In the mood for Indian food.

We did it! Thirty (or more) posts in thirty days! I'd like to thank the creators of the computer, which provided us the ability to spend countless hours enslaved in front of machines without possibly forfeiting a finger or leg or child (yay post-industrial times!). And now, the after party!

Sin numeros.

List of things to do tonight:
Pick up pizza.
Meet Todd at house.
Eat pizza.
Attend first UofL sports event (other than hockey) in undergraduate career.
Try not to freeze ass off.
Return to domicile.
Do Spanish.
Cuddle (boy or dog, perhaps both).

Exposure.

At the end of this experiment, I don't feel as if I've accomplished anything. I haven't been able to write out any of the ideas that were bouncing around in my head. Just a mildly frantic ten or fifteen minutes at the end of every night trying to tap something out before bed. I miss my camera. Or at least having the money to develop anything. And the feel of its plastic casing in my hands, smell of film. Beep of auto focus. Shutter click. I forgot how different things can be when you're looking for new perspectives. I'm out of practice.

Study food.

Exam tomorrow
Is there anything to eat?
I could use a snack.

He doesn't believe in Jesus.

Mmmm, food. That thing I'm currently lacking. And will continue to lack as I browse dog beds for Lucius for Christmas. Not that he doesn't have any room on mine, which he routinely takes over. Did I mention that he cuddled me from one side of the bed to the other a few nights ago? That takes talent. It also made me realize how much more comfortable the side I don't sleep on is. I wonder if Santa flips mattresses.

No, I don't know where.

I think there are only two days of class left. Make that three. In which case I have a lot of studying to do. Oh, Spanish. How I love you, yet you pain me. One more Spanish class next semester and I'm finished with my undergrad. Then grad school. Yay!!

She doesn't really have a hunch.

The day will be full of activities involving boys (and girl) from out of town, so here's a shot of my grandmother's backyard, and one of my grandmother finishing up the tree we worked on all day. Some of the ornaments are over 40 years old.

It's totally one word.

Sotiredandinneedofahotshowergoingtogodothatnow.

Role model.

I think I'm allowed to hate him. I should be able to ignore him if I want to. Go over to his house and take my stuff back. Stop talking to him. Deny him out of existence. Hate his voice and his unfunny jokes and how he repeats himself so much. Not reply when he says he loves me.

Here's to driving home in the rain with one headlight out!

My mom called from overseas earlier (in time to tell me what oven temperature to use for sauerkraut and kielbasa, good considering I had forgotten and was lamenting that I couldn't call her and ask not a few moments before). She and Phill have been running around quite a bit, meeting up with family and friends before their Thanksgiving dinner made by Phill's very Welsh mother. Josh and I sent over cards and hoped that would be enough to convey the holiday properly. Somehow, I don't think even Hallmark could properly capture the turkey coma, pie nibbling, and potentially-awkward-moment combination that is Thanksgiving.

As a point of reference, she says "guitar" like it's two words.

There are few (well, to be fair, several) things more disconcerting than being in the bathroom doing what one does in the bathroom and hearing your neighbors talk as they walk from car to house. The mother asks her 14-year-old son, "Did you have to return the pants?" Of course with her accent, she could have said "pens" or "paints" or worse. I guess I should be glad they weren't knocking on the side of my house to see if I had any paints they could borrow.

Dear compy,

LAG LAG LAG LAAAAAAAG LAG LAG LAG LAG LAG LAG STUTTER LAAAAAG.

How do you like it? How does it feel, huh?? Not so fun, is it?!

I fear I will not be able to kiss my boyfriend for a very long time.

My face is infected. Not even the fun kind like a cut from a brawl that didn't heal right, or even a sinus problem. Instead, I woke up this morning with a post-cold sore scab slightly pussy (read: containing puss) and three little dots on my upper lip with no explanation. They could be from when I scalded my lip with hot tea (ha, haathi) from a travel mug on the way back to Louisville. Add that to bowling last night and not washing our hands before eating a soft pretzel and we have prime conditions for lip nasties. Did I mention that the pretzel was greasy? Like pizza crust? I'm still not quite sure how that works. It even tasted a little bit like pepperoni grease. *shudder*

39 and 6,000 grains.

How many things do you know of that are fun and help other people?

http://www.freerice.com/index.php

Taking over me.

I hate you, desk. With your endless clutter and waterfall of envelopes and bills that occasionally cascades onto the floor. And you, laundry, don't look so smug. As much as I'd love to dive into your fluffy clouds of fabricy goodness, you and I are both aware of just how much some of those cloth piles smell. Don't even get me started on the strewn photographs, stray monitor, and wiggly beagle.

