So I've spent a good chunk of my day (and a healthy portion of last night) reading responses to a forum asking what people like to eat while they're high. This, coupled with the strangely pot-like effects of 2-3 tabs of Escitalopram + melatonin means that I've developped an overwhelming urge to eat like a gourded-out stoner. If this hunk of mozzarella covered in hummus is any indication, I've been doing just that.
I like to think that I have a healthy relationship with food. It's so everyday, it's so common, how can you go day to day and just think of it as fuel? Well, I guess you can. But isn't life richer, sexier, more fun, more sensual if you crave and enjoy and are satisfied by absolutely every bite you take?
Gratifyingly yours,
Inari
If I were a munchy, I would be...zucchini, crushed tomatoes, hot sauce, hummus with a glass of water and a tablespoon of Nutella and crushed walnuts
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Pop goes the Ink-Cherry & Masochism on Queen W.
Truck-less skate-decks are the avante-guard trimming around a room of wallpaper flash. Flaming skulls. Eyes of tigers. Hibiscus, and black tribal lines drawn up and down and everywhere.
Soldiers. Sailors. Mothers. Lovers. Hispanics from East LA. No matter which parlor in whatever hemisphere, the soul of ink is embodied in a heart pierced by an arrow.
It looks painful but it cries beauty.
An embroidered family portrait hangs on the wall. Joseph, Mary and child overlook the space like some ecclesiastical method of surveillance – a way of warding off nervous omens…perhaps providing an easing level of comfort to some, while simultaneously pissing others off– atheists mostly. But I’m a believer, or in some way an idol worshiper to say the least, so I dig it.
It smells like antiseptic and the stinging reverberation of an electric needle resonates in the melon between my ears, cascading from wall to wall, down the corridors and out the front door. It’s not a welcoming sound and yet packs of plaid and denim 20 and 30 somethings roam the halls and gather in the storefront like a nest of songbirds.
Women with the black lashes and fire-engine pouts of 50s pin-ups, and the men - skinny – like animated cells or colouring books from throat to sole. They gather and their familial like laughter blends into the rhythm of that buzzing electric sting. Ink-virgins often fear the foreboding anthem, but among these walls it sounds like home.
It feels like home and I like it.
The point of the needle pierces the skin on my arm and a sensation of heat vibrates above each shaven follicle. It isn’t pain, like many anticipate or recall. It’s an intense warmth and it provides almost a comfort – a comfort that I long for during those few moments when Joe lifts the pointed pen away from my skin in order to replenish its thirst for ink or progress to its new pigment. From dark to white. From true black to high lights.
When it’s over it leaves you overwhelmingly pleased and yet lingering. I wonder if that adrenaline, that rush… keeps on getting better, or if we will forever chase the high of our first time... My first time was merely just a tease. Left ever-wondering and wanting more.
They say, inductive reasoning (or inductive logic) suggests truths based on patterns of observation to arrive at answers of the unknown. What has happened or does happen predicts what will happen. As a strong advocate of inductive ways of thinking, I contrive a relationship between such reasoning to the conclusion that I may very well be a masochist. Recent needled events in addition to many self-reflexive artistic creations derived from the dark pains buried deep inside but boiling to the surface, may have proven so.
The paradox however, is that I get pleasure out of pain and joy.
I can’t provide a sufficient excuse on why I insist on self-description, but is there a word in which such a definition can be applied? Pleasure from pain and joy? “Human” perhaps? No… because when you consider such a definition in an alternate light – phrased by a different string of words, it’s technically suggesting pleasure prevails all the time. That isn’t human, is it?
That’s actually rather inhuman.
And alas, always left ever-wondering and wanting more.
Until next time bros,
Xo Lo
If I were inhuman I would be: a galaxy.
Soldiers. Sailors. Mothers. Lovers. Hispanics from East LA. No matter which parlor in whatever hemisphere, the soul of ink is embodied in a heart pierced by an arrow.
It looks painful but it cries beauty.
An embroidered family portrait hangs on the wall. Joseph, Mary and child overlook the space like some ecclesiastical method of surveillance – a way of warding off nervous omens…perhaps providing an easing level of comfort to some, while simultaneously pissing others off– atheists mostly. But I’m a believer, or in some way an idol worshiper to say the least, so I dig it.
It smells like antiseptic and the stinging reverberation of an electric needle resonates in the melon between my ears, cascading from wall to wall, down the corridors and out the front door. It’s not a welcoming sound and yet packs of plaid and denim 20 and 30 somethings roam the halls and gather in the storefront like a nest of songbirds.
Women with the black lashes and fire-engine pouts of 50s pin-ups, and the men - skinny – like animated cells or colouring books from throat to sole. They gather and their familial like laughter blends into the rhythm of that buzzing electric sting. Ink-virgins often fear the foreboding anthem, but among these walls it sounds like home.
