...if this is your first night, you have to fight.

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Tuesday, July 22, 2003

The Mayo Incident

Right, so, where was I?

Oh yeah!

So, Boyfriend, Boyfriend's sister and I all go up to Vermont to visit Boyfriend's grandparents. We ended up getting a late start because we got totally waylayed at Boyfriend's apartment by "The Family Guy" on DVD. If you have any experience with this show at all, you'll understand how one can get waylayed by it.

Peter: (after spewing out a totally dubious fact) "No, really. It's true! I read it in a book once."
Brian (the dog): "Are you sure it was a book, Peter? Are you sure it wasn't...nothing?"
Peter: "Oh. Oh yeah, right."

Anyway, so we get a late start, and then a trip to get Coolattas and a tape-deck to CD player adapter is in order. And of course we have to stop at every rest-stop along the way that promises vending machines and scenic overlooks. Factor in the insane Northbound traffic and before you know it a trip that's supposed to take three and a half hours takes about five and a half. Maybe six, it's all a bit hazy now.

It's well past the dinner hours by the time we reach VT and we're all feeling it, so we just want to drop our shit off at the motel that was recommended to us and descend on the Japanese place we spotted up the road like a plague of locust. (That's "Koto" in Burlington, for all you weary travellers. Not only sushi in Vermont, but really, really GOOD sushi in Vermont. You have my word on it. I also recommend their "Kotopolitans". Highly.)

We check in and the motel manager is the nicest guy ever. Sweet and polite and couldn't have been older than us, because he looked all of 19. It's because of him that I am not going to mention the name of the motel. I liked him. He had our backs. He was our caucasian. And any of the unflattering things I have to say about his facilities IN NO WAY reflect on him. Got it? Good. Then on with the story.

Boyfriend and I had a room one over from his sister. We start dragging our bags into the first room and man...it had the funk. Not the good kind of funk, as in that circa 1970's kind of way. Wait, in a way it kind of did. The dark, drab panelling, stale carpeting, seedy terry (yes, terry) curtains and ugly orange bedspread did sort of recall a 70's rec-room gone to seed, but nobody was in the mood to sing "Flashlight", if you know what I mean. Boy, that smell suggested a long and desperate occupation. It smelled like someone had sweat out their demons in there. But the real prize winning accoutrement was the circa 1968 Zenith television. Remember the kind with the knobs? Gives everyone's skin-tone an Oompa Loompa coloring? Oh, Jesus. And every ten minutes it would over-heat and shut off and you had to bash it upside the head to get it going again. To say we were unthrilled would be a bit of an understatement.

Maybe this says a little something about my priorities, or something about the kind of person I am, but my first coherent thought about this room was; "Dammit. So much for that hot motel sex. I want as little of my skin touching this bed as possible. Hmm. I wonder if I can sleep on the ceiling, that looks kinda' unmolested."

And the bed, Kitten. Oh my god, the bed. Tell me you've seen the movie "Buffalo 66" where Vincent Gallow scolds Christina Ricci for sitting on the hotel bedspread, telling her how unhygenic motel bedspreads are, and begins peeling it off between pinched fingertips muttering; "Filthy. FILTHY!" That was me. And despite the three or four signs warning that this was a non-smoking room, there had to have been no less than 30 cigarette burns on the bedspread and thermal blanket.

Are you ready Kitten? Say it with me....


Thoroughly dispirited, we trudged onto the next room belonging to Boyfriend's sister. This room was far better; brighter, newer, more sparkly and with no unpleasant odor. Of course I was envious. Of course. But this room had two very special peculiarities about it. One of which was that it had the very same painting hung twice, side by side, the only way to tell them apart was that one was more sun-faded than the other. The second odd detail was that I noticed a rather plentiful pile of mayonaise packets stacked on the outside windowsill.

"That's odd." I said, gesturing to the mayo packets. Boyfriend and his sister both agreed that, yes, it was odd, and while attempting to clean up the offending condiments, Boyfriend moved them and discovered a ten dollar bill buried beneath. One side of my brain went; "Woo-hoo! Free money!" while the other side of my brain had visions of a giant mousetrap snapping down on us, or some such unpleasant business. "That looks like it was definitely left there for someone. Someone not us, I mean." I said, while the free money side of my brain pouted. Boyfriend dutifully replaced said mayo with cheddah' and we went into the room.

