| dreamscape |
[22 Mar 2008|03:24am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 contemplative |
] |
Family matters - pffft.
So I have had a wide variety of dreams lately.
One was obvious. I was a child playing in my grandmother's family room (her new house, not the house she should have been in for the age I had subconsciously supplied myself, but I can barely remember that house now.) with my parents and her. We were playing with these high tech radio control cars and having a really good time until I just knew, this never happened and this will never happened. So I awoke.
I had this dream where my face was covered in black clams, sucking my cheeks. I'd try to tear them off but they were taking the skin off with them but it didn't matter. They had to come off.
Then there was the dream last night. Typical B-movie horror crap. Bunch of kids in a supposedly haunted house, trying to stay the night. One attractive fellow flirted with me and of course it pleased me. I think his name was Sean or Stephen. An S anyway (Sartori?... nah). We all ate a big lunch in the backyard (conveniently looked like my backyard - my mind is sometimes lazy with scenery) and then people started showing up as corpses. Really bloody messy corpses. So we all split up (I did say this was a B-horror flick) and tried to go find the killer. Of course, time runs out and just when there's practically no one left I happen to silently turn a corner and see S brutally stabbing someone (mystery unsurprisingly solved). So I just back track a bit and call his name, giving him time to clean up any evidence. Then I ask him if he's alright, if he saw anything, and he denies it (but of course he knows that I know). So, instead of the morally righteous thing, I decide to say fuck it and tell him I'll tend to his injuries because I notice he's got some scratch marks on his arm and a cut on his face. Poor dear. Must have tripped.
Umm. Maybe pity. But what does it matter anymore.
Why is Tom Hollander so randomly attractive?
I have this, I guess you could say collage, of posters and magazine clippings and pictures and art on my walls. I did it in highschool when I was bored over a couple of weekends, so now my room looks like eclectic projectile vomit. My mother informed me that as soon as I graduate from college she's going to have it all torn down. It's sad. I kind of have been desiring a zen room for awhile, but even at college I still do the collage of posters bit. I think I just like to stare at things.
Doesn't help that occasionally I speak to them as well.
Anyhow, it's an end of an era. Another one.
When I was little some things just mattered so much. I don't know if it's schooling or cynicism or lethargy or what but such things don't matter.
After all, when I was seven, I fully expected to be self sufficient and living in some sort of gandiose tree house (minus the monkey butlers) at this age. I am very far behind on that little girls' expectations.
Oh well. She had silly ideas about ethics anyway.
|
|
|
[25 Jan 2008|07:48am] |
Ughh. I don't want to go to work today. Or tomorrow. i just want to stay home and sleep.
But I have to go to work, because Jesus commands me to ROCK OUT.
... sigh.
|
|
| One more thing |
[24 Dec 2007|03:15am] |
|
The Lady And The Tiger?
It's always the fucking tiger.
|
|
| Bah |
[20 Dec 2007|12:28pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 irritated |
] |
I spent a good deal yesterday trying to find a dvd player in the basement so I could watch Rob Zombie's Halloween in peace as I didn't fancy listening to my parents say "how could you watch such shit?!" the whole way through. i couldn't find one, so I gave up the search and just dicked about online for a time. Then before I fall asleep I look over and lo! A dvd player in my room. God dammit. Life is too cruel sometimes.
I had a dream last night that myself and some boyfriend figure went to a strange asian place to go and look at children for adopting. We were led to this wide garden area with women in flowing robes who were guiding over what is looked like only five or six children. But apparently these children were refugee royalty, all baronesses and duchesses and princesses. So, I go to one little girl and, beckoning her like a dog (because how else would i interact with children, honestly?) I cuddled her and cooed to her and had that spark of affection female hormones give so that cute small things can prosper in terrible worlds.
The boyfriend, unaffected as he was by hormones, seemed not to care, and a little boy walked to me and told me that the girl was very special, and very much in danger. Would I not keep her safe? So I agreed to do it, because doing so would move the dream along and I do love to save things.
