My dog almost died today.
Now many of you might be thinking, “Aw, did she have a close call with a car? Was she sick? Did aliens transport her to their mother ship for a week to conduct experiments on her and forget to feed her?” No, no, and no.
I almost killed her today.
I was lead to believe that I might have five minutes to myself this afternoon, so I chose to spend my time in the bath tub. No five minute scrub, rinse, ta da I’m clean kind of bath, more of a hot tub of bubbles I felt like relaxing in and ultimately taking a nap in for the better part of the day. About half way into my steaming, I was covered in soap, conditioner in my hair, when my brother decided to come home early, let the dogs out, and my dog Abigail decided to make a beeline for the main street.
For some reason my brother couldn’t capture her on his own so he comes running up the stairs and pounds on the door informing me that I need to get my ass out of the bath tub and help him.
With what I consider to be a minimal amount of swearing, I hauled myself from my sweet, cozy tub, soap suds and all, threw on whatever clothes I could reach, which just so happened to be my pajamas, and ran out the door. Minutes later I found myself uptown, still wet, and wearing nothing but a tank top, shorts, and tennis shoes, dragging that BITCH home as she pulled to get away and keep running, happily panting, ignorant or indifferent to my rage-- still not sure which.
I could of killed her.
I should of killed her.
Oh, and happy New Year.
Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Monday, December 29, 2003
Hun. I guess I can settle for this.
You are the exotic pin-up. Nothing about you is
ordinary. You are mysterious and lean toward
foreign places and exciting men.
What Type Of Retro Gal Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Snatched from sffan.
"Shall I compare thee to a Sony Walkman."
You know those e-mails from West Africa everyone gets? They all say something like, “So and so died and they had a ton of money but they have no family. Boo hoo. So if you just give us your bank info we’ll forward a trillion bucks into your account.”
Then they misspell a bunch of words, forget their punctuation and capitalization and we‘re supposed to think that some layers or big businesses doesn‘t use spell check. Well, apparently, there are some people who actually believe those letters. This guy
spent about $320,000 and still thinks that “"There was never any attempt by them to defraud me…"”
Whoa. Poor guy, but whoa. I don’t think he deserved to lose that much, but… whoa, you IDIOT.
About a year ago a good friend of mine was trying to sell her lap top. I don’t remember what site she used but she posted a few ads about it online. One of the first responses she got was from a Nigerian man. He was willing to pay more than twice what she wanted for the lap top.
And yes, this is the time where we started joking about counterfeit money and scams.
The catch was that he couldn’t just send her the money in American cash because in Africa it would take a few weeks to get his money changed into American currency, and he wanted the lap top now. He was even willing to pay the crazy price to get it sent to him in just a day or two. So, he was going to send my friend a large sum of money in Nigerian currency and have her change it into American, keep what she needed, and send the lap top, and the rest of the American cash, quite a sizable amount, back to him.
Now my friend, in all her intelligent glory, said, “this guy is either crazy to trust me with all this money, or it’s fake… I don’t care”. Of course it didn’t work out. Convinced that she was going to get caught, sent to some high security prison and made into some scary woman’s bitch and we’d have to bake her a cake with a file in it, her friends talked her out of her life of counterfeit crime. She contacted the local police and told them about the man so they were the ones who received the fake money, and my poor friend had to sell her lap top to some lady in West Virginia for a reasonable price.
The Bad Sex in Fiction Awards.
The best you ask? I vote Sean Thomas and his win in 2000 for Kissing England.
"It is time, time ... Now. Yes. She is so small and compact and yet she has all the necessary features ... Shall I compare thee to a Sony Walkman. She is his own Toshiba, his dinky little JVC, his sweet Aiwa ... Aiwa"
Then they misspell a bunch of words, forget their punctuation and capitalization and we‘re supposed to think that some layers or big businesses doesn‘t use spell check. Well, apparently, there are some people who actually believe those letters. This guy
spent about $320,000 and still thinks that “"There was never any attempt by them to defraud me…"”
Whoa. Poor guy, but whoa. I don’t think he deserved to lose that much, but… whoa, you IDIOT.
About a year ago a good friend of mine was trying to sell her lap top. I don’t remember what site she used but she posted a few ads about it online. One of the first responses she got was from a Nigerian man. He was willing to pay more than twice what she wanted for the lap top.
And yes, this is the time where we started joking about counterfeit money and scams.
The catch was that he couldn’t just send her the money in American cash because in Africa it would take a few weeks to get his money changed into American currency, and he wanted the lap top now. He was even willing to pay the crazy price to get it sent to him in just a day or two. So, he was going to send my friend a large sum of money in Nigerian currency and have her change it into American, keep what she needed, and send the lap top, and the rest of the American cash, quite a sizable amount, back to him.
Now my friend, in all her intelligent glory, said, “this guy is either crazy to trust me with all this money, or it’s fake… I don’t care”. Of course it didn’t work out. Convinced that she was going to get caught, sent to some high security prison and made into some scary woman’s bitch and we’d have to bake her a cake with a file in it, her friends talked her out of her life of counterfeit crime. She contacted the local police and told them about the man so they were the ones who received the fake money, and my poor friend had to sell her lap top to some lady in West Virginia for a reasonable price.
The Bad Sex in Fiction Awards.
The best you ask? I vote Sean Thomas and his win in 2000 for Kissing England.
"It is time, time ... Now. Yes. She is so small and compact and yet she has all the necessary features ... Shall I compare thee to a Sony Walkman. She is his own Toshiba, his dinky little JVC, his sweet Aiwa ... Aiwa"
Friday, December 26, 2003
"There's More Than One Way To Eat A Kaythryn."
Hum… maybe you shouldn’t enter your name as a word on this site.
"You Can Really Taste The Kaythryn!"
"The Best Part of Waking Up is Kaythryn in Your Cup"
"More Kaythryn Please."
On second though, yes, enter your name.
My grandfather died when I was five. I didn’t know what was going on. I sat by his hospital bed and held his hand, asked him to tell me stories but he couldn’t speak.
He was dying of lung cancer.
I wasn’t even really sad. Nothing seemed quite real at that age. I remember at his funeral everyone was fighting and crying and all I remember of my emotions was that I felt guilty for not crying like everyone else.
My mother talks about him a lot and it’s hard to say if he was a good man or not.
I loved him.
He made me toys, cooked steak and corn on the cob every time I came over, gave me the orange Popsicles from the top of the freezer, and would hold me in one hand whenever we went anywhere. The mean old man that he was wore a little bright colored pointed birthday hat and blew on a kazoo for me at my birthday.
I brought him a plastic dove one day and he spun me a story about how the dove used to be a real flesh and blood dove. There was a beautiful tree in the story, and as the dove was flying, which he demonstrated with the toy, it turned to plastic and came to me.
He wasn’t always so sweet, though. He left his wife and his six kids from that marriage repeatedly for months or years at a time with no money while he spent it all on women, fancy hats and his life long addiction to alcohol.
But he also did little things that seem so good. When he was home he’d bring in injured animals he’d find and nurse them back to health. Owls, mountain lions, and raccoons, oh my.
On the other side, while he was a drunk, he was an abusive drunk. He beat my grandmother, the three boys, my uncles and occasionally his daughters, my aunts. And my grandfather wasn’t a little man. He was almost seven feet tall, clown feet, big ears and hands so large and rough that he used to take the turkey out of the oven on thanksgiving with one bare hand. He was an oil field man. Rough, crazy strong, and scary as all get out to people that didn’t know him, and some that did. He kept a shotgun in his truck, and one by his favorite chair in the livening room.
There was a coming of age thing for the men in the family. When you got old enough dad took you out in the backyard and beat the crap out of you to keep you in line. Then he’d kick you out. Most of the kids were out of the house by fourteen.
But he never hit my mother, since she was the baby, when I knew him my grandmother and aunts and uncles were all out of the house. He was just a giant old man who told me stories and let me climb all over him. He was so dark and weather beaten he even looked like an old tree.
He used to buy bikes and fix them up, then give them away to kids in the neighborhood who couldn’t afford them. He always said that every child deserved to have a bicycle. Streamers on the handles, red flag on the back and all.
My mother was always a lot like him. Not the abusive drunk part, but she’s always helping out other kids. It used to bother me a little when I was young. I’d wake up and come downstairs and some neighbor kid that I didn’t even know would be eating my cereal. She’d buy me a toy, and if she saw that a child broke his that day, she’d give him mine. She’d always go buy me that toy again, later that day, and I never went hungry, but as a kid it’s hard to understand. Hard not to be jealous.
The first time it hit me was when I was in pre-kindergarten. I remember the day perfectly. My mother had picked me up from the regular half day of school and had brought me McDonalds for lunch. A Kermit the Frog stuffed animal was the toy. As I was getting in our white van we saw a young boy drop his lunch by accident. Other children stepped on it, squished his sandwich into the ground and you could tell he was about to cry. This time I offered to give my lunch to the kid instead of my mum giving it away. Now it still sucked every time I found some little neighbor kid eating my cereal, playing with my toys, sleeping in my bed, or taking my mom’s attention, but it helped me to understand.
It doesn’t bother me now. I understand why she does it, and a lot of it has to do with how she was treated as a child. She remembers her father giving away bicycles to kids, and remembers when he abandoned her, how she’d have to spend the night at neighbors and eat breakfast with their kids. It took a few years for me to grow up and understand, but now I love it.
Today my father and younger brother went out skiing. My brother invited a bunch of his friends to go along, but many of their families couldn’t afford to pay almost the hundred bucks needed for an entrance fee, or pay to rent skis and snowboards. It didn’t matter. I can just imagine my grandfather saying “every kid should get a chance to ski”.
I took the girls up to my room and gave them sweaters, extra pairs of socks, a warmer coat, and snow pants. My brother and father helped the boys get dressed in some of their other winter clothes. I gave my snowboard to one boy, and my father gave another his old skis. Hats and gloves got passed around before they all ran out the door, and my mother treated them to a day at the ski lodge. Kind of a belated Christmas gift.
