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


home babes email me
 

Tuesday, December 30, 2003

It Started With Heavy Breathing...
...And then, before I knew it, I was thrashing around like a chimp at my desk.

I was hopping up and down on my chair and brachiating wildly, brandishing my huge simian hands overhead.

But who can blame me?

I mean, Jebus, Kitten...

READ THIS.


posted by taiwan_on 'round 11:57 PM#
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Thursday, December 25, 2003

Merry, Merry,
Merry Christmas!

For all the holiday wounds I've sustained, and all of the pain of getting there, Christmas was pure bliss for me.

No, no they can't take that away from me.

Kitten, I hope the Yule was as beautiful for you as it was for me.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Cheers!

posted by taiwan_on 'round 8:30 PM#
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Wednesday, December 24, 2003

Silver Hell...Silver Hell
...It's Christmas Time in the Suburbs!

I'm going to keep this brief (hah!), because I really should be wrapping gifts, imbibing class B substances and watching "Adaptation" right now. However, in the spirit of releasing my Christmas demons in the hopes that I might salvage a few scraps of that much bandied-about comfort and joy for myself, I need to tell you what Whitey did to me this Christmas.

'Round the end of November, I scratched my way up another rung on the retail corporate ladder. I graduated from the presitgious (snort) position of "head of photo" to sort of "master of inventory". I can't even tell you the job's actual title as it is so faggy and proprietary that it'll immediately mark out which hellacious company I work for, i.e. not really named "Drugco".

...Someone once suggested that I really should be calling it "S-Mart", and, dammit, I wish I had been smart enough to think of that one in the first place. It'd be so much cooler. Anyway...

I graduated from my lowly post to a slightly less lowly one fraught with even more worry, responsibility, and work, but less surly underlings. In fact, I have no underlings at all anymore, which is great. I'm lousy at bossing people around and trying to teach the intellectually handicapped how to perform simple tasks. I was told, over and over again, that this particular position paid the most of any position outside of management, which is great because a position in management at this place is about as appealing as a dry ass fuck with a tobasco enema chaser. Maybe I'd even be able to afford a used car someday! I felt almost optimistic again.

...Until I got the first paycheck reflecting the rewards my new position affords me.

...Which is nothing. No raise, no bonus, no nothing.

I took a deep breath, counted to ten, consulted the adding machine just to make sure and yep, not a dime more than I was making before.

When I asked the store manager about it, which is some new guy who we all slightly resent because he's not our hot, young, hilarious store manager whose philosophy was "Fuck that, the customer isn't always right", and frankly, who probably doesn't like us much either, he more or less stonewalled me. He shrugged and tried to look surprised too, but when he realized I wasn't going to just back it down and be appreciative of my existing crumbs, he looked up current pay rates.

Turns out corporate had upped the starting rate for "head of photo" to the same as "master of inventory". THE SAME DAY I WAS RE-CODED INTO MY NEW POSITION! Which means, nope, no raise for me, save for the lousy 20 cent raises they give to everyone twice a year as punishment for being too stupid to quit.

I had to fight paranoid delusions that this was all some elaborate conspiracy hatched just to fuck with me, personally.

I did my best to plead my case, but most of the fight had gone out of me at this point. I explained that I was tired of begging corporate for raises that should come free with purchase of promotion, and what the fuck, was there a coupon I was supposed to clip out of last week's flyer or something?! What's to stop me from just back-sliding into clerk-hood like everyone else, sitting on my ass, being lazy and unhelpful, and getting paid just the same but with less hassle? Is ambition and a longing not to be bored grounds for punishment around here or something?

Mr. New Manager, for his part, did his best to look concerned and promised to "have a talk" with upper management, but this does me little good now. I was hoping for that raise to kick in a few weeks before Christmas. Y'know, when I needed it most. And the funny thing is, the same thing happened last year when I was promoted. The raise didn't kick in until late January and it was so miniscule that I had to consult the adding machine again just to prove its mere existence.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results, is it not?