Oh god, moving makes it worse!

Lucius is wandering around the chair and licking the floor here and there. Not the impassioned and feverish licking of someone who just found a dried puddle of chocolate ice cream on the floor, but casual test licks. Does this floor taste good? No? How about this part? No? This one over here? I'm sure it's partially due to the permanent butt smell my little brother has imparted upon this section of the computer room. It's somewhere between teenage boy funk and fart, and the odor is very close to reaching up its soggy arms, wrapping them around my throat, and dragging me down to hell where it is more powerful than anything we could imagine here on earth. God save us from the wrath of boy stank.

Where my people at?

I miss my guys. I miss their stupid faces and how they made fun of me. I miss having someone to hurt me. Not that they would, but that they could. They were the select few who were close enough, knew the flaws and neuroses and stayed regardless. And I wanted them to. One said he loved me and the other was judgmental, and the third was, well, a bit of an angel. I keep thinking that we're coming out of winter and the leaves will return and everything will warm soon. I can't seem to convince myself that the cold has yet to be here.

So sorry to choose him over you...

This evening has been spent avoiding Spanish homework and conversing with the manfriend. And that's what I'll be going back to now...

But about that other thing...

Leprosy season has begun. Already lotion stings the holes that will soon turn into great divides. This time last year I was probably scrambling to get my shit together for school and spending as much time with other people as possible, glad that I was single while a teensy weensy part of me was still hoping that eventually, I'd find someone worthy of wasting my time with. I'm still scrambling to get my shit together.

Scent of Rebellion

My fingers are slipping and sliding all over the keys of my boyfriend's laptop. The flat keys have always given me trouble, and tonight the bastards are having a heyday. Their collective tyranny is nothing, however, compared to Eric's recent keyboard woes. Gavin has also revolted, and, noting Eric's affinity for video games, took out the keyboard with stream of yellow revenge. No word on how the board is recovering, but needless to say, the office reeks of piss.

"It is estimated that sarin is more than 500 times as toxic as cyanide."

The cat, fraught with despair over lack of identity, begged us to either end her life or name her. While we briefly considered the former, her incessant purring at night has become much like a sound machine, and without that white noise I would have to hear Scott's sleep-mumbling and would spend my nights awake wondering if he just said "Aunt Fanny's on fire!" or "Death to the squire!" It's all open for interpretation, you see. At any rate, the cat has a name and, with it, a renewed will to live. Sarin (the name, not the cat) was part contribution from two of Scott's friends in D.C. (Sara and Erin) and part googled meaning, as sarin is a nerve gas and the cat is rather rank. Yes, sarin gas is odorless, but we feel the cat occasionally stinks badly enough to cause neurological damage and be used as a chemical weapon, and therefore the name is appropriate.

She's currently sitting on my lap, stinking up my jacket and following the cursor from one side of the screen to the other. She has pawed the touchpad twice, and if I pause long enough, she tries to crawl onto the keyboard to sniff the still cursor.

If you ask, you're missing the point.

“This goes nowhere”

He shouted.

My brother waited with eager ears

For the new family secret

To be revealed by our future cousin.

“My uncle, your soon-to-be father…”

Our ‘cousin’ continued,

Drool flying from his drunken lips,

Non-drink wielding arm flailing astounded.

I stared at the wooden fence

That kept the horde of people

From tumbling down the hillside.

The open patio bar supplied plenty of lager and air

And I sucked in both.

A low centigrade chill poked holes in my lungs.

If I were happy,

Would my torso resemble a constellation machine,

Shining light through the holes to

Make stars against the

Overcast Welsh sky?

I was a sponge

Waiting to be soaked in alcohol and secrets and

Wrung out the next morning.

Our cousin’s hand shook my shoulder, possessed,

“That’s why.

So now you know, and you know,

And everyone’s in the know."

I sucked in the lager and air.

Hey, go poop somewhere.

What Eric said tonight:

Your penis is right there!

I'm about to complaint right on your face.

I would never make your head into a basketball. Seriously.

I've been a vagina most my life. It's cool, man.

I don't need that nasty butt tranny.

I'm proud of both of you for pooping a lot.

You're a prostitute I get to keep. A furry prostitute.

Eric: I'm a freelancer.
Me: Freelance..?
Eric: Fucker?

What's the...Something of the time? OH, Back to the Future!