There are just some songs I absolutely love-- mostly from the seventies and eighties. I don’t pay that much attention to the lyrics, and I don’t appreciate music on the bases of complexity or difficulty, and I don’t usually pick up on subtle…stuff, but I do know what I like. The tambourine. I’ve been saying it for years and will keep on saying it, they need to bring the tambourine back into popular music! You cannot have a song with a tambourine in it that isn’t wonderful. There’s some sort of law you learn in physics that says so. And, yay, I got one for Christmas.
"You Can Really Taste The Kaythryn!"
"The Best Part of Waking Up is Kaythryn in Your Cup"
"More Kaythryn Please."
On second though, yes, enter your name.
He was dying of lung cancer.
I wasn’t even really sad. Nothing seemed quite real at that age. I remember at his funeral everyone was fighting and crying and all I remember of my emotions was that I felt guilty for not crying like everyone else.
My mother talks about him a lot and it’s hard to say if he was a good man or not.
I loved him.
He made me toys, cooked steak and corn on the cob every time I came over, gave me the orange Popsicles from the top of the freezer, and would hold me in one hand whenever we went anywhere. The mean old man that he was wore a little bright colored pointed birthday hat and blew on a kazoo for me at my birthday.
I brought him a plastic dove one day and he spun me a story about how the dove used to be a real flesh and blood dove. There was a beautiful tree in the story, and as the dove was flying, which he demonstrated with the toy, it turned to plastic and came to me.
He wasn’t always so sweet, though. He left his wife and his six kids from that marriage repeatedly for months or years at a time with no money while he spent it all on women, fancy hats and his life long addiction to alcohol.
But he also did little things that seem so good. When he was home he’d bring in injured animals he’d find and nurse them back to health. Owls, mountain lions, and raccoons, oh my.
On the other side, while he was a drunk, he was an abusive drunk. He beat my grandmother, the three boys, my uncles and occasionally his daughters, my aunts. And my grandfather wasn’t a little man. He was almost seven feet tall, clown feet, big ears and hands so large and rough that he used to take the turkey out of the oven on thanksgiving with one bare hand. He was an oil field man. Rough, crazy strong, and scary as all get out to people that didn’t know him, and some that did. He kept a shotgun in his truck, and one by his favorite chair in the livening room.
There was a coming of age thing for the men in the family. When you got old enough dad took you out in the backyard and beat the crap out of you to keep you in line. Then he’d kick you out. Most of the kids were out of the house by fourteen.
But he never hit my mother, since she was the baby, when I knew him my grandmother and aunts and uncles were all out of the house. He was just a giant old man who told me stories and let me climb all over him. He was so dark and weather beaten he even looked like an old tree.
He used to buy bikes and fix them up, then give them away to kids in the neighborhood who couldn’t afford them. He always said that every child deserved to have a bicycle. Streamers on the handles, red flag on the back and all.
My mother was always a lot like him. Not the abusive drunk part, but she’s always helping out other kids. It used to bother me a little when I was young. I’d wake up and come downstairs and some neighbor kid that I didn’t even know would be eating my cereal. She’d buy me a toy, and if she saw that a child broke his that day, she’d give him mine. She’d always go buy me that toy again, later that day, and I never went hungry, but as a kid it’s hard to understand. Hard not to be jealous.
The first time it hit me was when I was in pre-kindergarten. I remember the day perfectly. My mother had picked me up from the regular half day of school and had brought me McDonalds for lunch. A Kermit the Frog stuffed animal was the toy. As I was getting in our white van we saw a young boy drop his lunch by accident. Other children stepped on it, squished his sandwich into the ground and you could tell he was about to cry. This time I offered to give my lunch to the kid instead of my mum giving it away. Now it still sucked every time I found some little neighbor kid eating my cereal, playing with my toys, sleeping in my bed, or taking my mom’s attention, but it helped me to understand.
It doesn’t bother me now. I understand why she does it, and a lot of it has to do with how she was treated as a child. She remembers her father giving away bicycles to kids, and remembers when he abandoned her, how she’d have to spend the night at neighbors and eat breakfast with their kids. It took a few years for me to grow up and understand, but now I love it.
Today my father and younger brother went out skiing. My brother invited a bunch of his friends to go along, but many of their families couldn’t afford to pay almost the hundred bucks needed for an entrance fee, or pay to rent skis and snowboards. It didn’t matter. I can just imagine my grandfather saying “every kid should get a chance to ski”.
I took the girls up to my room and gave them sweaters, extra pairs of socks, a warmer coat, and snow pants. My brother and father helped the boys get dressed in some of their other winter clothes. I gave my snowboard to one boy, and my father gave another his old skis. Hats and gloves got passed around before they all ran out the door, and my mother treated them to a day at the ski lodge. Kind of a belated Christmas gift.
There are just some songs I absolutely love-- mostly from the seventies and eighties. I don’t pay that much attention to the lyrics, and I don’t appreciate music on the bases of complexity or difficulty, and I don’t usually pick up on subtle…stuff, but I do know what I like. The tambourine. I’ve been saying it for years and will keep on saying it, they need to bring the tambourine back into popular music! You cannot have a song with a tambourine in it that isn’t wonderful. There’s some sort of law you learn in physics that says so. And, yay, I got one for Christmas.
Monday, December 22, 2003
"Oh, c'est fou! oh, oh"
My powers of persuasion win again.
Gifts from my grandmother came the other day and after a short stream of off the wall logic, my brother and I were allowed to open them early. I’ve got to say, gifts from the grandparents have gotten much, much better over the years. It could be that I’ve just grown into my artist grandmother’s tastes, but I do distinctly remember lime green and purple polka doted sweaters, and large floral blue china rabbits. This year, I got sexy black boots. Perfect fit, square toe, calf height, high heels, black leather, yummy, wonderful boots.
Saw Lord of the Rings a few days ago-- yeah, yeah, live journal is somewhat more like a slightly delayed journal. It was nice but quite exhausting. Up’s and downs and tears and laughs and back and fourth and running and crawling. By the end of the movie I just wanted to hug everyone and take a nap.
We went to see the movie at a little theater in a nearby town. When Gandalf smacked the steward guy, people laughed, when Frodo was stuck in the spider web people gasped, and when the ring was destroyed people cheered. It was a nice atmosphere, with two exceptions.
The young man and the young woman sitting behind me.
Now I don’t care if people talk a little during the flick, I don‘t care if they’re coming and going, and I don’t care if they’re making out, but this couple behind me was slowly causing my blood pressure to rise.
The man thought out loud though the entire movie while his girl chided him in a loud, high pitched voice.
“Shut up!”
“Is that guy Gollum? I guess he is.”
“Be quiet!”
“He sounds like him. He has stupid hair. How did he find the ring?”
“Who cares?”
“When does he find it? Why are they in that boat? Do they eat fish? They don’t really look like hobbits. Who is that guy playing him, it doesn’t look like him. Look, that guy, I think he’s gonna kill him. Yes, it’s Gollum. Yeah! That’s stupid. Why are they even showing them in a boat?”
Okay, take a deep breath. Then they started with the criticism, the insults, and the sarcastic mimicking.
I should’a gone all BC Kayt on their asses.
Got my Firefly: A Special Feature DVD today. It’s interesting. I have my own little opinions, views and thoughts on every little thing, and while I get to hear other people’s opinions on FFF.net and at #firefly, I’ve not had a chance to hear someone talk for three hours without getting interrupted. Like I said, interesting.
And todays fun link is...
The victorian sex cry generator!
Gifts from my grandmother came the other day and after a short stream of off the wall logic, my brother and I were allowed to open them early. I’ve got to say, gifts from the grandparents have gotten much, much better over the years. It could be that I’ve just grown into my artist grandmother’s tastes, but I do distinctly remember lime green and purple polka doted sweaters, and large floral blue china rabbits. This year, I got sexy black boots. Perfect fit, square toe, calf height, high heels, black leather, yummy, wonderful boots.
Saw Lord of the Rings a few days ago-- yeah, yeah, live journal is somewhat more like a slightly delayed journal. It was nice but quite exhausting. Up’s and downs and tears and laughs and back and fourth and running and crawling. By the end of the movie I just wanted to hug everyone and take a nap.
We went to see the movie at a little theater in a nearby town. When Gandalf smacked the steward guy, people laughed, when Frodo was stuck in the spider web people gasped, and when the ring was destroyed people cheered. It was a nice atmosphere, with two exceptions.
The young man and the young woman sitting behind me.
Now I don’t care if people talk a little during the flick, I don‘t care if they’re coming and going, and I don’t care if they’re making out, but this couple behind me was slowly causing my blood pressure to rise.
The man thought out loud though the entire movie while his girl chided him in a loud, high pitched voice.
“Shut up!”
“Is that guy Gollum? I guess he is.”
“Be quiet!”
“He sounds like him. He has stupid hair. How did he find the ring?”
“Who cares?”
“When does he find it? Why are they in that boat? Do they eat fish? They don’t really look like hobbits. Who is that guy playing him, it doesn’t look like him. Look, that guy, I think he’s gonna kill him. Yes, it’s Gollum. Yeah! That’s stupid. Why are they even showing them in a boat?”
Okay, take a deep breath. Then they started with the criticism, the insults, and the sarcastic mimicking.
I should’a gone all BC Kayt on their asses.
Got my Firefly: A Special Feature DVD today. It’s interesting. I have my own little opinions, views and thoughts on every little thing, and while I get to hear other people’s opinions on FFF.net and at #firefly, I’ve not had a chance to hear someone talk for three hours without getting interrupted. Like I said, interesting.
And todays fun link is...
The victorian sex cry generator!
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Go Chad, go Chad, it’s your country!