And speaking of insanity, I hijacked a piece of corporate propoganda from the breakroom last night with the intention of photoshopping it into some semblance of the truth. It's just this cheesy card-stock poster consisting of four questions you are supposed to ask yourself before doing anything at Drugco. Y'know, "is it right for the customer", "is it right for the company", blah, blah, blah. Anyway, I was going to scan it, tweak it with my own (way more realistic & honest) questions, and then, depending on how rascally I was feeling, replace the old poster to its rightful position on the breakroom bulletin board with the new one pinned on top of it.

Instead, I can't even scan the goddamn thing because my scanner's giving me grief (or more specifically, the software), and I can't get anything to work. The longer I have this stupid thing, the more likely someone is to notice its gone and, well, that'd be a really stupid reason to get fired. It would be far more satisfying to get fired for hanging up the new one, which somehow I don't find nearly as objectionable.

And speaking of insanity...

Yes I know I used that segue twice, but there's a reason. See, there's this broad I work with, transferred over sometime last April, I think, that has been the bane of my existence since she started. I'm really too easy-going and placid to have an arch nemesis, but like it or not, I do now, and it is her. Her name, because its fitting, will be Broomhilda.

As long as you haven't eaten recently, picture, if you will, Broomhilda. A short, fat, haggard looking thing in her late fourties who looks more like she's in her late sixties. She has long gray hair and no upper teeth which she replaces, only when absolutely necessary, with ill-fitting upper dentures that she has to grit her teeth to talk through. When she's off the clock, she goes commando, her sunken mouth looking (and sounding) uncannily like an asshole. She reeks constantly of acrid cigarette smoke, cheap booze sweat and poor hygine. She has the foulest, most ignorant mouth you've ever heard, her entire vocabulary consisting of only about 60 words, and 30 of them have the prefix, suffix or root word "fuck".

Now, you know how I love the f-bombs, but there is a time and a place for all things, and Broomhilda is entirely without a sense of either. She doesn't use her "indoor voice" when dropping f-bombs, and has been known to embarrass anyone with half a brain but equal familliarity with the word "fuck". Not so much for her command of profanity, but because everything that comes out of that collapsed rectum hole in her face is so shrill and so belligerently under-educated that you're humilliated to make polite small-talk with her lest someone overhears it.

Incompetent would be a really generous word to use when describing Broomhilda, but I like it because it's a word that produces a simian brow-furrowing in her.

"Too hard! Word too hard! Broomhilda like "dumb" better!"

I have been trying to teach her how to use the same photoprocessing machine since May, and she still doesn't understand it on a completely functional level. I really enjoy teaching people things, but Broomhilda may have ruined my "teacher chi" for life thanks to her stupidity. You simply cannot teach a dog this old new tricks, and she likes to blame her teachers for her inability to retain information.

Broomhilda is also a vicious gossip and compulsive liar. She is fond of "oversharing" personal details that are so disgusting that you hate her for trying to bond with you. She often refers to her husband as "a faggot", and complains that he can't get it up for her anymore, which is a bitch because all she wants to do is...*retch*...fuck. I'm amazed he ever got it up for her enough to produce the two ill-mannered, foul-mouthed brats, one of which has an illigitimate rugrat of her own that is a shining example of why I think most kids suck. They frequently stop in to have Jerry Springer moments with her at work with all their; "fuck you, mah!" and whatnot. It's touching, really.

Normally, a train wreck of humanity this wretched would only inspire pity and a well-hidden disgust in me, but Broomhilda is so damn hateful and petty that I cannot help but despise her, loathe her, pray for the inevitable mis-step that will release her from Drugco's employ.

And for some reason, she has chosen me as the target for her considerable aggression.