It feels like home and I like it.
The point of the needle pierces the skin on my arm and a sensation of heat vibrates above each shaven follicle. It isn’t pain, like many anticipate or recall. It’s an intense warmth and it provides almost a comfort – a comfort that I long for during those few moments when Joe lifts the pointed pen away from my skin in order to replenish its thirst for ink or progress to its new pigment. From dark to white. From true black to high lights.
When it’s over it leaves you overwhelmingly pleased and yet lingering. I wonder if that adrenaline, that rush… keeps on getting better, or if we will forever chase the high of our first time... My first time was merely just a tease. Left ever-wondering and wanting more.
They say, inductive reasoning (or inductive logic) suggests truths based on patterns of observation to arrive at answers of the unknown. What has happened or does happen predicts what will happen. As a strong advocate of inductive ways of thinking, I contrive a relationship between such reasoning to the conclusion that I may very well be a masochist. Recent needled events in addition to many self-reflexive artistic creations derived from the dark pains buried deep inside but boiling to the surface, may have proven so.
The paradox however, is that I get pleasure out of pain and joy.
I can’t provide a sufficient excuse on why I insist on self-description, but is there a word in which such a definition can be applied? Pleasure from pain and joy? “Human” perhaps? No… because when you consider such a definition in an alternate light – phrased by a different string of words, it’s technically suggesting pleasure prevails all the time. That isn’t human, is it?
That’s actually rather inhuman.
And alas, always left ever-wondering and wanting more.
Until next time bros,
Xo Lo
If I were inhuman I would be: a galaxy.
Monday, February 16, 2009
96.7 CHYR "We have Desiree Thrash on the line... Are you Crying, Loving, or Leaving?"
Too long in the frying pan,
With the temperature up too hot,
What started off as cooking,
Is now burning to the spot.
Although change is edging closer,
The unchanged is coiling all around.
Scortching like a fiery snake;
Like chains welded to the ground.
There's a certain complication,
That's been a plague for far too long.
But I hesistate to blame it,
For those times where I chose wrong.
Sometimes we are too comfortable,
We pick apples from the ground.
It's easier than climbing to
Where better fruits abound.
We still have an understanding,
That someday might be reached,
When we're both a little stronger,
These feelings can be breached.
Signed,
Desiree
If I were poetry I would be... Sonnet 130.
With the temperature up too hot,
What started off as cooking,
Is now burning to the spot.
Although change is edging closer,
The unchanged is coiling all around.
Scortching like a fiery snake;
Like chains welded to the ground.
There's a certain complication,
That's been a plague for far too long.
But I hesistate to blame it,
For those times where I chose wrong.
Sometimes we are too comfortable,
We pick apples from the ground.
It's easier than climbing to
Where better fruits abound.
We still have an understanding,
That someday might be reached,
When we're both a little stronger,
These feelings can be breached.
Signed,
Desiree
If I were poetry I would be... Sonnet 130.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
"May your lips refuse the kiss unless your heart is home."
For you, a writer's conundrum:
Why is it that I can write novels about my kinkiest desires, yet fail to find words to describe the tightness that appears in my chest whenever I stand close enough to smell your skin?
At my deepest, in a way that is so fundamental as to be inexplicable, I'm still yours.
-I
Happy Valentine's Day.
If I were a memory, I would be...an almost-kiss.
Friday, February 13, 2009
#13: Slow, with the lights out
"One should not have an affinity for, and\or a history with more than one suitor in the same group of friends..."
- I don't know who said it specifically, but somebody smart did.
happy friday the 13th!
If I were something odd and kinky I would be: silent film soundtrack.
- I don't know who said it specifically, but somebody smart did.
happy friday the 13th!
If I were something odd and kinky I would be: silent film soundtrack.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
remember when I drove you home; remember the sugar pie?
Ever replay conversations or events over in your head?
As time passes some details seem to fade and others grow with fabrication like cobwebs or dust in the corners of your room. ...Or maybe they grow like something prettier. But cobwebs can be pretty.
Sometimes on those rare occasions when I'm back in the town where I grew up, I go for these thoughtful (kind of) mellifluous drives. I pass by the different landmarks I had passed a million times before in the past... or maybe even just once or twice.
The Avondale... Mosquito park, Mossimo's Pizza, long-boarders, blockbuster video, Holy Ghost ... Chippawa park. The list goes on and on. But wherever it may be and however many times I've driven by... these things trigger a reel of memories complete with their own cast and soundtrack. Complete with their comedy, tragedy and coming-of-age family drama. Complete with there romance and lack thereof.
I recall these memories and sometimes I even replay them out as they would have happened had I been the one with the happy ending at that point in my life. Had I been the one to peak so early on. As momentous and beautiful as these rewritten memories are - they just couldn't have actually happened in the flashy ways of the re-edited versions. They weren't HD or Blu-ray. They were VHS and they didn't happen any other way for a damn good reason.