Years later my daughter is grown up and full of supernatural powers which have leaked onto me. We're at a funeral of sorts, and i am lighting candles with a wave of my hand. My family discusses how I have broken up with the boyfriend, and I know it is because of the daughter I chose over him. She is a brilliant little girl, with an S name. Perhaps Sienna? And then point of view switch, a mad man in a hospital, looking for my daughter and me. He is an assassin, a master of disguises. Of course, my brain readily knows he's what, chump change? Yes. Very small. Beginning, warm up boss. But there is something wrong at the hospital, so I go there (by flight, of all things) and telepathically call my daughter, who is stronger, with me. We arrive and see piles of children, but they're not dead. At the bottom of one is the boy from earlier, the one who told me to protect my daughter. He's grown now, taller than me, but still the Baron. Of course I doubt him by this point, has he been turned, will he hurt my daughter or I?
And then I'll never know because Beth called and woke me up. Alas.
BAAAAAH.
|
|
| Clitorsis! |
[10 Dec 2007|12:35pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 complacent |
] |
Well I made a complete ass of myself while drunk. It was pretty amazing, and if I forget the extreme embarrassment I'm actually rather proud of myself. Except that in my fantasies I'm more a philosophical-absurdest-angry drunk when in reality I am merely absurd.
Alas. Maybe I can take classes for that.
I did not appreciate the one who said that I could not make out with who I pleased when I desired it. After all, you're conforming to years and years of male phallocentric diatribe which would put a chastity belt around every sexual organ, even my victorian-erotic ankles! And then myself, saying "you're not my father or my boyfriend" but catching myself in time. Neither my father nor my boyfriend would have the right to dictate my actions at this stage in the game either. As a woman, only I have the right to... to...
oh fuck, feminism. Ew.
Anyhow. No.
Whatever. Finals soon and then I can go home and be with my parents <3 and Christina <3 ... and the rest. ... <3.
|
|
| This, too, shall pass. |
[04 Sep 2007|04:09am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 sad |
] |
I don’t have much time left Well shit, lady, who does? I can’t sleep, I’m such a rumble of emotions at present. Emotions I’d rather not have to deal with if I could just fall into some sort of oblivion. Something easing. Refreshing. Something that wasn’t really real. My grandmother died on Sunday morning. I was the last family member to see her alive, and the first one to see her corpse. My last memories of her are going to be of the acidic smell of vomit, of her withered breast exposed (how I thought of my mother), and her slumped, lifelike and lifeless, over a wheelchair in the middle of the living room. Like a display. Here Lies American Immigrant, First Generation. Saw Two Major Wars and Countless Skirmishes. Survived Depression. Did Not Survive Age. I got the phone call that heralded the news. It’s strange that I would be so involved in her death, when my presence was lacking in her life. I think I am better suited for death. When I heard the news (Oh. My. God. Oh no.) My father stared and my mother hobbled, and then they let out the Grief-Howl. It tore into me, and I cried for them, because I love them so. And gods, it hurt. Everything hurt. They Grief-Howled when they saw her corpse, even though I’d been in the room with her for a half an hour, quietly staring at the floor. Alternating between trying to comfort the dog and vaguely thinking about praying. I touched her hand. It was not the frozen ice that they describe it (she was colder in life) but a cool smoothness. It did not offend, or horrify. I kissed the top of her head. My priority is comforting my mother and helping my father. My fear now, a fear I have been harboring for some time, is that they too shall pass. I want to put them somewhere where they cannot