Well, no sooner did we close the door and open the curtains to let some fresh air in than something even more odd than a sawbuck with a side of mayo happened. The door in the adjoining room opened and an old junkie that looked like 40 miles of bad (and I mean bu-had!) road shuffled out, scooped the mayo and the cash up from our windowsill, pocketed it, and then shuffled back into his room. We watched, silently and incredulously, and then stared at each other. I think nonplussed would be a good word to describe the general feeling.

Sure I was skeeved, but in a way it was a bit like feeding a bird, y'know? Only with someone else's bread. Sure, it's not your bread, but the bird sill ate it off your windowsill. That's the important thing.

"Guys," began Boyfriend's sister, "I don't think I'm going to be able to spend two nights here." That's when my dual brain kicked in again, because part of me was thinking; "Yeah, me neither." and the other part was like; "Are you kidding!? This place is fucking GREAT! Shit is HAPPENING here! I love this place!"

Anyway, in honor of this event, I've attempted to re-enact it in crayon. Here is my artist's rendition of the Mayo Incident, as it will be heretofore known.

the mayo incident

As the three of us are standing there, dumbstruck, struggling to process these scant few seconds of high weirdness, there is a sudden knock on our door that snapped us so jarringly out of our reverie that I suspect we all (not just me) nearly shit our intestines out. Boyfriend checked out the window before opening it, and it turned out to be none other than our lovely motel manager.

"Was that guy just looking in your window!?" asked the motel manager, outraged. "No no no!" replied Boyfriend, "He was just...uh...getting his mayonaise." The motel manager looked at us like WE were the weirdos until we explained, as best we could all things considered, what just happened. Motel manager looks all pissed and protective and stalks off to the adjoining room to go straighten shit out with the mayonaise man.

We all agreed at that exact moment that the motel manager was a god, and we wished him much sex and candy forevermore.

Anyway, turns out Mr. Mayo in room 31 pulled the old bait-and-switch on the Motel God. Someone else who was NOT Mr. Mayo booked the room and provided the proper ID, of which Mr. Mayo had none. Cops were called and Mr. Mayo was politely ejected from the premises. Apparently, what Mr. Mayo did have was a case of beer which he couldn't carry off on his bike and had to leave behind, and a small amount of weed, too small to prosecute, apparently. Motel God, in a further act of benevolence, offered us the beer, which we declined. Sadly the weed was not on offer.

And completely unrelated to this story, Boyfriend and I were able to relocate to a much more hospitable room on Motel God's premises, making the rest of our stay much, MUCH more pleasant.

So, there you go. That's the whole story. I could tell you of our other adventures in VT, like the amazing brunch we had at Sneakers. The incredible view of Lake Champlain from Boyfriend's grandparents' house. The otherworldly pleasure of swimming in said lake. How over-hyped motel sex really is when sex is already too damn good everywhere else. Or our intoxicating trip to the Magic Hat brewery which led us to a super-secret brew which may never be available to the wider public called "Premonition", of which I have an entire "growler"-worth to enjoy on my upcoming vacation, but these stories pale in comparison to the Mayo incident.

Suffice it to say that the Green Mountain State was everything I dreamed (quite literally, as it turns out. another story I'll explain later), and a good time was had by all. So until next time, Kitten, don't touch that filthy hotel bedspread and watch out for other people's mayonaise!...

...But don't think about either of those things too closely together. Like I just did. Or else you're going to have to go and poke your mind's eye out. Like I do now. Eeesh.

posted by taiwan_on 'round 12:53 AM#
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Monday, July 21, 2003

"Monday Madness"
with your host taiwan_on

Oh, Jesus Kitten, so many fun & weird stories about my weekend in VT with Boyfriend and his sister. But be patient, my pretty. No stories until I develop the pics tonight at work and get hold of some crayons so that I may have some visual aids for you. You'd think I'd have crayons laying around the headquarters, a gal like me and all, but no. No idea where my big plastic pencil case full of shiny waxy stubs, all the labels chewed off, went after the last move. Time to shell out for some new ones I s'pose.