From day one she had her sights set on me because my department manager status afforded me the one luxury of weekday nine to five hours, which was, incidentally, the only reason I agreed to the promotion in the first place. She wanted those hours, and by golly, she was going to get them. Within a week of her transfer, she began picking fights with me and then running off to managers to complain that I was "startin' shit". I took the high road every chance I got, not rising to her baiting, which only exasperated her further. Every single manager (and employee) knew the score, so her trolling became a sort of sideline amusement for everyone at Drugco. Her efforts were so futile that for a few months there I almost believed she had given up on me and was trying to be as nice as a person like her is capable of being.

Then the holidays rolled around and the Christmas cheer began to work its antimagic on her black little heart.

I'm sorry I haven't chronicled our little wars as they happened, because, really, they were rather amusing. But I've forgotten them all so you'll just have to rely on that bit of background to bring you up to speed.

When I began training for my new position, I let her know that my much-coveted (by her) position was up for grabs. Did she want to be department manager? It was a moot point as far as anyone concerned, as she was obviously hoping I would hurry up and die so that she could take over. She stunned us all when she answered "no". The position was handed off to next in line and she ran around telling everyone what a slap in the face it was that she didn't get the promotion.

The one she refused.

Excuse me, but, what?

Now, in a recent turn of holiday events, they had to throw me back into the photo department to cover half a shift. In the mere two weeks I had been gone, I marvelled at what a shambles it had become. We were running full-tilt, had orders going back days ago, and were quickly running out of the supplies nobody had ordered. This was especially annoying because I had warned Broomhilda that she'd need supplies and even offered to order them for her if she made me a list. She passed that job off to someone who only covers the weekends, someone who couldn't give less of a fuck, so of course it never got done. I spent that morning doing as much damage dontrol and as many orders as I could until the most necessary supply of them all, the photopaper, ran out.

In an effort to stave off the angry customers that would invariably plague us until we got some paper, I made a quick sign reminding people that overnight orders would be back on the 20th and they were welcome to use that service. It was a band-aid over a sucking chest wound, but it saved me from any new orders piling up for the two hours it took for us to get paper.

When Broomhilda showed up to take over, we were up and running again and I was faintly resentful of the fact that she was walking into this freshly-stocked relative paradise, but relieved to get away nonetheless. So relieved that I forgot my sign...

Cut to me working yesterday. I got in and had a pile of inventory shit to do. More than I could possibly get done on my shift unless I really hauled ass. Broomhilda, not five minuted after I got there, said she had to go pick up her unemployed, on the dole daughter, and would be back in a few minutes...

It became a three hour tour...a three hour tour!

Well, not really, she was gone an hour and a half or two, but that was still much longer than promised and more than enough time to piss off the manager who offered to take in orders for her until she got back. And when she does come back, she wonders aloud "Why the fahck couldn't anyone do any fahckin' orders while I was gone?!" The manager explains that he was getting called to do returns every five minutes, and it is the holidays and all, and by the way, it is not his job, it's hers. She fumes; "I don't fahckin' know why fahckin' taiwan_on couldn't fahckin' come back here and do a few fahckin' rolls!" at which the manager, finally losing his composure yelled; "Because she has work to do! Her work! Not yours!" and stormed off.

Needless to say she spent the rest of her shift in a snit about it before eventually finding the opportunity to blow off some steam at me.

So there I am, my shift is over and I'm all loopy because I can smell freedom. I have to buy a big ass red ribbon for my wreath and as I'm waiting for my busy manager to ring it up, I look and notice my sign. I notice the promise of returned orders on the 20th. It is the 22nd now. I notice it is on the counter on display still. I feel stupid for forgetting it and start taking it out of the sign holder.

"DON'T FAHCKIN' RIP THAT UP! I FAHCKIN' NEED THAT!" Screams Broomhlida.

"Broomhilda," I begin calmly, "the date says the 20th. It's the 22nd. Is the delivery man going to get in his time machine to deliver orders that people drop off today two days ago?"

"Why don't you mind your business." mutters Broomhilda under her breath.