age or grow weaker or shrivel or, worse, lose their minds. More than anything to keep the mind. Mea Culpa, I have not handled my sister well. She in turn irritates and enrages me. She grieves too, but it is a selfish grieving. A pay-attention-to-me-for-I-cry-hardest-of-all sadness that is not helpful. She does not help our infirm mother, nor lift the burden from my fathers weakening shoulders, but adds and adds and adds. I have not forgiven her for abandoning my mother during that. I may never forgive her, even if my sister does tell me that she deserves to be forgiven (never quite saying why). But I am not strong enough, and I cannot forgive nor forget. Today I, enraged, called her. I began to listen to her problems but instead I started screaming, I hammered with all my might and my pain and my words as I could manage. The most frustrating thing is that there was no dent made, and I took no pleasure in her tears. It all made me feel tired and worn. I feel tomorrow, at the wake (isn’t that an irish joke?) I must ask forgiveness for the way in which I said it. Not for what I said, because I will disown her if she puts the family members I love into an early grave, but because what I said could have been more understanding. Isn’t that what that woman wrote to me, watch your temper? I’m trying, you know, but sometimes I forget. You’re not here to remind me. School makes me miserable and nervous. I enjoy learning and take great pleasure in it, but any social aspect makes me feel anxious and tired. I take joy in my writing class, and somewhat (the joy slowly turning to a knowing bitterness) in the criticism class, but they too shall pass. In passing. Gods. I will spend my days reading. Escapism never has failed me until I can manage with my own two feet and eyes again. I think I will read Ivanhoe and finish Imajica. After that I will be open to suggestion. Perhaps, though, it would do me a world of good to read Rand and to remember what I felt upon first reading her (rightness). I can handle death. It’s the living that give me troubles.
|
|
|
[23 Jul 2007|01:28pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
crushed |
] |
Dear JRK:
I now need therapy. Thanks a lot.
Love always,
Myself.
|
|
| Why I hate employment: |
[15 Jul 2007|12:57am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
cranky |
] |
Man Who Does Not Speak Good English: Man
Me: Me
Man: Do you have uhhh... latin rosary books?
Me: No, we don't have any books in latin.
Man: *befuddled* no no, books, on the rosary? Prayers?
Me: We have those.
Man: In latin?
Me: No.
Man: Where are the latin books?
Me: We don't have any latin books.
Man: Only in English?
Me: We have some in spanish.
Man: No, not spanish. Latin.
Me: The only latin books we have are how to speak latin, and one is in your hand!
Man: Can you look up latin books?
Me: UGH fine. *type type* We don't have any.
Man: *trying to sneak behind the counter*
Me: No, sir, you need to stay on the other side.
Man: Rosary... latin... prayers. Are you Catholic?
Me: Yes, I know exactly what you are talking about. We don't have any.
Man: In what country do they speak latin now?
Me: Uh, nowhere. It's a dead language.
Man: *SHOCKED* What?
Me: Yeah, nobody speaks latin anymore.
Man: Oh. Where did they speak latin?
Me: Uh. Italy?
Man: Oh, Italia. *walks away*
FIVE MINUTES LATER
Man: Do you have any latin rosary books.
Me: NO, WE DON'T. I SAID WE DON'T.
Man: Oh, haha.
Me: Oh for, here, I will show you our catholic section. *shows*
Man: *does not look* Where can I find catholic rosary prayer latin book?
Me: Uh, your church?
Man: *offended I would mention that apparently* No, where?
Me: The internet?
Man: Oh. *leaves*
What. The. Fuck.
|
|
|
[15 Jun 2007|02:39am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
crazy |
] |
What did I do last night? Rose up a mighty monster from his sleep. He may eat me in the morning, but he'll know it was I who summoned him, I who imprisoned him, I who locked him away as my own for all those nights. Even if he eats my heart he will be mine.