Ah, my FF DVD’s are it. *Swoon* I'd ask "how could they kick this show???" but I think that's been brought up before.
I think the depressing bit of the season is starting to hit everyone. I’ve been noticing more and more that nerves are frayed, tempers and running on high, and there have been more than a few weepy tears.
I need some new friends. New friends as in ones I can go to the movies with and eat chocolaty food with and tell stupid stories to and hug. Maybe not new friends, but just some. My bestest and closest friend, Sam, who was like a sister to me for more than ten years, well, we split up for some reason. Neither of us are quite sure why. We just stopped talking one day. Its somewhat funny looking back at it now. We used to talk at least a dozen times a day on the phone. Her father nicknamed me “breather” because we didn’t always talk when we were on the phone, just sit there and watch TV at our respective homes with the phone to our ears. We spent our weekends at each others home, caught tad poles together, she ran me over a few times with her four wheeler, I broke her finger during a football game. My family and I threw her birthday parties every year, her family took me to Cedar Point every few months. She wasn’t the best friend in the world, yeah, I know you’re reading this, but I’m right, but we were always with each other. Then, in tenth grade, we split, just went our separate ways.
That year I met my next best friend, God, the girl I hated, loathed, the year before. She had similar feelings for me. But we just clicked. The first time I went to her house her family was having a funeral in their back yard for one of her many cats. I hugged her as she cried. Then we jumped from the roof of her house, onto her trampoline, and into her pool that night during a lighting storm. The first time she came to my home we scooped up fluffs of hair my golden retriever dogs had shed, and chased each other around the neighborhood with the handfuls of disgusting stuff then sat in the middle of the street with our roller blades on and drank our melted ice cream. Later that day she fell while we were roller bading and broke her wrist. The rest of our evening was spent in the emergency room. I have no idea why she ever came back. After two years of friendship, she joined the Navy, we talk about once a month, but since neither of us are clingy, it just works.
When I started college I figured it would be a new chance to meet people. I tried, not all that hard I admit, but I did try. First year I met a little red head girl and a dark hair boy. The girl was always busy, we had to plan weeks ahead just to go do anything, and though she was sweet, she was pretty shy and really religious. The freaky kind of religious where you couldn’t debate it, insult it, joke about it, or really all in all talk about anything immoral. So, not so fun.
The guy-- cute, sweet, talkative, a bit shy but the opposite of the girl. He wanted to go out every night, wanted to talk for hours, and would be offended if I didn’t. Euh, to clingy.
I suppose it’s my fault. I should prance about and be all sociable, but I wish I could just skip all that and simply snap my fingers have a man to hold me while I sleep.
Damn my woman-ness and these horrid hormones!
Wow, I really don't know how to play this game, but it looks so purdy.
I think the depressing bit of the season is starting to hit everyone. I’ve been noticing more and more that nerves are frayed, tempers and running on high, and there have been more than a few weepy tears.
I need some new friends. New friends as in ones I can go to the movies with and eat chocolaty food with and tell stupid stories to and hug. Maybe not new friends, but just some. My bestest and closest friend, Sam, who was like a sister to me for more than ten years, well, we split up for some reason. Neither of us are quite sure why. We just stopped talking one day. Its somewhat funny looking back at it now. We used to talk at least a dozen times a day on the phone. Her father nicknamed me “breather” because we didn’t always talk when we were on the phone, just sit there and watch TV at our respective homes with the phone to our ears. We spent our weekends at each others home, caught tad poles together, she ran me over a few times with her four wheeler, I broke her finger during a football game. My family and I threw her birthday parties every year, her family took me to Cedar Point every few months. She wasn’t the best friend in the world, yeah, I know you’re reading this, but I’m right, but we were always with each other. Then, in tenth grade, we split, just went our separate ways.
That year I met my next best friend, God, the girl I hated, loathed, the year before. She had similar feelings for me. But we just clicked. The first time I went to her house her family was having a funeral in their back yard for one of her many cats. I hugged her as she cried. Then we jumped from the roof of her house, onto her trampoline, and into her pool that night during a lighting storm. The first time she came to my home we scooped up fluffs of hair my golden retriever dogs had shed, and chased each other around the neighborhood with the handfuls of disgusting stuff then sat in the middle of the street with our roller blades on and drank our melted ice cream. Later that day she fell while we were roller bading and broke her wrist. The rest of our evening was spent in the emergency room. I have no idea why she ever came back. After two years of friendship, she joined the Navy, we talk about once a month, but since neither of us are clingy, it just works.
When I started college I figured it would be a new chance to meet people. I tried, not all that hard I admit, but I did try. First year I met a little red head girl and a dark hair boy. The girl was always busy, we had to plan weeks ahead just to go do anything, and though she was sweet, she was pretty shy and really religious. The freaky kind of religious where you couldn’t debate it, insult it, joke about it, or really all in all talk about anything immoral. So, not so fun.
The guy-- cute, sweet, talkative, a bit shy but the opposite of the girl. He wanted to go out every night, wanted to talk for hours, and would be offended if I didn’t. Euh, to clingy.
I suppose it’s my fault. I should prance about and be all sociable, but I wish I could just skip all that and simply snap my fingers have a man to hold me while I sleep.
Damn my woman-ness and these horrid hormones!
Wow, I really don't know how to play this game, but it looks so purdy.
Sunday, December 14, 2003
Friday, December 12, 2003
Let me introduce you to, Fishy Thingy On Hook!
I didn't make this one, but it made me think of Sarah.
And if you want to make your own.
I didn't make this one, but it made me think of Sarah.
And if you want to make your own.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Got no title and I don't care.
Beware of the Hazards of the Season.
Sometimes I wonder if other families are as quirky as mine is.
Just a few minutes ago my whole family was congregating in my parents room talking about politics, Linkin Park, and when to open Christmas gifts. As usual, we all gathered on my parents bed, because it’s just so freaking huge, as we talked. Soon I started to frezze because for some reason my parents leave their windows open in the middle of winter, so I curled myself around my mother so she can scratch my back as my brother tried to crack my toes and I repeatedly kicked him. Then two of our dogs, Lou and Abby decide they should be able to lounge with us. They jump up, Abby, a golden retriever, seated herself quite comfortably (for herself) on my hip, and Lou, a beagle-mix-thing, landed squarely on my cat Cleo, who was sleeping under the blankets and between my fathers legs. Needless to say, she didn’t like the pouncing all that much, and neither did my father. With a minimal amount of clawing, scratching, and screeching, she removed herself and began making a nest in one of my father’s hats. And then began the Devil talk.
The Devil talk is the tone in our voice we use when the dogs do something bad. They tear up the trash and our voice gets really loud and starts to sound a bit like Darth Vader‘s-- “BAD DOG! LOOK AT THIS! GET OUTSIDE RIGHT THIS MINUITE! GRRRR!” The whole house will shake and small children and animals will cower. Tonight, my brother was using it as a mind control technique.
He grabbed Lou, our beagle, made him look straight into his eyes, and started talking his Devil talk real quietly. “I am your God. You must obey me and in return I will grant your one wish.” He leaned close listening to the dog. “…Oh! You want me to shoot this rubber band at Kayt? Okay!”
From the devil talk we went into let’s beat up Jake, to dad has weird toes, to wrestle with all the dogs while mum tries to sleep, to let’s drive the cats crazy with the flash light, to tickle Kayt while she screams until she runs away then slinks back, to my dad dancing around with a Snoop dog-rapper looking hat on, to which one of our pets would we eat first if we were stuck out in the wilderness?, to how should we cook the cats and dogs?, and on and on.
They’re freaks.
Sometimes I wonder if other families are as quirky as mine is.
Just a few minutes ago my whole family was congregating in my parents room talking about politics, Linkin Park, and when to open Christmas gifts. As usual, we all gathered on my parents bed, because it’s just so freaking huge, as we talked. Soon I started to frezze because for some reason my parents leave their windows open in the middle of winter, so I curled myself around my mother so she can scratch my back as my brother tried to crack my toes and I repeatedly kicked him. Then two of our dogs, Lou and Abby decide they should be able to lounge with us. They jump up, Abby, a golden retriever, seated herself quite comfortably (for herself) on my hip, and Lou, a beagle-mix-thing, landed squarely on my cat Cleo, who was sleeping under the blankets and between my fathers legs. Needless to say, she didn’t like the pouncing all that much, and neither did my father. With a minimal amount of clawing, scratching, and screeching, she removed herself and began making a nest in one of my father’s hats. And then began the Devil talk.
The Devil talk is the tone in our voice we use when the dogs do something bad. They tear up the trash and our voice gets really loud and starts to sound a bit like Darth Vader‘s-- “BAD DOG! LOOK AT THIS! GET OUTSIDE RIGHT THIS MINUITE! GRRRR!” The whole house will shake and small children and animals will cower. Tonight, my brother was using it as a mind control technique.
He grabbed Lou, our beagle, made him look straight into his eyes, and started talking his Devil talk real quietly. “I am your God. You must obey me and in return I will grant your one wish.” He leaned close listening to the dog. “…Oh! You want me to shoot this rubber band at Kayt? Okay!”
From the devil talk we went into let’s beat up Jake, to dad has weird toes, to wrestle with all the dogs while mum tries to sleep, to let’s drive the cats crazy with the flash light, to tickle Kayt while she screams until she runs away then slinks back, to my dad dancing around with a Snoop dog-rapper looking hat on, to which one of our pets would we eat first if we were stuck out in the wilderness?, to how should we cook the cats and dogs?, and on and on.
They’re freaks.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Tuesday, December 9, 2003
Just call me “Queen of Giant Eagle’s parking lot mutated pigeons.”
No, really.