So in the meantime, here's a little something to tide you over. You know my fondness for weekly memes, yes? Well, someone has been cool enough to post a vast list of memes of every imaginable flavor for every day of the week. I have decided, in light of my previous sleep-related post, to do the Monday Madness meme. I know better than to promise myself to do a new one every day, me being a slack-ass and all, but that's the object of the game. We'll see how far that gets me.

Taiwan_On's Monday Madness For July 21st

1. Do you remember what you dream about; and if so, have you had any recurring dreams?
I very nearly always remember my dreams, unless I am really over-tired, in which case I sleep like a rock and forget everything with only a vague sense of time, place and people lingering behind, just out of reach. As far as recurring dreams go, I don't have so much recurring dreams as I do dreams recurring in the same settings often. For example, I keep dreaming about visiting this really artsy seaside community in a fishing village somewhere I've never been. All of the pubs have little book-exchange libraries where the regulars drop off their previously-read books for others to enjoy (and they are all really, really good books!), and cats belonging to the owners roam around to be petted by the patrons. Everywhere I go in this little fishing town, there are fascinating collective film/stage/writing/art projects being plotted and planned and all of the conversations are passionate and exciting. There is an incredible sense of "community" among all of the artists that is immediately welcoming and nurturing. Everyone seems really open to each other's ideas. At the end of every dream here, I am tortured because I am just passing through and I don't really want to leave, but apprently I am looking for something and can't stay. If I ever find this place in real life, I'll probably end up hocking everything I own to move there.
2. What is the weirdest dream you ever had?
Christ, I don't even know where to start! Millions of them! I can tell you my most recent weirdy, however, which Boyfriend found rather quotable and hilarious. I don't recall the structure or the context or anything, I only remember this really cool and fashionable girl walking arm-in-arm down the street with me and saying; "With a loaf of Victory Bread in one arm and you on the other, I suddenly feel interesting!" Boyfriend made me write that quote down on a napkin over breakfast he loved it so much.
3. Do you think your dreams have anything to do with what food you eat, what mood you're in, or something that's been bothering you at the time?
Of course! I noticed that if I eat spicy foods before bed, especially Thai food, my dreams are long, detailed and rather frenetic. Starfuit, also, can make dreamtime very lush and colorful, for some reason. Taking a 3mg tablet of melatonin not only leads to a very relaxing and solid night's sleep, but also kooky and detailed dreams that feel epic in length. Any food that gives me heartburn is guaranteed to serve up some nasty, stressful dreams, usually work-related in nature and always unpleasant. And like most people, if I'm stressed, my dreams suck as much as whatever's bugging me. Also, and I don't think I'm alone in this one, but about a week before I check into the Red Roof Inn (if you know what I mean, ladies.) my dream trace becomes extremely powerful and my recall of them is photographic.
4. Have you ever been interested in knowing what your dreams mean, to the point of visiting a dream analyst or reading a book about dreams?
I have about a million "dream books" most of them research related but I also fell victim to trying a few bogus "dream interpretation" books. Those are just as dodgy as you can imagine. There is no one interpretation for any individual's dream, usuall symbols are very specific to the person dreaming them. However if you're interested in finding a great book about how to really interpret what your dream symbols mean to YOU specifically, this book is a great place to start and can lead to some really fun personal insight into your psyche: Gayle Delaney's "All About Dreams..."

posted by taiwan_on 'round 3:49 PM#
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Thursday, July 17, 2003

Yes, Mr. Stewart...
there is a gum plate!

Quick shout-out to one Mr. Lee Stewart who doubts the existence of "gum plates". There is, indeed, such a thing. I had one myself. A little blue ceramic one with a tiny kitty figurine perched on the side and the words "park your gum" engraved on the lip. (Incidentally, we never called them "gum plates", but instead "gum parkers". Perhaps this is a Boston thing, with parking always being such a rare and coveted thing, we feel the need to park everything else in lieu of our cars. Some kind of parking frustration maybe?)

Anyway, sadly, my gum parker met an untimely demise in a fit of sleep thrashing. It went smashy-smashy, as Gummi would say. Yep, I am a reformed sleep thrasher. I used to do a lot of crazy things in my sleep. Sleep thrashing, night terrors, talking in my sleep, sleep walking, you name it. The sleep walking was the most distressing to my family. Seems they had to put deadbolts on doors higher than my child hands could reach. Things like doorknobs and locks were no match for my sleeping child wanderings.