So now, I'm all full of piss and vinegar. I'm so tired of her bullshit, but oddly, not pissed off yet, but more than willing to poke the bear.

"Why don't I mind my business?" I ask, "You mean like disposing of the sign I made? The sign I made four days ago when I had to cover this sorry-ass department where no one could mind their business enough to order paper and I had to hustle other stores for it? I am minding my business, Broomhilda. See? I'm disposing of my sign. If you want a new sign, then why not bust a move on that word processor over there." (the one I know, full well, she is too stupid to use.)

Broomhilda stalks around muttering under her breath, refusing to make eye-contact with me.

"No need to mumble, Broomhilda!" I yell cheerily; "If you've got something to say, I'm right here and more than willing to discuss it."

She finally shuts up and suddenly begins working like, well, it's her job or something.

Kitten, I'm not kidding; do you know in the time it took me to hang up my smock and grab my bag to leave, she had made a circuit of the entire store and told everyone the following;

"I just told off fahckin' taiwan_on. Yeah, I put fahckin' her in her place and she didn't have a fahckin' thing to say about it!"

I couldn't even make it out the door without two employees flagging me down, laughing, to relay that one to me.

The whole thing is so third grade I can't help but be amused, but I have a feeling she is going to be miserable to deal with from here on in. This is gonna' suck.

"Come on, Fhqwhgads. You're just making yourself look worse. I mean, everybody's just gonna' feel sorry for you. I do."


posted by taiwan_on 'round 12:37 AM#
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Wednesday, December 17, 2003

So This Is Christmas...
...and what have you done?

I'm having one of those weeks that damages you as a person.

Actually, it started last Thursday, which means I'm hoping this bad stretch of luck is over by tomorrow.

Realistically I know this seems to be a pretty vain hope.

Kitten, I'm going to have to get ugly for a minute, so, you might want to go elsewhere for awhile. I mean really, go somewhere else. I don't want to dirty you up. But I have some things I need to get off my chest, and I don't know where else to do it.

For everyone that has ever been hostile to a retail worker before you've even been greeted by them, Fuck You.

For everyone that has ever requested goods or services in the face of limited time and extenuating circumstance, and been completely unable to see beyond themselves, Fuck You.

For everyone that has made a mild inconvenience into a motherfucking hardship, Fuck You.

For everyone who seriously can't be bothered to to notice, let alone control the destructive, antisocial tendencies of their children, Fuck You.

For everyone that has ever gone so long without showering that they manage to infect an entire building with their stench, leaving it behind to repulse others to the point of nauseousness at least ten minutes after they've left said building, that's an act of aggression, so, Fuck You.

For everyone that has ever expected someone to be ass-kissingly chipper in the face of humanitarian and financial degradation every single minute no matter what the circumstance, Fuck You.

For everyone who has been too lazy to learn how to do anything for themselves, preferring instead to ride on the backs of everyone around them like parasites, Fuck You.

For everyone that doesn't know how to say thank you, or even show a scrap of gratitude, Fuck You.

For every total stranger asshole that treats me like they personally sign my paychecks, Fuck You.

For everyone that has done something out of order and then gotten red-faced with rage and scared the shit out of me with their craziness when I called them on it, Fuck You.

For everyone that has ever used a public bathroom and been unable to keep from spraying various fluids and matter all over every surface without even making a token gesture towards cleaning up after themselves, Fuck You. No, Double Fuck You.

For everyone that has been unaware (and please, god, let them be unaware because I can't bear the thought that this is done out of maliciousness, I can't. I will murder.) of someone trudging down the street, freezing cold and trying not to face-plant in a sloppy gray slush-pile, and driven past them heedless of their speed and drenched them in filthy, icy water, Fuck You.

For everyone that has ever used a "Toys for Tots" bin as a waste basket for their dripping, sticky, gay-ass latte-mocha-caramel-vanilla-half-caf-lo-fat-fake-ass-cocoa-piss-poor-excuse-for-coffee cups, Fuck You.