I took my little brother into Columbus the other day to do some Christmas shopping-- quite a successful outing by the way. Around lunch time we swung though the McDonalds drive though for a quick drink that ended up to be a lunch, and also ended up being not so quick. So we stopped in the middle of Giant Eagle’s parking lot to finish our lunch before heading back into the crazed Christmas shopping crowd and as soon as I put the car in park about five big birds started waddling over to us. Now this is quite strange for me… the birds I’m used to are little brown, nervous things that peck and fly away as soon as you make eye contact with them. These Giant Eagle birds looked kinda like pigeons, but were about three times that size, white, and had either flat blue wings, or brown spotted ones.
My brother and I passed the time munching on French fries, talking about what stores to stop at next, and how strange these few birds were. Anytime a car drove by a stray bird would waddle slowly and carelessly away, and my brother and I would shout at the car, and pray for the life of our bird. It didn’t take long before we just had to feed them.
I rolled my window down, really I pushed a button and it rolled down, and threw a French fry out the window. Good lord the birds went crazy! Some were flying in the air to get above the ones searching the asphalt to get at the fried food, others just cried because they couldn’t get close, and still others nipped at their neighbors. This turned out to be wonderful entertainment for my brother and I. We would roll down our windows and throw out French fries and quickly roll the window back up again because the birds seemed quite willing to come inside for more food.
This entertainment quickly turned into a competition when I referred to one bird as my favorite, a plump thing with no neck, blue wings, and seemingly only one leg, I called him Gimpy. He was loyal to me, and would only eat French fries thrown from my window, not my brothers.
Well, my brother wouldn’t stand for that. He soon named one of his birds Lucky because it was almost run over by a car while we were sitting there. Then he started throwing more French fries to his birds. After just a few throws more birds had flown over from other parts of the parking lot to his side, he had about thirty “subjects” in his kingdom. His mutated pigeons loved him more, even a few of my birds waddled over to his side… you could say they abandoned me, but I say I cast them out.
This went on and on, French fires thrown from windows, or the sun roof, and birds crazily chasing after them. At one point I threw a handful of fries, but with my stellar aim they hit the part of the window and fell in my lap. The birds started going crazy and flying up, so I quickly tried to roll my window up, but instead hit the button for it to go down-- yeah my brother and I freaked and just started pushing crazed birds out of the car as fast as we could. Every once in awhile we counted the birds on our side of the car to see who was winning. He had thirty some, I had less than twenty.
But I had a strategy to winning in the long run. My brother’s a big guy, a wrestler, football player, track runner, all around I-can-kick-your-ass kinda guy, he also eats lots of fries. When he was out I threw the rest of my French fries out the window and attracted a crowd of birds that could probably be seen from orbit.
They loved me, the mutated pigeons really loved me!
Wow, it’s times like this when I really feel like I should just grow up a bit.
On more important news, I touched the official Firefly DVD’s today! I can’t buy them because I’m sure that I’m getting them for Christmas, but I walked past Samgoody today and there they were, right up front. I had to go inside and just hold them for a minute.
And I knew it.
I took my little brother into Columbus the other day to do some Christmas shopping-- quite a successful outing by the way. Around lunch time we swung though the McDonalds drive though for a quick drink that ended up to be a lunch, and also ended up being not so quick. So we stopped in the middle of Giant Eagle’s parking lot to finish our lunch before heading back into the crazed Christmas shopping crowd and as soon as I put the car in park about five big birds started waddling over to us. Now this is quite strange for me… the birds I’m used to are little brown, nervous things that peck and fly away as soon as you make eye contact with them. These Giant Eagle birds looked kinda like pigeons, but were about three times that size, white, and had either flat blue wings, or brown spotted ones.
My brother and I passed the time munching on French fries, talking about what stores to stop at next, and how strange these few birds were. Anytime a car drove by a stray bird would waddle slowly and carelessly away, and my brother and I would shout at the car, and pray for the life of our bird. It didn’t take long before we just had to feed them.
I rolled my window down, really I pushed a button and it rolled down, and threw a French fry out the window. Good lord the birds went crazy! Some were flying in the air to get above the ones searching the asphalt to get at the fried food, others just cried because they couldn’t get close, and still others nipped at their neighbors. This turned out to be wonderful entertainment for my brother and I. We would roll down our windows and throw out French fries and quickly roll the window back up again because the birds seemed quite willing to come inside for more food.
This entertainment quickly turned into a competition when I referred to one bird as my favorite, a plump thing with no neck, blue wings, and seemingly only one leg, I called him Gimpy. He was loyal to me, and would only eat French fries thrown from my window, not my brothers.
Well, my brother wouldn’t stand for that. He soon named one of his birds Lucky because it was almost run over by a car while we were sitting there. Then he started throwing more French fries to his birds. After just a few throws more birds had flown over from other parts of the parking lot to his side, he had about thirty “subjects” in his kingdom. His mutated pigeons loved him more, even a few of my birds waddled over to his side… you could say they abandoned me, but I say I cast them out.
This went on and on, French fires thrown from windows, or the sun roof, and birds crazily chasing after them. At one point I threw a handful of fries, but with my stellar aim they hit the part of the window and fell in my lap. The birds started going crazy and flying up, so I quickly tried to roll my window up, but instead hit the button for it to go down-- yeah my brother and I freaked and just started pushing crazed birds out of the car as fast as we could. Every once in awhile we counted the birds on our side of the car to see who was winning. He had thirty some, I had less than twenty.
But I had a strategy to winning in the long run. My brother’s a big guy, a wrestler, football player, track runner, all around I-can-kick-your-ass kinda guy, he also eats lots of fries. When he was out I threw the rest of my French fries out the window and attracted a crowd of birds that could probably be seen from orbit.
They loved me, the mutated pigeons really loved me!
Wow, it’s times like this when I really feel like I should just grow up a bit.
On more important news, I touched the official Firefly DVD’s today! I can’t buy them because I’m sure that I’m getting them for Christmas, but I walked past Samgoody today and there they were, right up front. I had to go inside and just hold them for a minute.
And I knew it.
Friday, December 5, 2003
Okay, so my LJ is kinda turning into an Ohio weather report but… it’s snowing again! Actually it’s raining slush, but it’s white, so I lump it into the snow category.
I’m now officially a crocheter and it’s the coolest thing since ever. Much faster than knitting, prettier stitches, and you can actually make things! I'm loving it. I made myself a little hat today that's cutting off the blood supply to the top of my head, but it's just so cute that I don’t cares about trifle things like an oxygen supply or hat hair.
Also, today is the Day of the Ninja. Wear black and kick some ass today-- spread the word and the love.
I’m now officially a crocheter and it’s the coolest thing since ever. Much faster than knitting, prettier stitches, and you can actually make things! I'm loving it. I made myself a little hat today that's cutting off the blood supply to the top of my head, but it's just so cute that I don’t cares about trifle things like an oxygen supply or hat hair.
Also, today is the Day of the Ninja. Wear black and kick some ass today-- spread the word and the love.
Wednesday, December 3, 2003
Mustang... zap!
What in the hell?
"Using the pseudonym "Franky", he posted Internet ads saying: "If you are 18-25 you are my boy" or "Come to me I'll eat your delicious flesh".
Some 430 people responded to his e-mails within a year."
Whoa, there are way too many stupid people in the world.
"Using the pseudonym "Franky", he posted Internet ads saying: "If you are 18-25 you are my boy" or "Come to me I'll eat your delicious flesh".
Some 430 people responded to his e-mails within a year."
Whoa, there are way too many stupid people in the world.
Sunday, November 30, 2003
Wow, I’m a dork. I’ve been trying to learn to crochet for years, though... well, it was just bad, but today I managed to get some straight-from-mum lessons and already I’ve made something. I call it Lumpy Ball. I was trying to make a flat square thing, but it had a mind of it’s own. It looks like a hacky sack on a string and it's stuffed with scrap material so it’s really soft. It’s also baby blue. I like to swing it around and hit things with it. Pretend I’m Xena’s side kick. She’s on one side fighting the bad guys with her Chakram, and I’m on the other side, swinging around my Lumpy Ball in an impressive arch knocking people to the ground with a dull thump to the head. Now I just need to figure out a battle cry that can compete with Xena’s screaming, clicking, mess.
Saturday, November 29, 2003
Fire.... zap!
You know that one day, on the weekend after Thanksgiving, when the whole family hangs out, puts up the Christmas tree, eats Thanksgiving leftovers, and stays in their pj’s all day? Well nothing screws that up like getting a phone call from a paranoid mother saying your younger brother was doing drugs with her son last night. Of course it’s not true, but yay, what a way to damper the Christmas spirit.
What is it with moms always accusing kids? I remember my neighbor was always calling my parents and telling them she saw me smoking pot after school. My best girlfriend’s mother used to check to see if her eyes were dilated and was always worried when she wore certain shirts thinking she was trying to hid a pregnancy, marks from shooting up, or cuts on her arms. Maybe it’s the “stay at home” part of these moms. Maybe they’re just a little stir crazy, have some cabin fever or space dementia. They just all seem nuts.
I love this site. They don’t have the word “thong”, but I think I can improvise.
What is it with moms always accusing kids? I remember my neighbor was always calling my parents and telling them she saw me smoking pot after school. My best girlfriend’s mother used to check to see if her eyes were dilated and was always worried when she wore certain shirts thinking she was trying to hid a pregnancy, marks from shooting up, or cuts on her arms. Maybe it’s the “stay at home” part of these moms. Maybe they’re just a little stir crazy, have some cabin fever or space dementia. They just all seem nuts.
I love this site. They don’t have the word “thong”, but I think I can improvise.
Friday, November 28, 2003
Docheck!
I redesigned my site the other day. Yes, I know, I have no life.
Thrusting your bare hand though broken plate glass, kiddies, don’t try this at home. It’s not at all bad though. At first there was all this blood and it hurt like a bitch and I almost started crying thinking I would have to get stitches, but after I cleaned it up, it just took some band aids. I am such a big baby. It’s a curse, the injuries, not the big baby part. The women in the Kayt family line have always had the misfortune of smashing, breaking, cutting, burning, and overall screwing up their hands. My grandmother, and now my mother’s hands and wrists are covered in light scars. I had just hoped this curse would skip a generation. If I don’t get some kind of scar from this I’ll be pissed, I want a war wound to boast about.
