability to care about the big things.
Sometimes your sense of self gets away from you, with vaguely a notion of how or why it happens. On these days, you call up false memories of happier times when it’s just you and your naivete surviving the onslaught of moral perversion. Each time you come out battle-weary but more able to handle the ways of the world. It costs you your innocence, which you have been steadily losing, fraction by fraction after the first battle you have won.
This is where you are now, complacent in your mediocrity. You give her up, yourself once upon a time, whose potential used to loom large in your mind. It’s a weakness, this reliance on a version of yourself, who has nothing but faith in herself and the world. She’s a liability and you’re desperate to break her. You’re convinced it will make you stronger. Better. It takes you more than a year to erase every trace of her in your life. Why is it that without her you feel emptier, more mediocre?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
I spent the better part of the year mooning over someone I thought I really liked. It was meant to be life-changing, destined to make me feel like Christmas wrapped in eighteen birthdays. I liked that it made me question the belief that I was long dead inside. But what was supposed to be an event of epic proportions, became the equivalent of God throwing the unbelievably bored a bone. And damn if I wasn’t a card-carrying member of the consistently disinterested and the perpetually worn out, because there I was out on a date with Mr. By-All-Accounts-Perfect, and I was bored out of my fucking skull.
What happened was this.
I got a call at exactly 5:32pm last Thursday. It was of course, him, the object of my misguided affections. He asked me if I could join him for coffee that night. And I said yes, following an instinct that was purely Pavlovian in nature. At 7:22pm I found myself waiting for him and my tea, which was too hot, by the way, and not at all calming. Something was very wrong, because that usually ignored area of my psyche, the one that rudely tells me to get a fucking clue was going haywire. 11 minutes later, I realized why.
Now normally, I’d be all shits and giggles when it came to him, but that night I was Pompom Bennet Season 3, a Heroes reference he probably wouldn’t be familiar with. He was cute as per usual, but I wasn’t reacting to anything he was doing or saying, not even when he made that Star Trek joke that usually pushed all my giddy schoolgirl buttons. That got me panicky and sufficiently disturbed because I knew myself to be a relationship camel, loving or liking someone for years and years, regardless of feelings being returned or not. This had to be a fluke, I thought. He was still him and I was still me. There was no reason for the attraction to suddenly off itself. But off itself, it did. In fact, he lost me the minute he said hi and placed his stuff next to my shit.
A/N: Part 1 of ?; will continue depending on reviews...