For everyone that has ever stolen something out of a "Toys for Tots" bin, Fuck You.

For everyone that has made me curse Christmas and just pray for it to be over, Fuck You.

Fuck you because I used to love Christmas. Not in the "deck the everything and annoy people with carol-humming and starry-eyed wonder" way, but in an introspective, personal way.

I liked the quiet slumber of a neighborhood buried under a blanket of snow in the night. I loved the way the snow mutes everything and presses sound softly against the ears like mittened hands.

I loved riding through Tinker Town, a whole winding backroad lit with candles in waxed white paper bags, in a car with the headlights off.

I used to get a little swell of emotion in my chest at the sight of someone's Christmas lights display, because I knew the guy was old and had been doing it for a zillion years, and how much longer has he got, really? How different will Christmas look without him?

I used to love Christmas because when it comes to certain people, I'm really gifted with the gifting and I can't wait to make them happy. Not so much about the pricetag as it is about it being just the perfect thing.

I used to love making small-talk with kids about blizzards and Santa because how fucking cool is it to love blizzards and Santa? It doesn't get any happier than that.

I used to get all discreetly choked up at the sound of certain songs; "Fairytale of New York" by the Pogues, "Little Drummer Boy" by the Dandy Warhols (Little baby, pah-rum-pah-pah-pum! I am a poor boy too, pah-rum-pah-pah-pum! - Like all fuckin' proud and shit. How cool is that?), and "I'll Be Home For Christmas" by...well...just about anyone. Shit, even by writing that last title I got a little bit of tears in my eyes. (wuss.)

I used to love Christmas because I've got a really great family and really great friends and, basically, I've done the right thing so far in this life, and as a result, I know, ultimately, "every little thing is gonna' be alright". (incidentally, the title of another song that makes me go all secretly wussy inside.)

I used to love Christmas, motherfuckers, and you've gone and ruined it for me. Customers, co-workers and corporate entities alike, you are all the fucking Grinch who stole Christmas, my own personal Christmas bogeymen, and I fucking hate, hate, HATE you for it. And I hate you for making me hate so much ever, let alone at Christmas.

I'm so tired and defensive and angry these days that a whole host of maladies have plagued me. Headaches that last 6 days and make me squint constantly. My jaw, neck and back so tight with tension that things lock and snap painfully and without warning. Like my body's a little burning minefield and I have to tread carefully. A stomach so boiling with acid and repression that it cramps and everything I eat forms a heavy ball of lead around it. A feeling of defeat and despair that frankly embarrasses me with its intensity every time I look at the clock at work. The way that feeling becomes a near orgasm of wretchedness when I get my paycheck. (I'm doing it all.....for this?)

I'm the wrong woman for this job. It's giving me some yet as undiscovered form of cancer, I can feel it. I am not exaggerating. I can't do this anymore. I am on the verge of tears more often than not out of a profound sense of futility. Profound. I have no other immediate options as far as income goes, and by immediate I mean I am unfit to consider doing anything productive in the way of getting myself out of this mess at the moment. I am immobilized with an exhausted frustration. I'm stuck here, at least until the holidays are over, and that sucks. I quit every five minutes in my head, and I can't tell anymore if these fantasies bring me relief or just add to the misery.

I know, piss and moan, but I warned you to move along, so don't come crying to me if my self-pity pisses you off or makes you uncomfortable. Chances are if it does the you're probably one of the people I was addressing with my barrage of Fuck You's, so, Fuck You.

I'm well aware that I did this to myself. I'm well aware that I'm still doing this to myself. But at the moment, I'm trapped and have to ride it out. I let it slide too long, and welched on my bet to get the hell out of here before the holidays. This is all my fault, but for the moment, it's beyond my control.

I know you're not going to change, my demons, so give me a sound-proof room where I can scream without you hearing me. Not because I'm embarrassed, but because you don't deserve to know what you're doing to me.