Thanksgiving. Fun, fun. Usually we have it at our house and all the family comes over but things have changed since my nana died. Family gatherings have become kinda sparse. This year we had Thanksgiving dinner at John’s house, the guy that owns the company that my mum, dad, and I work at. He’s not so much our boss, just the guy that bosses us around and we tell to go to hell, then we all argue and yell and some of us laugh behind the corner.
Our family has known John and his for over twenty years. We spend Christmas Eve with them, they come to our birthdays, graduations, weekend lunches, etc, even more often than my real family does. John and his wife Chloe owned the dance studio that my mother worked at for many years when I was a kid, and the two of them plus their son, Kenny, all danced with my mother in competitions. Sometimes today I can still get them to dance with me, but after ten years they’re like to step on my toes.
Their house is a little strange. I’m betting it was a pretty kick ass house in the fifties, but now it’s stuck there. John and Chloe spend almost every waking hour at work so in the last 19 years that I’ve gone over to visit them their house has never changed. NEVER. The same plastic bag with the same McDonalds toys are in the same exact spot they were in when I played with then when I was five. It’s a little comforting in a way to have that home, with all the memories I have of it, and they’re always there, always the same. John has always been mean to most people, rough and a little trollish, but nice to me. And since I can remember, Chloe has been crazy. Because of an aneurysm she had years ago, she‘s unable to remember anything new now. It’s sad when I really think about it, but she doesn’t know what happened, she can’t remember when she’s told. She is always asking me if we’re in Mexico, if it’s Christmas, and telling me that my books are hers, that the gifts we’ve given her were made by her long gone mother. In the beginning, before I can remember much, I think people tried to correct her, but now, we play along and all laugh, Chloe most of all.
She was the one that taught me to knit. She brought out a piece to show me, one she started working on a few years ago. I started looking at it, admiring the stitches and asked her what it was. She told me it was a baby’s sweater… it had three arm holes that intertwined so no three armed child could wear it. After a few minutes she told me it was men’s underwear, the third “arm hole” is for the mans, you know. Just a little later it was an oven mitt. Oh she’s fun.
Snow update: Though we got or first snow days ago, it hasn’t stuck to the ground until today. Two inches! Not that it just snowed two inches, but we have two inches on the ground! I’m sledding tomorrow, baby!
Oh, and my friend Blackstar just started up a blog, The Best Laid Plans.
Thanksgiving. Fun, fun. Usually we have it at our house and all the family comes over but things have changed since my nana died. Family gatherings have become kinda sparse. This year we had Thanksgiving dinner at John’s house, the guy that owns the company that my mum, dad, and I work at. He’s not so much our boss, just the guy that bosses us around and we tell to go to hell, then we all argue and yell and some of us laugh behind the corner.
Our family has known John and his for over twenty years. We spend Christmas Eve with them, they come to our birthdays, graduations, weekend lunches, etc, even more often than my real family does. John and his wife Chloe owned the dance studio that my mother worked at for many years when I was a kid, and the two of them plus their son, Kenny, all danced with my mother in competitions. Sometimes today I can still get them to dance with me, but after ten years they’re like to step on my toes.
Their house is a little strange. I’m betting it was a pretty kick ass house in the fifties, but now it’s stuck there. John and Chloe spend almost every waking hour at work so in the last 19 years that I’ve gone over to visit them their house has never changed. NEVER. The same plastic bag with the same McDonalds toys are in the same exact spot they were in when I played with then when I was five. It’s a little comforting in a way to have that home, with all the memories I have of it, and they’re always there, always the same. John has always been mean to most people, rough and a little trollish, but nice to me. And since I can remember, Chloe has been crazy. Because of an aneurysm she had years ago, she‘s unable to remember anything new now. It’s sad when I really think about it, but she doesn’t know what happened, she can’t remember when she’s told. She is always asking me if we’re in Mexico, if it’s Christmas, and telling me that my books are hers, that the gifts we’ve given her were made by her long gone mother. In the beginning, before I can remember much, I think people tried to correct her, but now, we play along and all laugh, Chloe most of all.
She was the one that taught me to knit. She brought out a piece to show me, one she started working on a few years ago. I started looking at it, admiring the stitches and asked her what it was. She told me it was a baby’s sweater… it had three arm holes that intertwined so no three armed child could wear it. After a few minutes she told me it was men’s underwear, the third “arm hole” is for the mans, you know. Just a little later it was an oven mitt. Oh she’s fun.
Snow update: Though we got or first snow days ago, it hasn’t stuck to the ground until today. Two inches! Not that it just snowed two inches, but we have two inches on the ground! I’m sledding tomorrow, baby!
Oh, and my friend Blackstar just started up a blog, The Best Laid Plans.
Monday, November 24, 2003
"WET PAINT (this is not an instruction)"
It snowed!
First snow of the year!
Yay!
And finally this year it’s snowed before Christmas!
I don’t know why that’s important, but for some reason it feels like it should be. As kids… okay, still today, we make bets on when it will snow, if there will be snow on the ground for Christmas, and how long it will last.
A few years ago we made a 9 foot tall snowman, and even though he melted a little though the weeks, he stayed a big ball of ice in early May. We’ve tried to recreate that sweet snowman in the past, but the urge to crush them, topple them, and roll them over unsuspecting little kids has been too great. Also, the fact that we haven’t gotten much snow lately has made it difficult.
It used to be that we could make great snow castles, tunnels, forts, thrones, sculptures, and battle fields. For hours the neighborhood girls worked on their fort on the left side of the drive way, and the boys worked on theirs on the right side. Both groups helping to shovel the driveway first so they would have a clean sheet of ice to fight on.
The boys were agreeably more practical in their battle plans. Piles of snowballs sat behind short, thick protective walls that had rough holes in spots so they peek though if need be. Garbage can lids were shields. Shovels were fixed into catapults. Their only decoration was a flag made of a piece of paper with a pencil thrust though it. Their fort was finished in a quarter of the time it took us girls. They were ready for a war.
The girls took their time with their fort. They crafted tall walls with decorative spikes of snow on top and pretty carvings on the façade. We each had our own room to fight from, sleds lined the bottom to keep us dry. We sculpted little shelves to place our snowballs in and searched long and hard for the best snow to use.
When the time came to fight the rules were drawn up.
1. No aiming for the head.
2. Timeouts can be called twice for each team.
3. No rocks.
4. You can’t cross the crack in the driveway and come onto the other teams side, you have to throw from your own side. If so much as a toe crosses the crack you get a penalty. (We never did come up with a penalty)
And it started.
After all the work did, all the planning, and preparation, the snow ball fights sucked at first. We were all so tired from making our defenses that we didn’t have much energy to fight.
Only after our second wind kicked in, near the end when the boys were throwing great scoops of snow from their shovels, the girls were out of prettily formed snowballs and resorted to throwing handfuls of their fort, and at least two people were crying because they got snow down the back of their coat or in their ear, was it fun.
After the forts were destroyed in the battle we stomped them down and mushed them into ramps. It worked out that after a running start you would land on your sled, race bumpily down our hill, (a small one, but it still attracted all the kids in the neighborhood) you would hit one ramp (the girls old fort), slide across the ice of our paved drive way, hit the next ramp (the boys old fort), whoosh over the grass, try to miss the pine tree, and sail into the icy street and down the hill.
All it took was to have one kid always near the adjoining main street so he or she could scream down at us when a car turned on it’s blinker to turn onto our street. That of course caused all of us to run around wildly and try to pile up on the current child who would be sledding down the hill in hopes of stopping him or turning him before he reached the road. It was always a glorious occasion when we succeeded, and only once did we fail. The kid was my cousin and she crashed into the big back tire of a truck on her yellow sled. Thankfully the driver had stopped when he saw her coming.
Oh, I love the winter.
Right now I’m sitting in my bed fully dressed. Blue jeans, sweater, boots, scarf, hat, gloves, and all covered up with two big comforters because it’s so damn cold in here.
It‘s not really bad, though, I’m used to it. For 12 years my room didn’t have a heat vent or any other kind of heater in it. Every once in awhile I’d bring the outdoor thermometer in my room and leave it on top of my TV for a few hours. I think the coldest I remember my room recorded at was 38 degrees. Yeah, I think I could of survived with the wolves in the artic. Run around naked and at night curl up in a little ball in the snow and sleep.
And, have you’ve done something wrong, but the police still haven’t found you? Do you have pent up guilt about this incident? Well don’t worry anymore because the this site will help.
First snow of the year!
Yay!
And finally this year it’s snowed before Christmas!
I don’t know why that’s important, but for some reason it feels like it should be. As kids… okay, still today, we make bets on when it will snow, if there will be snow on the ground for Christmas, and how long it will last.
A few years ago we made a 9 foot tall snowman, and even though he melted a little though the weeks, he stayed a big ball of ice in early May. We’ve tried to recreate that sweet snowman in the past, but the urge to crush them, topple them, and roll them over unsuspecting little kids has been too great. Also, the fact that we haven’t gotten much snow lately has made it difficult.
It used to be that we could make great snow castles, tunnels, forts, thrones, sculptures, and battle fields. For hours the neighborhood girls worked on their fort on the left side of the drive way, and the boys worked on theirs on the right side. Both groups helping to shovel the driveway first so they would have a clean sheet of ice to fight on.
The boys were agreeably more practical in their battle plans. Piles of snowballs sat behind short, thick protective walls that had rough holes in spots so they peek though if need be. Garbage can lids were shields. Shovels were fixed into catapults. Their only decoration was a flag made of a piece of paper with a pencil thrust though it. Their fort was finished in a quarter of the time it took us girls. They were ready for a war.