... bwa ha ha
No, seriously, these nipples ARE real!
|
|
|
[05 Feb 2007|10:37am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
cranky |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Enigma - TNT for the Brain |
] |
I was looking at some pictures of Barack Obama thinking (indecently) that I’d vote for him simply because he’d raise the standard of attractiveness in presidents quite a bit. Of course, there is nobody hotter than Alexander Hamilton, but I digress. While flipping through some photos I saw one titled “The Common Worker” so I click on it reticently, as I figured there would be some communist overtones. Well holy hell, it’s basically Mr. Obama in a casual t-shirt IN FRONT OF A RUSSIAN PALACE. Gods, I just don’t even want to begin to go into how absolutely wrong I find that. Whatever. I’ll probably vote for him anyway since Hilary Clinton scares me and the republicans don’t stand a chance (unless they manage to get Giuliani to agree to run, then maybe he has a shot. . . as he was the only big name who came out of 9/11 smelling like roses). Anyhow. Last night after the Superbowl party this guy who I’m friends with in the basement of my dorm came up, drunker than shit, and started getting really touchy feely. I was kind of freaked out and sat there while he caressed my stomach and shoulders, hoping he’d take the hint. When he didn’t I grabbed him by the hand and offered to walk him downstairs, which he apparently managed to do fine on his own. I hope he realizes his mistake and apologizes for it today else I’m going to have to yell at him for it. I hate being touched. I got my hair re-dyed. It’s supposed to be black but it’s actually a mix of all these brown colors. I can see parts where it’s not as dark as others so I have black and light brown. Poor Beth is probably crying somewhere, sensing that my hair is still not monochrome. I can cosplay as a Slytherin now. Excitement! My manager sent me an e-mail telling me that at the party for the next book, since he cosplayed as Dumbledore, we’re going to clear off a table and let him lie on it the whole time with a little collection plate next to him so he can pick up a few bucks. I love my manager ^_^ Even if he did tell me I couldn’t peek up his robes. He knows me so well. Ack, class. Crap. I suck at reading 17th century metaphysical poetry. I think everything is about an orgasm.
|
|
|
[14 Jan 2007|04:12am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
crazy |
] |
I haven't updated this in ever.
I hate it when people ask you silly questions. "So are you excited about going to college in Iowa?"
No, not really. I don't get shortness of breath or butterflies or anything physical, really. It doesn't actually matter to me one way or the other. I felt the same thing in England until I actually got there and experienced the amazoringness, which is not a word but should be.
Speaking of, family making plans to go to London for a week in March. Going to see if I can get to Canterbury for a day.
Happiness, though, for apparently I managed to get one of the biggest dorms on campus (two windows, two!) without actually doing anything.
Go me.
|
|
|
[21 Dec 2006|06:42pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
amused |
] |
Got an e-mail from a co-worker who got hers from Borders. The 7th Harry Potter book is going to be called Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
*squee*
|
|
|
[23 Nov 2006|06:07am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
annoyed |
] |
Utterly frustrated.
I went to a soup kitchen today in some altruistic effort to feed the homeless or needy of Chicago. So my father, my sister and I get there and we go to the clothing room to help set up by folding and handing up the clothes that people from various parishes have donated. These two men, who are working for the kitchen, start picking through the clothing. I glare at them as hard as I can because I know people who are of my income level (middle/upper middle class) have been known to go through the clothes and take things. So in a rare burst of youthful righteousness:
While I'm folding jeans. . .
Man: What size are those?
Me: 30-32 *glare*
Man: Oh. What size are those?
Me: 30-34. Did you want them for you?
Man: Yeah, why not?
Me: *in best cute, scandalized girl voice* But sir, they're for the homeless.
Man: You know those people are just going to be selling them on the street later for booze and drugs. I see it all the time.
Me: *really laying the cute voice on* I don't think it's our place to judge.
Man: *shuts up. Stands there pointlessly*
Me: Sir, did you want to help? There's a lot of clothing to be folded.
Man: I'd better see if they need me up front *leaves*.
Woo, success. Sadly I didn't have as much success the second time around.
2nd Man: *putting various mens jackets, of which we only have a few, in a bag*
Me: Uh, sir, those are for the homeless.
Man: But the tall guy said I could take some. I think it was your father.
Me: I doubt my father would say that. (I asked him later, he didn't.)