Legend has it that my sleepwalking hyjinx were incredibly elaborate in nature. Once I scooped up a potted plant, held it in my outstretched hands, and roamed all over the house, sleep crying. When my mother asked what I was doing, I turned to her, eyes wide and vacant and said; "she's gone. she's all gone." She says I used to have long, surreal, somewhat coherent conversations with her while entirely asleep. She also admits that these episodes creeped her the hell out. Mommy's little spooky demon seed, that's me!

Anyway, I think I'm pretty much over all that. Although Boyfriend has informed me that I still sometimes talk in my sleep. It seems I hit him with this gem in the wee hours of the night once:

(Spoken in a completely indignant tone) "Figures she'd have fucking arrows!"

Do I, like William Blake, believe Cupid to be a woman? Let's see what Bill has to say.

"Why was Cupid a boy,
And why a boy was he?
He should have been a girl,
For aught that I can see.

For he shoots with his bow,
And the girl shoots with her eye,
And they both are merry and glad,
And laugh when we do cry.

And to make Cupid a boy
Was the Cupid girl's mocking plan;
For a boy can't interpret the thing
Till he is become a man.

And then he's so pierc'd with cares,
And wounded with arrowy smarts,
That the whole business of his life
Is to pick out the heads of the darts.

'Twas the Greeks' love of war
Turn'd Love into a boy,
And woman into a statue of stone--
And away fled every joy."

Sounds like women trouble to me. But hey, here's a fun fact: Did you know that the 80's classic "Talking in Your Sleep" by the Romantics was the song that made boyfriend want to play bass? And here's me, talking in my sleep? True! It's fate, I tellsya'! Destiny!

How did I go from gum plates (or gum parkers, for all of you trying to find a spot on Newbury Street), to sleep disorders? Ah, no matter, let's give another shout-out, shall we Kitten?

A shy thank you to Cloth Mother who gave me warm fuzzlies and made me glad to get back into this whole blogging thing. I needed that. Check out his rawther loverly blog, you'll be glad you did.

So what's on the agenda this weekend, you ask. Well, I'll tellya'. Going up to VT with Boyfriend to visit his grandparents. I'm bringing my Nikon on its first serious voyage. If I take any shots remotely worth it, I'll post them. I've also been told that there are gravy fries in them there hills that are out of this world. You all know how I love the fried goods.

posted by taiwan_on 'round 10:23 PM#
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Monday, July 14, 2003

More About Who I am
as if you needed that

My Bloginality is INFP!!!

posted by taiwan_on 'round 3:45 PM#
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"Finding God"
in a doughnut

Krispy Kreme, why are you not as ubiquitous as your East Coast competitor whom shall remain nameless?

You serve fabulous, soft, melty-licious doughnuts while they serve moldy rocks dusted with powdered sugar.

Krispy Kreme, I love you. I know that sounds like a cheap sentiment coming from me, what with all the "I love you's" I dole out to other various retailers and food vendors. Sephorah, Demeter, Punjabi Dhaba, Blue Fin, Sapporo Ramen, Kotobukiya, Number One Taste, Kendall Square Cinema, Best Buy...

Oh Jesus, Krispy Kreme look, I know I am a rogue, a rake, a consumer and culinary whore, but this time I mean it; I love you. I love you. I won't stop saying it until you hear me. I love you, Krispy Kreme.

Come closer, Krispy Kreme. It's not that I wouldn't trek all over this godforsaken earth to find you, but why must you be so inconveniently located? You have been open in Medford for, what? two weeks now, and it has taken me this long to fall into your warm, squishy, sticky-glazed embrace. It's not that I don't want to see you every day, Krispy Kreme, it's just that I can't often get out of this pitiful arsehole of a suburb very often and when I do, well, I'm busy. But please do not doubt my commitment.