You might think I'm blowing this out of proportion, but I'm not. Here's an honest personal statistic: For every 40 people I come in contact with, only one of them behaves like a human being (Some of them are so cool that I simper with gratitude like a pathetic piece of shit, and I genuinely hope, without a trace of irony, that I made their lives a bit easier in my tiny way). The other 39 are raging assholes. Seriously; these are people you would blast in the throat, and/or, at the very least, huck a loogey on, were you confronted with them in a bar. In fact, I'd say a good 15 out of those 39 are people you'd wait outside the bar for with a baseball bat.

I have come at these people wearing every possible face in the hopes of a better outcome. I know you're stressed too, I know I have no idea what your life is like, I know, I know, I know. We all can't wait for this bullshit to be over, but we're stuck in it for now, and I'll do what I can to make it better, Pumpkin. But it doesn't work, does it? You whine and cry like a little bitch and throw temper tantrums that make your four year old stare at the floor in red-faced embarrassment. You wonder why I try to avoid eye-contact with you, because that's how you treat a vicious animal, isn't it?

I want to tell everyone to chill out and be nice to each other, but fuck it, it hasn't worked for me. That option is pretty much out the window, and, from my experience, marks you out as some kind of weakling. I want to tell everyone else to just not let the ho-ho-hostility bother you, but y'know, I don't know how the fuck anyone does that, so good luck there.

About the only thing I've managed to do right is be a chill motherfucker in every place I have shopped this year. I am so happy to not be on the wrong side of the counter anywhere else that I wait in endless lines with complete zen patience. And when I finally do get up to the cashier, I am a fucking paragon of Christ-like empathy. I truly love you, fellow service industry worker, and I feel the pain of your struggle every minute of every day. Here, let me show you the stigmata on my palms in the shape of Andrew Jackson's head.

So, to all the real heroes of Christmas, everyone who works in retail, I salute you. You put up with shit no one else in their right mind would. We should go out for a beer sometime. And when it's all over, let's all look for new jobs.

Join me next time when I tell you all about how "The Man" did-in my Christmas this year. Although I'm sure this is another post you'll want to avoid.

Sorry for being Captain Bringdown and all, but hey, your browser has a back button y'know.

posted by taiwan_on 'round 11:42 PM#
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Tuesday, December 16, 2003

Best. Boyfriend. Ever.
Seriously.

Let me tell you what's inherently wrong with HP's policy of shipping their desktop bundles without OS rescue disks.

The OS, no matter how carefully and intelligently you treat it, will eventually need rescuing.

It's a simple law of averages; perform system restore enough times and something will go wrong on the "super-secret" partition where the OS is stored. A copy of the operating system, or at least a rescue disk, would be very fucking helpful to those with a penchant, nay, an irrational love for DIY computer troubleshooting.

Have you any idea how humilliating it is for someone like me to have to ACTUALLY CALL TECH SUPPORT? As if that's not bad enough, but then kicking a bitch when she's down, making me pay $30 to renew my warranty and then another $13 for the system restore disks? The ones that SHOULD HAVE SHIPPED WITH THE BUNDLE!? At Christmas time no less, you bastards. Way to rub salt in the wound, whitey.

Sheeeeee-it.

The only saving grace here is that tech support was completely amazing, and these guys honestly tried their best to get my fucked system up and running. Which was impossible. But hey, s'cool.

I got an ace in the hole, you see...

Boyfriend showed up last night with some more sensible OS...advice...and now everything is leaner, meaner and faster than before. All this space! I don't know what to do with it! Makes me want to call the Queer Eye guys to decorate it! Something like this maybe...

Anyway, I still can't get over him driving an hour out of his way after work totally on a whim.

Damn, but I am fortunate.