The girls took their time with their fort. They crafted tall walls with decorative spikes of snow on top and pretty carvings on the façade. We each had our own room to fight from, sleds lined the bottom to keep us dry. We sculpted little shelves to place our snowballs in and searched long and hard for the best snow to use.
When the time came to fight the rules were drawn up.
1. No aiming for the head.
2. Timeouts can be called twice for each team.
3. No rocks.
4. You can’t cross the crack in the driveway and come onto the other teams side, you have to throw from your own side. If so much as a toe crosses the crack you get a penalty. (We never did come up with a penalty)
And it started.
After all the work did, all the planning, and preparation, the snow ball fights sucked at first. We were all so tired from making our defenses that we didn’t have much energy to fight.
Only after our second wind kicked in, near the end when the boys were throwing great scoops of snow from their shovels, the girls were out of prettily formed snowballs and resorted to throwing handfuls of their fort, and at least two people were crying because they got snow down the back of their coat or in their ear, was it fun.
After the forts were destroyed in the battle we stomped them down and mushed them into ramps. It worked out that after a running start you would land on your sled, race bumpily down our hill, (a small one, but it still attracted all the kids in the neighborhood) you would hit one ramp (the girls old fort), slide across the ice of our paved drive way, hit the next ramp (the boys old fort), whoosh over the grass, try to miss the pine tree, and sail into the icy street and down the hill.
All it took was to have one kid always near the adjoining main street so he or she could scream down at us when a car turned on it’s blinker to turn onto our street. That of course caused all of us to run around wildly and try to pile up on the current child who would be sledding down the hill in hopes of stopping him or turning him before he reached the road. It was always a glorious occasion when we succeeded, and only once did we fail. The kid was my cousin and she crashed into the big back tire of a truck on her yellow sled. Thankfully the driver had stopped when he saw her coming.
Oh, I love the winter.
Right now I’m sitting in my bed fully dressed. Blue jeans, sweater, boots, scarf, hat, gloves, and all covered up with two big comforters because it’s so damn cold in here.
It‘s not really bad, though, I’m used to it. For 12 years my room didn’t have a heat vent or any other kind of heater in it. Every once in awhile I’d bring the outdoor thermometer in my room and leave it on top of my TV for a few hours. I think the coldest I remember my room recorded at was 38 degrees. Yeah, I think I could of survived with the wolves in the artic. Run around naked and at night curl up in a little ball in the snow and sleep.
And, have you’ve done something wrong, but the police still haven’t found you? Do you have pent up guilt about this incident? Well don’t worry anymore because the this site will help.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
After a long day at school and spent running around town the first thing I saw as I trudged into my room was a beautiful bunch of flowers! Not from a secrete admirer mind you, but still marvelous.
The card read: “We are so proud of you, lips! Love, the rest of your clan.”
My family is too sweet. I not sure what’s put them flower-giving-proud mood all of a sudden, but I’ll not argue, let them be happy and let me have flowers.
And, to continue the cycle of happiness…. Ever felt the need to maim a mime?
The card read: “We are so proud of you, lips! Love, the rest of your clan.”
My family is too sweet. I not sure what’s put them flower-giving-proud mood all of a sudden, but I’ll not argue, let them be happy and let me have flowers.
And, to continue the cycle of happiness…. Ever felt the need to maim a mime?
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
"Most fools think they are only ignorant"
Today was a good day.
The upstairs pluming is working again, thankfully saving me from having to give myself a sponge bath in the kitchen sink. I won Photoshop tennis in my digital art class, yay for me! Dad tweaked some widgets in the Mazda, so my car is up and running. I’m almost back on track with pre-history and psychology. I painted my toenails blue and sparkly. And I’m sitting here drinking hot chocolate and eating a hoc-o-choco-pot-o-thing (think big hunk of hot uncooked chocolate brownie in a bowl with chocolate syrup and fudge… oh god, yum) while I‘m chatting with my wonderfulmus #Firefly friends. Just lots of little things like that have made today a good day.
On the way to school today I passed a van load of Amish who were eating McDonalds. Why don’t they just drive themselves? That had to be the most hilarious thing ever, though… a van load of them. Heh. My little shoulder devil told me to flash them my boobs, my shoulder angel told me to wave, so in the end I just ignored them. Then the next 30 minutes were spent behind an Ashley county ambulance. It was kinda creepy but like my own personal ER. I could see people, though the back windows, kneeling over a person, giving them a shot, and holding a mask over what I assume to be their face. It was intresting but sad. Some poor old person was all alone, no one was speeding to keep up with the ambulance like we did for my grandmother so we could be there the second she got to the emergency room.
Ohhh, grrr. That brings me to a rant. I won’t go on about it right now because that would ruin my good day, but I just found out that my Aunt, who is an author, wrote a piece about my grandmothers death. It pisses me off all to hell. It’s just wrong on so many levels, mostly because she wasn’t even in the same state as my grandmother most of the time. Oh, grrr.
Think happy thoughts, happy thoughts.
Well, happy site atleast.
This one’s mostly for the splendiferous Mag and her Bandersnatch, over at The Rubble.
The upstairs pluming is working again, thankfully saving me from having to give myself a sponge bath in the kitchen sink. I won Photoshop tennis in my digital art class, yay for me! Dad tweaked some widgets in the Mazda, so my car is up and running. I’m almost back on track with pre-history and psychology. I painted my toenails blue and sparkly. And I’m sitting here drinking hot chocolate and eating a hoc-o-choco-pot-o-thing (think big hunk of hot uncooked chocolate brownie in a bowl with chocolate syrup and fudge… oh god, yum) while I‘m chatting with my wonderfulmus #Firefly friends. Just lots of little things like that have made today a good day.
On the way to school today I passed a van load of Amish who were eating McDonalds. Why don’t they just drive themselves? That had to be the most hilarious thing ever, though… a van load of them. Heh. My little shoulder devil told me to flash them my boobs, my shoulder angel told me to wave, so in the end I just ignored them. Then the next 30 minutes were spent behind an Ashley county ambulance. It was kinda creepy but like my own personal ER. I could see people, though the back windows, kneeling over a person, giving them a shot, and holding a mask over what I assume to be their face. It was intresting but sad. Some poor old person was all alone, no one was speeding to keep up with the ambulance like we did for my grandmother so we could be there the second she got to the emergency room.
Ohhh, grrr. That brings me to a rant. I won’t go on about it right now because that would ruin my good day, but I just found out that my Aunt, who is an author, wrote a piece about my grandmothers death. It pisses me off all to hell. It’s just wrong on so many levels, mostly because she wasn’t even in the same state as my grandmother most of the time. Oh, grrr.
Think happy thoughts, happy thoughts.
Well, happy site atleast.
This one’s mostly for the splendiferous Mag and her Bandersnatch, over at The Rubble.
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
"Life is a sexually transmitted disease."
I didn’t think I’d get time to write but my ever thoughtful car, the Mazda-bug, decided not to start today, so subsequently I can’t go to class. Usually this would be a time to shout “yay”, but I haven’t been to my anthropology class since the 6th. I’m kinda starting to miss it.
Something spooky must be going around here, my car won’t start, our truck won’t start, the upstairs pluming is out of wack, and three light bulbs in my room went out this morning (Euh, I can already see the shadowy spots of dead ladybug bits in at least one light). I give you fair warning, soon it will be raining fire and Ohio will be swimming in locusts.
Once again back to the topic of bugs-- my cat, Cleo, caught a fly in my room the other day. My first reaction was “ew!” and to shoo her away from the poor, innocent creature but I decided against it. Let the mighty hunter stalk down her unsuspecting prey and feast upon it. She batted it around with her clawless paws, pushed it up against the wall and sniffed it.
I watched with maternal pride. My baby is all grown up, a hunter.
Then, as she was sniffing it, the injured but still live fly got stuck in her whiskers. She tried to bite at it but couldn’t reach it. She started to spin in circles trying to turn enough to reach the bug on her left. It was like watching a dog try to catch it’s tail. My pride was wavering. After some spinning the fly fell loose, back to the floor. She covered it with her paws, let it free to crawl a few inches, then pounced on it again repeating this process until the fly could barely crawl any further.
All pride I had in my cat was now gone and replaced by sheer confusion. This didn’t seem to me to be the most efficient way to hunt. Eat the damn fly already.
Finally she picked the fly up in her mouth, only to drop it and smush it with her paws again. The fly was dead. There was a moment of silence, but no words spoken since neither me nor my cat knew much about this particular fly or how it lived it’s life. Now, the creature is killed, we can feast. She sniffed at the corpse, and walked away.
Sadistic bitch.
And yet another site, useful for when you find yourself overrun with zombies and at a lost as to what you should do.
Something spooky must be going around here, my car won’t start, our truck won’t start, the upstairs pluming is out of wack, and three light bulbs in my room went out this morning (Euh, I can already see the shadowy spots of dead ladybug bits in at least one light). I give you fair warning, soon it will be raining fire and Ohio will be swimming in locusts.
Once again back to the topic of bugs-- my cat, Cleo, caught a fly in my room the other day. My first reaction was “ew!” and to shoo her away from the poor, innocent creature but I decided against it. Let the mighty hunter stalk down her unsuspecting prey and feast upon it. She batted it around with her clawless paws, pushed it up against the wall and sniffed it.
I watched with maternal pride. My baby is all grown up, a hunter.
Then, as she was sniffing it, the injured but still live fly got stuck in her whiskers. She tried to bite at it but couldn’t reach it. She started to spin in circles trying to turn enough to reach the bug on her left. It was like watching a dog try to catch it’s tail. My pride was wavering. After some spinning the fly fell loose, back to the floor. She covered it with her paws, let it free to crawl a few inches, then pounced on it again repeating this process until the fly could barely crawl any further.