Krispy Kreme, will you not open one of your fine franchises in my area? Preferably one with your drive-through perched close enough to my bedroom window so that I may reach out and and partake of your pillowy sweetness any time I like? I will show you how faithful I can be; believe me. Barring that, will you perhaps buy out your competitor's location across the street from my boyfriend's apartment so that I may have all of life's greatest pleasures in one place? I will make it my duty to become worthy of such a blessing, you'll see.

Krispy Kreme, remember just this past Saturday morning when I woke up at my boyfriend's place, blearily and sloppily dressed myself and went to the convenience store to get gum on my way to your competitor's to get a bagel and some coffee? I never imagined I'd find you there, but as I was purchasing my gum the young Asian clerk asked my nipples if they would like to try a Krispy Kreme doughnut. I said "no, but I would!" I guess he didn't hear me because he told my nipples that there was a box right there, and he gets them every morning and sells them for a dollar apiece. I told him how I, but not so much my nipples, have been dying to try Krispy Kreme, but haven't had a chance to get over there, and he explained to my nipples that this was exactly why he picked up a box every day. Bringing Krispy Kreme to nipples everywhere, he was. Such a kind soul. How could I be bothered by the fact that he didn't want to speak to nipple-bearers, but would rather deal with the nipples directly?

So, expecting to pay for only gum, I suddenly found myself purchasing gum and loaning a dollar to my nipples so that they could buy a Krispy Kreme doughnut. I asked for a bag to carry my Krispy Kreme doughnut, wrapped in waxed paper as gingerly as one would wrap a Faberge egg. The clerk seemed disappointed, though. I think he was hoping that my nipples would just put on the doughnut and wear it out of the shop, as one would wear an exciting new hat. But I can't very well walk into the competitor's place next wearing a Krispy Kreme doughnut like a fresh, tasty new nipple-hat, can I? No, that would be rude. I have been involved with your competitor for many years, and though it is merely a marriage of convenience, I could never do something so heartlessly cruel.

I purchased my bagel at the competitor's where the Brazilian clerk asked my nipples if I would like my bagel toasted. I began to worry about all of this direct (and seemingly international) interaction with my nipples and checked to make sure I was wearing a shirt. I was, indeed, wearing a shirt. No, I explained, no toasting, please. For I remembered my boyfriend had a perfectly working toaster oven at his apartment, and although he was off working on a project, I knew how to work a toaster oven and therefore needed no toasting. I did, however, consider the distinct possibility that I probably need to pack a bra on the weekends. I'm sure that fact upsets my nipples just as much as it does the rest of me. We don't much care for bras, my nipples and I.

Anyway, once my nipples and I had successfully toasted our bagel, we sat down for breakfast in boyfriend's living room watching a rather engaging interview with John Malkovich on Bravo while we ate. Do you remember what happened next, Krispy Kreme? I dusted the bagel crumbs off my fingers, unwrapped the dollar delight my nipples picked up at the convenience store and BLAMMO! Love at first bite! My life hasn't been the same since.

Right afterwards I rather unceremoniously got to work on a bit of writing for another website at boyfriend's computer, but I think we both knew what was happening. I may have been writing about the movie I saw Friday night, but I couldn't stop thinking about you, Krispy Kreme. Everything I do, I do it for you.

When boyfriend got back, I explained my transgression and told him that I had to see you again. He said he understood, he's beautiful like that, and Sunday we went all the way to Medford to find you. I knew you were hot, Krispy Kreme, but Jesus... I had no idea. The way all of your gorgeous doughnuts tumbled by on the conveyer belt all fryer-fresh and melty-hot, sliding under that waterfall of glaze to be perfectly coated in ooey-gooey sweetness? And when your humble servant offered one of those scorching hot rings of love completely free of charge to my unworthy mouth, well, my reaction was perhaps... unsubtle.

I think he's onto us, Krispy Kreme. He knows something's going on. Look, Krispy Kreme, I'm not going to lie to you. As much as I love you, I could never leave him. What we have is between us, but do you think you could share me with him? Please say yes, Krispy Kreme. I know I am an unfaithful dog, but I've never met anyone like you. I think you could handle an arrangement like this, you seem pretty worldly. The adventurous type. Naughty, naughty Krispy Kreme! Come on, whaddaya say? I knew it! I knew you were cool like that! Okay, then it's a deal. I love you, Krispy Kreme. And really, think about moving a little closer to me, yeah? You know we could have fun.

posted by taiwan_on 'round 2:10 AM#
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Thursday, July 10, 2003

"Bow down & worship, whores!"
I direct your attention to a god!

