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I want... [May. 19th, 2007|12:01 am]
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[my toes feel... |disappointeddisappointed]
[t-shirt... |They Might Be Giants]

a yellow submarine.

Hot damn, I want a yellow submarine...

and a Brown Recluse.

or a Black Widow works just as fine.

Growing up, I had Chelly, the Orange Garden Spider that lived in the bushes in the backyard. She made cool webs. Then one day she had a couple of egg sacs and died like a nurturing mother spider she was.

Then there was Bernadette, the lovely black widow spider that lived in the window sill above my shower. We got along well for the most part, except for the occasional times when I turned around and she would be dangling right in front of my nose when I was all soapy and nekkid. I know she was just trying to be friendly (or eat me), but really now, you shouldn't sneak up on people like that. She disappeared one day...I believe one of my sisters finally murdered the fine lady.

There was a hobo spider in the garage today. I am not a fan in capturing the little buggers, as the majority of the times they commit suicide. And my mother refused to let Heterodyne (the spider's temporary name) to hang out in the garage. I ended up releasing him the backyard, in hopes he would make himself a nice viewable home. The bastard took off and I never saw him again. Very short term relationship. But for the better. Hobo spiders aren't that interesting. They are mainly ground dwellers, they have a good bite, but not deadly enough to rot away flesh and appendages, and they mainly sulk.

I want a brown recluse. I'll probably have to go down south to find a brown recluse buddy, though. =(.
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Bra! [Sep. 30th, 2006|05:34 pm]
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[my toes feel... |amusedDanny kisses my feet]
[t-shirt... |Ashley typing upon her keyboard]

He: You're funny.
Me: ...
He: Most women aren't.
Me: ...
He: ...
Me: All the women I know are funny.
He: ...uh.
Me: Then again, I am probably lesbo-riffic.

I lounge in my basement of a chair and a bed. Curtains swallow books, and the SNES Supermario Theme Song wavers out of the pecariously perched television. The sega genesis, the PS2 and the atari were all siphoned upstairs for the community gaming pleasure. I have no qualms, as long as the SNES was within easily devourable distance. Danny Boy's mottled coat contrast against the purples and yellows that confine the mattress. His fur covers everything. I bought a lint brush for the specific reason for purifying my bedsheets. I go through a roll at least once every three days. He doesn't care about my efforts and continues to shed happily and profusely.

She: My, what a lovely dog.
Me: ...thanks.
She: What's the breed? Australian shepard?
Me: ...no, border collie. He has a tail.
She: Oh? Why she does!
Me: He.
She: What?
Me He.
She: He what?
Me: He's a he.
She: Oh! He's so effiminate!
Me: ...He's metrosexual.
She: Excuse me?
Me: ...
She: Uh well...
Me: ...
She: Well, good day!
Me: ...

I sat nestled between two bookshelves, a pile of books surrounding my feet. I was isolated in between the towering bohemouths who held literature in their bowels. Tapping toes and turning pages equated to a blissful afternoon. He stopped in front of me, surprised by the appearance of a human nestled in words. A grin tugged at his mouth, and I raised an eyebrow. He waved, and I blinked in return. Then abandoning his bag to the ground, he dropped in front of me, grabbed a book, and begin flipping pages. I hesitated, wondering if my gleeful solitude would be jarred by inquiring words. But a comfortable silence instead increased between, only fragmanted by rustling paper.

Me: Bra!
S/he: What?
Me: Bra!
S/he: Where?
Me: [[tore off my shirt, flipped a strap, and ran into the basement once more.]]
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and so I ran... [Sep. 17th, 2006|09:20 pm]
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alot.

Though this journal is neglected and abused to the point of extremities.



Abbott left me again. She comes and goes, though she wouldn't have come at all if I hadn't nefariously siphoned a crisp airline ticket to her e-mail inbox. She came out of guilt, I believe. No worries, one day, we will climb mountains with each other and wonder if we have the advantage of pooping on birds instead of the vice versa.


My current residence is northeast from my last current residence which was northeast from the current residence before the currently last current residence. In this progression, I shall soon end up in Maine, or either or, beat the trend and find myself in Argentina doing the tango of the sublime. If you hadn't tried to tango, you should definitely research into the prospect.