Man: I come here all the time, I'm homeless myself regardless of my nice clothes and being able to afford sending my kids to the philippenes for a vacation blah blah blah, long long rant about how he works sooo hard regardless of the fact that all he's done is sit around showing pictures of his grandchildren, and complained about how the bread THAT WAS FOR THE HOMELESS was not buttered (why was he EATING IT?!)
Me: *interrupting him* If I knew the clothes I had donated was being given out to the volunteers, I'd be pissed. *walks out*
Women who were in the room: *stare in some sort of horror*.
Of course he still took the clothes. And then his wife came in and took clothes. What the hell. I know there are a few homeless
who do indeed come in any help but usually they're nice enough to wait until everyone else has eaten and wait to pick through the clothes until after everyone else has.
I'm usually not about being selfless and altruistic, or even helping anyone for that matter, but the idea of people taking advantage of programs for people who literally have nothing but the clothes on their back really didn't sit well with me.
Plus there was a transvestite among the homeless. I really felt for her.
|
|
|
[03 Oct 2006|02:27pm] |
Know what the most frightening thing in the world is?
It's reading Stephen Kings IT in a dark basement with a dying flashlight while PeeWee's Playhouse is on the tv in the background.
Effing scary.
|
|
|
[31 Aug 2006|11:34pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
cranky |
] |
Arg. I'm so nervous about doing all of these applications. Writing personal essays always seemed really pretentious to me and I don't envy all those people who have to go through hundreds of them. It's such a huge deal to me to come off as genuine as I can even though I am terribly critical when it comes to genuinely genuine people.
I am trying to work out these theories about the lack of culture on second generation-plus non ethnic caucasions in America due to outsourcing of industry to China and Hollywood influences and the like because I want to be outraged for a cause and all the other good ones are already taken.
I've taken to singing everywhere. They told me at church and at karaoke that I sound good but I wonder if that's true or not.
And now I'm going to go watch Adult Swim and write a bit.
|
|
|
[29 Jul 2006|10:03am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
jubilant |
] |
Finally some good news. I spent most of the day at the hospital while my mother had some surgery to remove some lymph nodes and the cancer in her right breast. The surgeon was a really nice man who had steady hands (which I kept surreptitiously checking) and a quick mind so I was pleased. My father and sister and I went to the cafeteria and chowed down and then sat in the waiting room. I read for a bit and helped my sister pick out a magazine. She was looking for Cosmo which they didn't have so I told her to get the New Yorker. She sort of gave me a dry look and said "Please, that has articles." She chose Insytle.
After her magazine she bought a deck of cards and we played Egyptian Ratscrew. I won every game.
Then the surgeon came out and told us that they only had to take out one lymph node (which is good) and it was negative which means the cancer hasn't done that dreaded M word I'm not even about to spell and spread throughout the body. We were happily overjoyed since, barring any unforseen misfortune from the pathology report on Tuesday, it means she probably will only need the six weeks of radiation and the pill. Huzzah!
I didn't realize until that moment that you can actually cry from being so happy. When the doctor said it was negative I just got this ridiculous smile on my face and thanked him profusely. Then I ran into the bathroom and cried while thanking the divine.
What's real nice is that she got to come home. She's sleeping on the vicodin. I told her if she has any left we could make a fortune by selling it on the streets. Again the dry look. I'm rather getting used to it.
Alright, off to work with me. Huzzah. I want a flash card. Must think of a way of conning father figure into paying for it. Ho-de-deee.
|
|
|
[27 Jun 2006|12:27pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
bored |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Dresden Dolls - Half Jack |
] |
Because I was bored and Christina isn't home yet to please me.
Title: Hunted Part II
Pairings: Hermione Granger / Fenrir Greyback
Warnings: Dark, noncon, o_O
|
|
|
[03 May 2006|12:23am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 working |
] |
Title: French Traditions Part III
Pairing: Hermione Granger/Fleur Delacour
Warnings: F/F, PWP, Fluff
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
yeldopi's journal
curious
discontent