I hereby nominate this guy for "Great Unsung 80's Character" status

do you have any idea what the street value of this mountain is?!

Look, everybody remembers the demonic paperboy ("two dollars!") from "Better Off Dead", but Curtis Armstrong as Charles De Mar had some of the film's truly golden moments. The scene at the prom when Roy Stalin (Aaron Dozier) has fun at Charles and Lane Meyer's (your man John Cusack) expense. Priceless. Remember?

SCENE: Charles De Mar & Lane Meyer are sitting at a table at prom together looking dejected.

Stalin: "Nice date, Meyer. But you might want to shave her a little closer before you kiss her good night."
Lane: (looks even more dejected)
Charles: (thoughtful 1.5 second pause before commencing lengthy, hysterical, tearfully appreciative laughter.)

There's your gloden age of comedy, right there.

posted by taiwan_on 'round 12:10 AM#
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Wednesday, July 09, 2003

"Question Reality"
but not too much.

There's something in the air, Kitten. Don't believe me? Just wait; you'll see. Something's gotta' give. We have lost cabin pressure. Just you wait. In the next few days people you once knew are going to begin behaving like aliens in your friends skin-suits and you can remember this and think of me as your oracle from now on. Of course, I'm pretty sure nobody knows I'm posting, so this will be lost even to hindsight, and no one will know that I am the new and improved, lemony-scented Nostrodamus.

Since last night I have been feeling pretty strange. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it's like waking up in someone else's brain. I felt like I could get lost on the way to the bus stop today. Over and over the same track I tread suddenly eerily unfamilliar. Well, familliar, maybe, in that automatic "this is the way we roll, we roll" kind of way, but amped up, technicolor tarted and trapped behind a pane of bullet-proof glass. I felt like somewhere there was a rip in my reality and if I stepped the wrong way I'd be whisked away to Someplace Else and not even know it. For all I know, maybe I was.

Work was pretty much the same boring, repetative shit, which means I had all day to entertain one screwball train of thought after another. Not my usual good, amused screwball thoughts, but the "let's take everything to an ugly place and imagine the worst case scenario" thoughts. Why do I do this to myself? I might have no leads to go on but my own twisted insecurities, but that won't stop me grabbing the putrid, festering, stomach-churning ball and running with it.

"What's the worst thing that could happen?"
"Let's make a whole long list of awful things and imagine them as vividly as possible! That should be fun!"
"Really, let's flex that imagination muscle. Feel the burn. Feel the torment. You can do it, just 5000 more reps!"
"Welcome to the land of make-believe! Are you comfortable? No? Good, because it's only gonna' get worse! Hang on kids! Wheeeeeeeeeeee!"

And all day I kept trying to derail this Willy Wonka candy express of neurosis, reminding myself no, no; this is sick. Everything is fine. You have more delicious things in your life now than you have in years, why imagine the banquet is poisoned? Stop it you sick fuck!

Yet on and on it went, a drive-in movie screen of Creature Octuple-Feature flickering in my borrowed brain. Dirty, crackly mono speaker dangling in the window. Dripping rusty rainwater and broken, tinny screams all over the dusty, dry-rotted upholstery of the passenger side of the hulking Buick Skylark of my skull. All the door-locks broken. Imposible to escape. The ignition popped. The engine stolen years ago. Silverfish and spiders skittering all over the interior. Stuck. Fucked.

So engrossed I was in my own personal hell that I almost missed it; the time-elapsed emotional deterioration of everyone around me. One by one my co-workers began dropping like flies. Three, count 'em, THREE seperate people inexplicably burst into tears today. Well, perhaps not inexplicably, but for reasons known only to themselves. One especially alarming. This ice-cool, tough chick. Cute, tall, quietly detatched and blonde. Remarkably effective when she does speak; evily funny and scarily observant. A born mimic able to whip out that one weird gesture exclusive to every one of our co-workers, the gesture you never consciously noted, but the gesture that completely defines that person and makes you go; "Holy shit!" and laugh until you can't breathe. It's never derisive when she does it. She doesn't amplify the gesture in any way for comedic effect, she just eases seamlessly into character. I've never seen her do me. But I don't think I ever want to.