(huh...huhuhuh...Boyfriend: I called you an ace in the hole. Uhuhuhuh...huhuh)


posted by taiwan_on 'round 11:13 PM#
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Tuesday, December 09, 2003

Snow, Snow, SNOW!...
...I'm sick of the bloody site of it!
-Vyv "The Young Ones"

I'm writing this from under a pile of plowed snow 8 feet deep and solidly packed. I can only move about 2 fingers on each hand, which is okay because that's how I type anyway.

As cold and uncomfortable as it is, I'm actually kind of psyched about it because at this rate I may not have to go to work again until spring thaw. So don't tell anyone where I am, okay Kitten.

Here are a few pictures of the wretched conditions I managed to snap before I got...uh...huh, huh...plowed.

This is as quiet as you'll ever see the corner of JFK and Brattle St. in Harvard Square again...

The Tasty is dead! Long live the Tasty! Fuck you A&F!


A quiet, residential street utterly fucked...

he lives on love street...


Here is a squirrel. Write your own joke that includes the words "freezing" and "nuts" starting....NOW!

sup, secret squirrel?


Here is the world's least ambitious snowman. He stands about 6" high and answers to the name Dwayne.

if this guy asks me if it's cold enough for me one more time, I'm going to punch his tiny head clean off!


And I really wish I could post the picture of Boyfriend farting on a snowbank trying to make it melt faster, but you'll just have to imagine that one for yourself.


posted by taiwan_on 'round 1:08 AM#
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Tuesday, December 02, 2003

Concrete Evidence of My Mental Illness (Exhibit A)
as if you actually needed any more.

Hey Kitten! Yours truly is obviously going nucking futs as evidenced by the following dream.

I have reprinted it from an e-mail (total fan letter!) I just sent to that very cool bastard over at Tokyo Damage Report.

...Because I am too lazy to write it again.

So now you can decide what's sadder; the fact that I had this dream, or the fact that I didn't edit it for the blog to make it somehow look at least a little bit sane. Discuss.

I dreamed that my favorite Hong Kong action star took me out for a
drive one night in some old, black rag-top. When we reached a
secluded neighborhood of industrial complexes, he pulled out a
revolver and killed himself with a single bullet to the head. I
was obviously shocked and frightened. Fearing the inevitable
inquiry, I slid out of the passenger's seat, left an anonymous tip
to the police on a payphone and started walking. This led to a
reflective moment where a sort of highlights reel of this action
star's defining moments played.

It's important that I note at this point, that the HK action star
was indeed, a weiner dog. Y'know, a dachshund?

artist's interpretation

Anyway, the great cinematic moment I actually recall (from the
highlights reel) is this little dog rising up on hind legs to
catch the crystalline drops from a sprinkler full on his adorable
doggy face. All slow motion.

I imagine Freud would have a blast.

What's really amazing is how incredibly serious it was at the
time, and how sad it actually made me.


I'm not sure why I so needed to share that rather embarrassing dream with you, Kitten, but now you know...

...AND KNOWING IS HALF THE BATTLE!
(not clicking the above link is like saying no to improving your quality of life.)

posted by taiwan_on 'round 12:52 AM#
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Monday, December 01, 2003

Extremely Practical (and easy!) Origami
just in time for cold & flu season!

Ever buy a snack that you generously share with your co-workers, while at the same time you're kind of freaked out because they're all putting their offensively germy hands in the containing bag/box/tin/canister/snack-tube?

Well, check this shizzle out, Kitten! You can not only share snacks safely, you can impress people with this practical little piece of origami so simple even I can do it:
GMAN: Origami Bowl

Germiphobes aren't the only ones to benefit from this innovation; snack-sharers will also appreciate the cure for the "wandering chip bag blues".

It's also a fly place to put nut shells and whatnot while you're snacking, because just making a pile on the table/bar is so fucking gauche.

Please note: not recommended for soup or other sloshies. Or as an ash-tray. Doesn't work as an ash-tray. No siree.

Neat that! And check out the rest of GMAN's site while you're at it, as I'm sure he, like most people, updates more regularly than I do.

posted by taiwan_on 'round 5:37 AM#
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mini me

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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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