All pride I had in my cat was now gone and replaced by sheer confusion. This didn’t seem to me to be the most efficient way to hunt. Eat the damn fly already.
Finally she picked the fly up in her mouth, only to drop it and smush it with her paws again. The fly was dead. There was a moment of silence, but no words spoken since neither me nor my cat knew much about this particular fly or how it lived it’s life. Now, the creature is killed, we can feast. She sniffed at the corpse, and walked away.
Sadistic bitch.
And yet another site, useful for when you find yourself overrun with zombies and at a lost as to what you should do.
Sunday, November 16, 2003
The Apathetic Online Journal Entry Generator
My life's been completely boring today. Not much on my mind worth mentioning, but pfft. I've just been letting everything wash over me. That's how it is. Whatever. I haven't gotten much done these days, but what can I say?
And for all of you bloggers with little time.
http://www.brunching.com/journalgenerator.html
And for all of you bloggers with little time.
http://www.brunching.com/journalgenerator.html
Saturday, November 15, 2003
“The only way to get rid of nuclear weapons is to use them.” Heheh.
Ahh. You just don’t know what a good night’s sleep is until you’ve gotten 19 hours of it after four days without it. Yes, sleep is good. Sleep is very good.
I had a lovely little doctors appointment yesterday. Before I went in my mother had the gall to blame my aliments on allergies. Ha! Like I would be weakened by allergies. Made to stay up for days on end sneezing my brains out because of allergies. Bed ridden by allergies. Well… not bed ridden, but in bed a whole lot. Pfft, allergies, preposterous!
So I went in, whined about my aches and pains, got poked and prodded, stuck and squeezed. Then my doctor left to do the mysterious things doctors do while I sat on that funky shaped bed covered in crinkly wax paper. Now you’d think since I was at a hospital, in the doctors office, that they’d had some tissue paper for their sniffling patients, but no. All they had were those buy-cheap-by-bulk brown paper towels that you find in elementary school bathrooms that are made out of recycled cardboard boxes. Euh, my poor nose. By the time I went though a short stack of those my doctor came back in and sat down on her stool, a serious look on her face.
“Rabies?” I asked.
She looked up, “does your mouth foam?”
“Only when I brush my teeth.”
She shook her head and continued looking at my chart.
Okay, no to rabies.
“The plague? It’s the plague isn’t it? I knew it, I’ve had this feeling in my chest…”
“Have you been having hallucinations, is your body covered in boils?”
“Well, no, but that doesn’t mean…”
She shook her head again.
Alright, it’s not the plague.
“Well… what is it doc?”
She doesn‘t even look up to answer me-- that’s a bad sign. “I think you've just got a bug.”
A bug? What the hell does that mean? A bug. What bug? Why do I have it? I don’t want it. My doctor is much too vague and matter-of-fact for my comfort.
“We’ll give you some hefty antibiotics to take, should clear it all up in a week or so. If you’re not better by next Friday come back in. Keep in mind though, you’ll probably feel worse before you begin to feel better.”
And that translated to: “We’re going to pump you full of drugs that you don’t need. They probably wont do anything since you’re likely to heal on your own eventually. If you’re not dead by Friday then the unknown bug is more than likely not fatal, darn. Also, the useless, pricey pills that you’re going to be sucking down for the next two weeks are going to make you feel sick and amplify all the ill symptoms that you have now, enjoy taking your exams with that.”
Yay.
Ohhh, new fun site.
I’ve been making gun toting BC characters on that site all day. Yeah, I really know how to party.
I had a lovely little doctors appointment yesterday. Before I went in my mother had the gall to blame my aliments on allergies. Ha! Like I would be weakened by allergies. Made to stay up for days on end sneezing my brains out because of allergies. Bed ridden by allergies. Well… not bed ridden, but in bed a whole lot. Pfft, allergies, preposterous!
So I went in, whined about my aches and pains, got poked and prodded, stuck and squeezed. Then my doctor left to do the mysterious things doctors do while I sat on that funky shaped bed covered in crinkly wax paper. Now you’d think since I was at a hospital, in the doctors office, that they’d had some tissue paper for their sniffling patients, but no. All they had were those buy-cheap-by-bulk brown paper towels that you find in elementary school bathrooms that are made out of recycled cardboard boxes. Euh, my poor nose. By the time I went though a short stack of those my doctor came back in and sat down on her stool, a serious look on her face.
“Rabies?” I asked.
She looked up, “does your mouth foam?”
“Only when I brush my teeth.”
She shook her head and continued looking at my chart.
Okay, no to rabies.
“The plague? It’s the plague isn’t it? I knew it, I’ve had this feeling in my chest…”
“Have you been having hallucinations, is your body covered in boils?”
“Well, no, but that doesn’t mean…”
She shook her head again.
Alright, it’s not the plague.
“Well… what is it doc?”
She doesn‘t even look up to answer me-- that’s a bad sign. “I think you've just got a bug.”
A bug? What the hell does that mean? A bug. What bug? Why do I have it? I don’t want it. My doctor is much too vague and matter-of-fact for my comfort.
“We’ll give you some hefty antibiotics to take, should clear it all up in a week or so. If you’re not better by next Friday come back in. Keep in mind though, you’ll probably feel worse before you begin to feel better.”
And that translated to: “We’re going to pump you full of drugs that you don’t need. They probably wont do anything since you’re likely to heal on your own eventually. If you’re not dead by Friday then the unknown bug is more than likely not fatal, darn. Also, the useless, pricey pills that you’re going to be sucking down for the next two weeks are going to make you feel sick and amplify all the ill symptoms that you have now, enjoy taking your exams with that.”
Yay.
Ohhh, new fun site.
I’ve been making gun toting BC characters on that site all day. Yeah, I really know how to party.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Tip of the day: Kids, if you see a bear, don’t fall to the ground and play dead. The bear is not that stupid, he will know you are still alive. D’uh!
Today I was fed (almost) the scariest damn thing I have ever seen. Think back to any alien movie you’ve seen. Remember the eggs? Those off white, gooey, translucent, spider egg looking thingies? Yes you do, they are in every alien movie ever made. Well, someone cooked one and tried to fed it to me. They said it was a cabbage roll. Pfft, I know better. It could just be the fever talking, but that wasn’t a damn cabbage roll, it was a freaking alien egg and it smelled like the inside of an old pumpkin! I'll be scared for life.
You are spoon guy. You should have planned ahead
buddy, or packed a bigger lunch.
which rejected character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Yup, that seems fitting.
Today I was fed (almost) the scariest damn thing I have ever seen. Think back to any alien movie you’ve seen. Remember the eggs? Those off white, gooey, translucent, spider egg looking thingies? Yes you do, they are in every alien movie ever made. Well, someone cooked one and tried to fed it to me. They said it was a cabbage roll. Pfft, I know better. It could just be the fever talking, but that wasn’t a damn cabbage roll, it was a freaking alien egg and it smelled like the inside of an old pumpkin! I'll be scared for life.
You are spoon guy. You should have planned ahead
buddy, or packed a bigger lunch.
which rejected character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Yup, that seems fitting.
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Ah well, the first sign of winter is here at last-- vile ladybugs.
Ladybugs must be natures most misunderstood bug. I see them in cartoons as nice little grandmother bugs, chubby around the middle, rosy red, and cookie baking. Some people think it’s good luck when one lands on your shoulder, they think they’re harmless and cute. Ignorant fools.
Anyone remember the movie “Arachnids”? Some guy’s house gets overrun by thousands of poisonous spiders, people are dying all over the place, and the main characters have to fight to get out of their own home alive. Well, around winter time in Ohio, ladybugs do the same damn thing.
First it’s just one you hear flying around the room, or one crawling on the counter. Then there’s one on your mirror, in your closet, on the computer, crawling around the book case. Soon those little “ones” multiply into hundreds. And these are selfless bastards too, if some have to die to make you uncomfortable, fine with them. Sacrifice part of the group so the rest can feed off your disgust and anger.
They climb into your light fixtures and die leaving dozens of brittle little corpses that will fall into your hair when you have to change a light bulb months down the road. They delight in crunching under your bare foot, floating in your bathtub, crawling around the rim of your drinking glass, or flying into your face. Also, they bite. No stinging or hissing, just tiny bites, then a little bit of yellow spit up just to really make you feel sick.
We no longer just kill one, or try and shoo them out of the house like we did the beginning of our first winter-- we vacuum them up by the dozens. Suck them from the curtains, out of the little corners in rooms, or off the ceiling.
When they land on our shoulder there are no “ohh”s or “ahh”’s or “what good luck!”. We simply flick them. The one and only good thing about ladybugs are their hard exoskeletons. They flick wonderfully and make clear and satisfying little dinks when they hit the floor or wall. It is really fairly enjoyable.
Okay, enough about ladybugs.
Here’s a fun kiddy site full of flash games if you’re bored.
http://postopia.com/games/index.aspx
Ladybugs must be natures most misunderstood bug. I see them in cartoons as nice little grandmother bugs, chubby around the middle, rosy red, and cookie baking. Some people think it’s good luck when one lands on your shoulder, they think they’re harmless and cute. Ignorant fools.
Anyone remember the movie “Arachnids”? Some guy’s house gets overrun by thousands of poisonous spiders, people are dying all over the place, and the main characters have to fight to get out of their own home alive. Well, around winter time in Ohio, ladybugs do the same damn thing.
First it’s just one you hear flying around the room, or one crawling on the counter. Then there’s one on your mirror, in your closet, on the computer, crawling around the book case. Soon those little “ones” multiply into hundreds. And these are selfless bastards too, if some have to die to make you uncomfortable, fine with them. Sacrifice part of the group so the rest can feed off your disgust and anger.
They climb into your light fixtures and die leaving dozens of brittle little corpses that will fall into your hair when you have to change a light bulb months down the road. They delight in crunching under your bare foot, floating in your bathtub, crawling around the rim of your drinking glass, or flying into your face. Also, they bite. No stinging or hissing, just tiny bites, then a little bit of yellow spit up just to really make you feel sick.