Either or.

I am in a reflective mood today, though not really certain upon the reflection. I probably stumbled upon reflective moods, especially when they revolve around lockpicking an apartment at 3 o'clock in the morning.

"Ash Bash," I said simply, "That story had a terrible ending."

"I agree." She replied.

We both nodded our heads in unison and gave respective high fives, and low fives, and the random three finger dive.



Tigrillas are yum.
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Nissan vs. Chevrolet [Jun. 11th, 2006|10:27 pm]
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[my toes feel... |flirtyyum]
[t-shirt... |Dur durr durrrrrrrrrrrrrr]

It was a sunny, 100 degree day. Cars zoom, and there was soon a clash! A cute, tiny Nissan Altima, owned by the glamorous Ambs, versus the 1979 Chevrolet truck, owned by a muscular redneck! dur dur durrrrrrrrrrr.

The Results!!!111eleventy

The cute widdle nissan altima




The big buff chevrolet



OMFG! who do you think won?!?




P.S.- i did =X!!
The insurance money I got back was a hundred more then what I paid for the piece of junk. weeeeeeeeeee.
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rawr [May. 16th, 2006|10:24 pm]
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[my toes feel... |enthralledMurderous]
[t-shirt... |Pazu is now one years old]

My life, utterly summed up in quality 12.6 statements:

1.) I want a motorcycle, though practicality sake is saying get a hybrid car.
2.) I spend my lunch period at Border's, which is a total of .56 miles from Action Publishing, my work on a lake.
3.) I've almost died twice this week. First time, I reported him to the police. Second time, flash floods aren't lethal, wimps.
4.) I am unwilling to cash my first check from the government as the federal treasury of the United States has beautifully formatted checks.
5.) I am tempted to buy a DSLR every day.
6.) I become more depressed as the trial period of Painter X is almost expired.
7.) I have become accustomed to car grease up to my elbows.
8.) I go to wealthy golfing ranges at midnight.
9.) I have sworn a scalding revenge on Harding University for giving me Hell for months, though I have won for finally getting all my documents to Colorado State.
10.) I viciously murdered a lobster named Rolf yesterday in a very excrutiating boiling death.
11.) I have become the back booth bar goer...though I don't drink any alcohol there.
12.) I just applied to become a professional Texas Hold'em Card Dealer.
12.6) The most breath taking place in the world...is at the very top.

***



Balloons had always taunted her. When she was younger, anxiety would rip through her as she watched these floating beings. Would they...dare they pop around her? Allowing that defeaning sunction of air that brought terror to her young, sensitive ears.

She shook her head. That was years ago. Multiple years ago, in a time when these inflated horrors chased her. Not anymore. Her gun rested at her hip. She had spotted her target.

Not anymore. Her head sported the colour of her prey, and she always struck at sunset...the same time that they dare struck her. No longer does she run from her fears. Now she hunts them. Paid to eliminate her personal enemies, she is now the assassin.

The Balloon Assassin.
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whee [Jan. 13th, 2006|12:25 am]
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Another schrimage between ruffled papers and the bangle of wood against turqouise bracelets. A pencil of darken heritage sits in hesitation between short fingers. Damn pencils. I opt for a pen, blue in colour, ball point in make. The pencil rolls rejected to the edge of desk, teetering until my puff of air sends it over the edge. No need for pencils. Permenance in ink.

Resolutions impossible. They are simply a pretense of hope, an idea that yearns to take a substantial shape and scramble into existence. A glimmer of what is wanted. A hint of what is needed.

Resolutions are secrets between the holder and what is possible. Words that hang as a savoury edible that cannot be digested due to the simple fact that resolutions are merely words. Letters shoved up next to eachother with a probable space jumping in at the opportune moment. Forming a phrase that leaves an empty satisfaction of what may or may not happen. I push resolutions to the side, and with an exhalation throw them into incineration. Permenately abolished.

My pen scratches softly against soft grained paper, my neat aristocratic handwriting swirling and dotting and slashing with theatric flairs of those who are prone to dramatic entreaties. Gentle breath warms the too cold air as letters rise to dance a preview of what is to come in the yawning year.