Eric, to Francisco: Oh man, this is weird, isn't it?
Me: He's never going to come back here again.
Eric: I can't help it! I live here!

Mmm, Fresh Polka Dots...

The best part of a day like this is the end. Woke up unreasonably tired. Couldn't eat anything of substance because most of what had been put in in the last two days has come back up. Managed to snag some pretzels before heading out to talk to my professor about my oh-so-terrific performance this semester (not so different from every other semester). Drove to - I'll spare you the rest and skip to the evening, where I was fed and entertained by a lovely bloke with brown hair and blue eyes. He's gone off to bed, the dogs are outside NOT EATING KITTY LITTER, and I'm waiting for my clean sheets to be dry sheets. I'm going to bury my half-frozen face in them.

And Oh! The land, she bleeds!

Mom and Phill are going to Paris and Wales for Thanksgiving. I'm only slightly jealous, as I'm sure they'll be hitting up the old and ancient areas of which Phill is so very fond. He took us overseas last Christmas and showed us the things over there that America is specifically lacking, i.e. a history so deep that even the locals can't locate a road less than a mile from where they're walking (this happened to us when we were trying to find the farm from where my dad's side of the family originated). He took us to a tavern from the 1300's, which looked like every other tavern we had gone into except for the soggy old men, who appeared especially old and soggy. Apparently we're not the only ones he's done this to. When his nephew was about 15, Phill took him on a trip around the country (must've taken hours....), stopping at every ruined castle and historical blemish on the map, while his nephew was wishing he was windsurfing on the coast like everyone else. Phill considers it such a huge cultural difference, that we have such little use of the land compared to what they've put into theirs, that he waited for our jaws to drop every time he mentioned a date of founding. I think we were never as astonished as he wanted us to be, but what do we know, being American and all?

Feast for Fatty.

Lucius has been eating kitty litter. And not the fresh from the bag stuff, but the used bits. If having both ends smell the same is some kind of doggie goal, he reached nirvana a long time ago.

Oh, the boobies!

Kid, dressed as ninja/samurai (perhaps bum with a sword): Trick or treat!
Me, holding out bowl of candy: Go ahead, you can take a couple.
Kid carefully selects three or four pieces, dropping each one in his bag before reaching for another.
Dad, from street, wearing plaid flannel and leaning on a cane: GOOD LORD, BOY! SHOW SOME SHAME!


Girl in princess costume (23rd or so of the evening): Mommy, look! That guy's falling!

Thanks to my foolishly early purchase of a large bag of chocolate eyeballs, my boobs have swollen to Significant Size status. They're perfect for a low cut dress, inadvisable as that may be this time of year. Also thanks to my roommate's contribution to the candy pile ("I got the good candy! Look at this! Snickers, Kit Kats, and Reese's Cups. None of that Tootsie Roll and Nerds crap. Wait, are those Pop Rocks?"), I'm on my way to Videogame Vixen status. If Halloween had lasted any longer, I'd be in full-on Explosion Expected mode.

Obvious Contrast

It's difficult to photograph a black cat and get anything more than a silhouette. And as for the two of them together: it doesn't mean they're friends, only that they were both napping on me while I watched TV and were caught off guard when I moved.

Black, white, and clawed.

The time has come for all good girlfriends to head over to their boyfriend's house to...

let the cat in. That's right. Because the boyfriend's out of town, and we can't have kitty (nameless thus far, though I'll be referring to her as Dickens) running around outside in the cold dark world by her itty bitty kitty self. Instead, she'll be running from one side of the house to the other, skittering across the hardwood floor and launching herself onto the couch once or twice before moving on to the kitchen. There, she'll grab the hand towels off the counter and drag them upstairs to put under nightstands and dressers. Whatever was sitting on these towels will be pitched willy-nilly, like the 4 or 5 tomatoes that were found spotting the tile floor one morning. Oh, and she also likes to drink from the toilet. Even my fat dog hasn't bothered to stump his way up to the rim for a possible quenching. Dickens is obviously amazing.

NaBloPoMo

In 45 minutes I'll be leaving for an appointment with a specialist in Attention Deficit Disorder. Here's hoping he'll have some blog ideas, because with this post, I'm beginning a full month of blogging every day. For everyone unaware, it's National Blog Posting Month: http://nablopomo.ning.com/ This is more challenge than fun, especially considering my recent inability to write anything of substance. I'm going to take this moment to apologize for both my lack of entries in the past couple of months and the onslaught of horror that is sure to take place over the next 30 days.