We no longer just kill one, or try and shoo them out of the house like we did the beginning of our first winter-- we vacuum them up by the dozens. Suck them from the curtains, out of the little corners in rooms, or off the ceiling.
When they land on our shoulder there are no “ohh”s or “ahh”’s or “what good luck!”. We simply flick them. The one and only good thing about ladybugs are their hard exoskeletons. They flick wonderfully and make clear and satisfying little dinks when they hit the floor or wall. It is really fairly enjoyable.
Okay, enough about ladybugs.
Here’s a fun kiddy site full of flash games if you’re bored.
http://postopia.com/games/index.aspx
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
I’ve been feeling a bit off lately so my little brother, Jake, decided to cheer me up. A few minutes ago he knocks on my door...
Jake: You wanna hear my Sponge Bob Square Pants song?
Me: Uh...
Jake: No, you wanna see my Sponge Bob Square Pants song?
Me: See...?
He opens the door and is standing there in his underwear, a big yellow tee-shirt and his blue jeans wrapped around his head like a turban and starts singing the theme song to Sponge Bob Square Pants while dancing the snoopy dance.
After my hysteric laughter subsided...
Me: You’re a freak
Jake: Why?
Me: I don’t know. You’re just kinda freakish.
Jake: Oh... give me a hug.
Me: HA!
Jake: You wanna hear my Sponge Bob Square Pants song?
Me: Uh...
Jake: No, you wanna see my Sponge Bob Square Pants song?
Me: See...?
He opens the door and is standing there in his underwear, a big yellow tee-shirt and his blue jeans wrapped around his head like a turban and starts singing the theme song to Sponge Bob Square Pants while dancing the snoopy dance.
After my hysteric laughter subsided...
Me: You’re a freak
Jake: Why?
Me: I don’t know. You’re just kinda freakish.
Jake: Oh... give me a hug.
Me: HA!
Chicken lips hearts 00?
Did you know that the musical group “Sugar Ray” was going to call themselves “Chicken lips”? I think it would have been a marvelous band name. It’s also my mums nickname for me.
Oh, fun with flash sites, here's an entertaining one. I wish I had some kind of musical talent.
My best friend Stacey came back to Ohio the other day from her Naval post in Virginia. I hadn’t seen her since July when we were ducking fireworks together. Sunday I baked her a cake and gave her a driving lesson in my car-- stick shift. I honestly don’t know how my car is still running after all it‘s been through. It’s pretty fun though, when my car sputters and starts to die it bucks like a horse and throws you around the cabin.
Newest extreme sport: Mazda bug sputtering. Look for it at the next Olympics.
While we were all sitting around eating confetti cup cakes and spice cake I caught Stacey up on the local gossip.
“Satan had a baby with Frankenstein, she already knows you’re divorcing Skinny Bastard. Sam’s and 00? are still living with their boyfriends down by the tracks. Help Me’s baby is getting pretty big, I saw him last week. Wilted Flower head is in jail again and Parrot Face left town, nobody knows where she it. Mom’s dating a new girl, Skinny Bitch, because Tony dumped him, and oh, is your Sis still dating Bean?”
The look on her cousins face was almost as fulfilling as the look on strangers faces when their hear us talk like that in public, scream it across crowed rooms, or call for each other over the mall's loud speaker.
Ah, wacky fun.
Oh, fun with flash sites, here's an entertaining one. I wish I had some kind of musical talent.
My best friend Stacey came back to Ohio the other day from her Naval post in Virginia. I hadn’t seen her since July when we were ducking fireworks together. Sunday I baked her a cake and gave her a driving lesson in my car-- stick shift. I honestly don’t know how my car is still running after all it‘s been through. It’s pretty fun though, when my car sputters and starts to die it bucks like a horse and throws you around the cabin.
Newest extreme sport: Mazda bug sputtering. Look for it at the next Olympics.
While we were all sitting around eating confetti cup cakes and spice cake I caught Stacey up on the local gossip.
“Satan had a baby with Frankenstein, she already knows you’re divorcing Skinny Bastard. Sam’s and 00? are still living with their boyfriends down by the tracks. Help Me’s baby is getting pretty big, I saw him last week. Wilted Flower head is in jail again and Parrot Face left town, nobody knows where she it. Mom’s dating a new girl, Skinny Bitch, because Tony dumped him, and oh, is your Sis still dating Bean?”
The look on her cousins face was almost as fulfilling as the look on strangers faces when their hear us talk like that in public, scream it across crowed rooms, or call for each other over the mall's loud speaker.
Ah, wacky fun.
Friday, November 7, 2003
I’m sick. Euhey
It’s not so much about feeling crappy, but I fit my list, and I’m only ever like this when I’m sick.
How to tell if you’re a sick Kayt:
1.) Do you sleep fully dressed? If so, you’re sick.
2.) Do you sleep during the day? Yes? Then you’re sick.
3.) Do you whine and say “gah” and “pouchy” a lot? I’m sorry, but you’re sick.
4.) Do you find yourself running errands? You are certainly sick.
5.) Do your innards feel like they were pulled out, tied in little knots, braided into little friendship bracelets and stuffed back in, and does it feel like too much blood has been pumped in your head, like a can of spray paint in a fire? Yeah? You might be sick then.
Oh, I have nothing interesting to say, I’m just sick, gah.
It’s not so much about feeling crappy, but I fit my list, and I’m only ever like this when I’m sick.
How to tell if you’re a sick Kayt:
1.) Do you sleep fully dressed? If so, you’re sick.
2.) Do you sleep during the day? Yes? Then you’re sick.
3.) Do you whine and say “gah” and “pouchy” a lot? I’m sorry, but you’re sick.
4.) Do you find yourself running errands? You are certainly sick.
5.) Do your innards feel like they were pulled out, tied in little knots, braided into little friendship bracelets and stuffed back in, and does it feel like too much blood has been pumped in your head, like a can of spray paint in a fire? Yeah? You might be sick then.
Oh, I have nothing interesting to say, I’m just sick, gah.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Stupid Classics
Lately I’ve been trying to catch up on my “classics”. Books and movies that either my friends say are good, have threatened me to watch or read, or have made their mark in American culture. So far the list reads as follows....
Books...
Snowcrash (half way done reading)
I was a teenaged dominatrix
Anything by Shakespeare
Black Athena
Moby Dick
Movies...
Pulp fiction
Casablanca
Reservoir dogs
Angel series
Scar face
God father
Lost in Translation
Yentel
Rocky movies
Highlander
The Omen
Psycho
Rambo
This has all stemmed from the movie You've Got Mail movie when Tom Hanks says "Go to the mattresses", and I had no clue what he meant.
Books...
Snowcrash (half way done reading)
I was a teenaged dominatrix
Anything by Shakespeare
Black Athena
Moby Dick
Movies...
Pulp fiction
Casablanca
Reservoir dogs
Angel series
Scar face
God father
Lost in Translation
Yentel
Rocky movies
Highlander
The Omen
Psycho
Rambo
This has all stemmed from the movie You've Got Mail movie when Tom Hanks says "Go to the mattresses", and I had no clue what he meant.
Thursday, October 23, 2003
Today in my anthropology class, right as we were finishing up the chapters about anatomically archaic humans a girl in the back of the class asked this,
“Hi, yeah, uh, I was raised Catholic and taught that God made Adam and Eve, so what’s right, God, or evolution?”
Dead serious. I thought she was joking at first and almost started to laugh. What the hell did she expect the teacher to say? “Oh, everything I’ve been teaching you this quarter is wrong, it’s a lie”? Yup, that’s another person to dump in the category of stupid people.
“Hi, yeah, uh, I was raised Catholic and taught that God made Adam and Eve, so what’s right, God, or evolution?”
Dead serious. I thought she was joking at first and almost started to laugh. What the hell did she expect the teacher to say? “Oh, everything I’ve been teaching you this quarter is wrong, it’s a lie”? Yup, that’s another person to dump in the category of stupid people.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Happy Introductions...
As with many other LJ's I’ve read, it seems a proper, or at least semi proper, introduction is in order.
Hi, my name is Kaythryn, sometimes called Kayt-- pronounce it as you wish, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m currently employed at a commercial heating and cooling company, though I have a bad habit of quitting or getting fired only to be re-hired the next week-- it‘s obviously pretty informal. I’m also a 2nd year college student with absolutely no major, leaning slightly towards fine arts or anthropology when pressed.
I love hugs, red wine, olives and grilled artichoke hearts-- the drum solo in Radar love, and the AAT-- my #firefly friends, my little clown car, and my old smelly black cat.
I have no patience or sympathy for ignorant or hypocritical people, and have a boiling dislike for environmental extremists who have currently moved to the top of my “people who deserve much more that a slap in the face” list. Oh, I’m also something of a mascara slut and am currently trying to learn Trouser Semaphor.
Well, those seem to be my major selling points. I’m really much sweeter than I sound… no, really, I am.
Hi, my name is Kaythryn, sometimes called Kayt-- pronounce it as you wish, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m currently employed at a commercial heating and cooling company, though I have a bad habit of quitting or getting fired only to be re-hired the next week-- it‘s obviously pretty informal. I’m also a 2nd year college student with absolutely no major, leaning slightly towards fine arts or anthropology when pressed.
I love hugs, red wine, olives and grilled artichoke hearts-- the drum solo in Radar love, and the AAT-- my #firefly friends, my little clown car, and my old smelly black cat.
I have no patience or sympathy for ignorant or hypocritical people, and have a boiling dislike for environmental extremists who have currently moved to the top of my “people who deserve much more that a slap in the face” list. Oh, I’m also something of a mascara slut and am currently trying to learn Trouser Semaphor.
Well, those seem to be my major selling points. I’m really much sweeter than I sound… no, really, I am.
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