Anyway, this girl is mecha-cool. She comes in every day, and like the army, gets more done by 9:00 than most people do all day. Myself included. She saves the time that I waste complaining about all the fucking work I'm doing. She never seems to tire, never takes a break, and never stops looking fabulous in that glowy, nonchalant, effortlessly fit, sporty chick way. She's made of stone, this girl. If you asked me to picture her crying, I couldn't do it. Hell, I saw her crying today, and I still can't picture it. She just burst out of the office, crying, car keys in hand, and left without a word. Nobody knew why she was crying or why she left, we all just lowered our eyes and pretended not to be dumbstruck. There weren't even any "what the fuck?" looks exchanged. We just fell silent, en masse, as if we were afraid to acknowledge it.

I couldn't stop thinking about it all day. I wanted to call her at home and ask if she was okay, if there was anything I could do, but it felt like prying. Another reason I didn't want to call is because I simply didn't want to know. Or more to the point, I desperately didn't want to know. If I called, someone would know and it would be a gossipy feeding frenzy on my meddling carcass because everyone wants to know what could make a bronze goddess like that cry. I know it must be something awful. But I hope to christ it isn't.

I thought about her all the rest of the day, hoping she was alright. It made me feel like such a schmuck. While I was imagining the fictional unravelling of my life, someone else's might really have been unravelling. Count your blessings, Kitten, you might never know when they're gone. That advice is more for me than you, I guess. I should stop waiting for that other shoe to drop and take care to avoid any potential foot up my ass instead.

In the meantime, beware, Kitten. The moon will soon be full, but I don't think that's what's happening here. There's some other rare planetary alignment going on, hopefully not all of it inauspicious. I suspect it's something in Uranus, if you know what I mean.

Take care, y'all.

posted by taiwan_on 'round 10:40 PM#
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Tuesday, July 08, 2003

"Oh nothing, I was just saying..."
now that absolutely no one is listening.

Fuck, it's been a long time, no? Could I have been any ruder?

I don't have any excuse, really. I tried to come up with one too, but I got nothing. I'm utterly empty-handed. Just an asshole, I suppose. *shrug* One day I was just "too busy" to post, then I had other things I'd rather be doing (that one's a big one), and in between I had nothing much to say. Pretty soon the whole thing snowballed and posting became an insurmountable obstacle.

Actually...no...it wasn't quite as big a deal as that. It just became this thing that I couldn't believe I used to do. Where did I find the time? Why was I doing it? Especially on those days where it was just a complete pain in the ass? What the hell did I have to yak about for so many paragraphs? Answer: little if anything. But I don't mean that in any low self-esteem kind of way, just that other than maybe some links to some of the best rock club shows you could hope to see in Boston, and links to blogs far better than mine (which are forthcoming), what was of interest here? I couldn't figure it out.

This is the kind of disorientation I imagine people on a weird new medication must feel. Maybe of the pain killing variety.

Anyway, look, I didn't make a big deal out of leaving, so I'm certainly not going to make a big deal out of coming back, if in fact that's what I'm doing. I seriously don't even know right now. I just wanted to tell you that I lazily applied this very functional template I didn't create because I was sick of nothing working on the template which I did create. I think that's an indication of some kind of intention on my part, but I'm not really sure.

In my more ambitious moments, I dream of a new site design and a thoroughly updated Cupcake of the Month section. Then the thought of what's involved elicits an audible groan from me. Maybe I should lay off the weed a little, huh? But seriously, where's Gummi? I might need a team of helper monkeys for that one, and I think she'd know the number I should call.

So, until next time. If there is one. Nyah-Nyah!

posted by taiwan_on 'round 1:00 AM#
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The WeatherPunkAss

moon phases

Female/26-30. Lives in United States/Massachusettes/Brockton/North Brockton, speaks English. Spends 20% of daytime online. Uses a Fast (128k-512k) connection. And likes Film/Writing.
This is my blogchalk:
United States, Massachusettes,
Brockton, North Brockton,
English, Female, 26-30,
Film, Writing.

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