I am both invisible and invincible, using my faults as a shield against what I fear, or merely believe I fear as I do not challenge what I wish I fear. It's easier to claim fear then to charge into the hells of bitterness, rage, and hurt. So I claim fear, though I fear nothing, and am able to hide behind fears that are not fears but merely excuses masquarading as fears.

I claim no resolutions. Resolutions are merely words, promising promises, hoping hopes, fearing fear. I don't want words. I want substance.

Thus this year, I know I will meet rejection. I will face rejection, I will step into rejection, I will embrace rejection. For if I have already meet rejection, I can stop pretending to fear the onslaught of rejection.

Thus this year, I know I will meet ambition. I will gather ambition to my chest, holding it, smothering it, killing it, and finally burying it into the depths of my inner being. For if ambition is already dead within me, I can stop pretending to fear the drive of ambition.

Thus this year, I know I will meet pain. I will fall face first into the pools of pain, letting it sweep around my body, weighing me down and drowning in the sorrows that swirl and froth and grind against my mind. For if pain already took my body, I can stop pretending to fear the wholeness of pain.

And so it begins. The promises, the hopes, the fears. I will do this, and that is not a resolution. I am beyond resolutions. The pen continues to scratch, digging into paper and thoughts.

My resolution this year is to make no resolutions. I shall instead acheive.
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(no subject) [Jan. 11th, 2006|09:45 pm]
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And then, the hush after the rush. Pushing and pounding and his head expounding in the pungent retch of the lack of understanding. His lips are chapped as resignation leaks from his pores and patter obscenely at the curling floor. Once more his fingers entwine in his black mat of hair, gnarling in the snarls of unwashed appendages. A sigh escapes and he slouches forward allowing the seductive end to kiss his encrusted eyes. Skin sags, and simply he dies.

Before or after, he never knew. Never the present, but sometime before or after. Perhaps in the after, with the certainty of coming sooner or later. More likely the before, as what has happened has already been done. The present is always excluded, for the present is always predicted with assurance.

She had sat at his side, jumbles of hair rushing over sloping shoulders that bent forward as if inclined to a fetal position. Eyes of pearls sat in heavy lidded eyes as she stared resolutely downward, casting a line down at the infinity below her feet. Stories upon stories of decaying walls ran underneath her, tumbling and cascading of rotted history. Her lips curled into a feeble smile, nails permanently engrained into grayed bricks that merged into the skies forcing the heavens to fall to the earth. He stared at those knotted hands, those scratching nails, scratching and tearing, urging the drain of blood hesitantly forward.

"He never came, you know."

He was silent, listening to the scritch and the scratch and the unknown sound of slow crimson.

"He will never come. You knew. You know."

He only nodded, closing his eyes against the harsh wind that blew against the lanky building that rested like a giant in the wastelands. He felt her hair flit against his cheek, long strands encumbering into his own and entwining around his neck ensnaring. She laughed, breathy laughter falling into the wind and being swept into the dead dust that rose up behind them. A solitaire tear that dripped from her lashes he never saw. Rather, he felt it land upon his chapped lips, and then he felt her tongue gently apply moisture unto his chard mouth, sealing her pungent sadness forevermore into the cavern of his soul.

And then she fell. White fabric drifting upward, urging her to take flight into the heavens that merged into earth. Her bony hands were folded against her chest, long fingers twirling around each other in prayer. Fluttering opaque hair twirling behind her like a faint trail of what she forsake for the hell below. Gently, softly, eternally she fell beyond the heavens and the earth.

He stood there, wind rasping against his cheek, her emotions locked and left for him to devour between his lips.

His head rested against his harsh skin and the grain of wood. His cracked and bleeding lips pressed firmly together as death rocked him into slumber. Falling and tumbling, his lips forever licked, forevermore, by her.
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(no subject) [Nov. 21st, 2005|11:37 pm]
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Let's Go.
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(no subject) [Nov. 15th, 2005|12:34 pm]
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Go Harding.
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(no subject) [Nov. 14th, 2005|02:54 pm]
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Happy belated Halloween...like in November!Collapse )
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