Sometimes time and "waiting" can frustrate these memories to surface and we think... "Was that it? Was it me who didn't take any sort of chance to try and make things more full-filling?" Was I a passive protagonist? I don't believe in this and I don't believe in placing blame on the protagonist for not being able to control their surroundings. I don't believe in punishing the entire film if their conflict is more of an internal psychological crises. And I happen to be a fan of the open-ended ambiguous final scene. I happen to root for the perspective of a hopeful future... however blatantly ego-fuckingly metaphoric it may be.
Yes, we can take matters into our own hands... but we do what we do and arguably if we don't do certain things... how much could we have actually wanted to do them?
Hmm...
Or maybe a stronger force was preventing certain things from happening while creating other obstacles and goals at the same time, so that the grand scheme of things would be leading to a greater and more climactic life later on... Perhaps everything is out of our control! Maybe I believe this. Maybe i'd like this very much.
Looking back, I anticipate nothing could have been different. It just wouldn't have ever worked or been any other way. (My life so far, i mean). I have foreseen most of the achievements and tragedies of my life. I would even go so far as to play them out in my head, lying in bed as a child... sleepless (which was actually unusual for me at the time). But when they finally did happen, I'd remember playing it out when I was little. I would compare the reality to how I imagined it... and often it would never be very far off.
Thinking back, it's quite ominous really when you recognize that you understood that certain omens were coming... you just didn't know when and how it would really affect you. But it affects you. It makes you YOU. A "you" you sometimes can't explain in words. A "you" you thank God that you are... even though it involves a lot of pain. A lot of pain that comes out at any time at any moment... sometimes even when you're just sitting in your yellow kitchen talking about mushrooms and spinach with Inari... And it makes you cry. I'm talkin' tears like cannons yo.
It just makes you YOU. A "you" that sometimes makes you hard to be around... And more than that... makes you easier to be around. It's weird. And I know a lot of people don't like the word "weird" and they slate it right up there with "interesting" but I like the word weird, because most of us and most of the unexplainable are and is in fact weird. Well maybe not "in fact" but you know what i mean. ...Or do you?
I miss butterflies. I miss endless conversations. I miss giving a fuck, you know?
Why do emotions either spike or plummet? Apathy is a form of procrastination I swear to God.
xoLola
If I were any fabricated memory I would be: your prom date and the AAAA Motel. (Ohhh memories...)
As time passes some details seem to fade and others grow with fabrication like cobwebs or dust in the corners of your room. ...Or maybe they grow like something prettier. But cobwebs can be pretty.
Sometimes on those rare occasions when I'm back in the town where I grew up, I go for these thoughtful (kind of) mellifluous drives. I pass by the different landmarks I had passed a million times before in the past... or maybe even just once or twice.
The Avondale... Mosquito park, Mossimo's Pizza, long-boarders, blockbuster video, Holy Ghost ... Chippawa park. The list goes on and on. But wherever it may be and however many times I've driven by... these things trigger a reel of memories complete with their own cast and soundtrack. Complete with their comedy, tragedy and coming-of-age family drama. Complete with there romance and lack thereof.
I recall these memories and sometimes I even replay them out as they would have happened had I been the one with the happy ending at that point in my life. Had I been the one to peak so early on. As momentous and beautiful as these rewritten memories are - they just couldn't have actually happened in the flashy ways of the re-edited versions. They weren't HD or Blu-ray. They were VHS and they didn't happen any other way for a damn good reason.
Sometimes time and "waiting" can frustrate these memories to surface and we think... "Was that it? Was it me who didn't take any sort of chance to try and make things more full-filling?" Was I a passive protagonist? I don't believe in this and I don't believe in placing blame on the protagonist for not being able to control their surroundings. I don't believe in punishing the entire film if their conflict is more of an internal psychological crises. And I happen to be a fan of the open-ended ambiguous final scene. I happen to root for the perspective of a hopeful future... however blatantly ego-fuckingly metaphoric it may be.
Yes, we can take matters into our own hands... but we do what we do and arguably if we don't do certain things... how much could we have actually wanted to do them?
Hmm...
Or maybe a stronger force was preventing certain things from happening while creating other obstacles and goals at the same time, so that the grand scheme of things would be leading to a greater and more climactic life later on... Perhaps everything is out of our control! Maybe I believe this. Maybe i'd like this very much.
Looking back, I anticipate nothing could have been different. It just wouldn't have ever worked or been any other way. (My life so far, i mean). I have foreseen most of the achievements and tragedies of my life. I would even go so far as to play them out in my head, lying in bed as a child... sleepless (which was actually unusual for me at the time). But when they finally did happen, I'd remember playing it out when I was little. I would compare the reality to how I imagined it... and often it would never be very far off.
Thinking back, it's quite ominous really when you recognize that you understood that certain omens were coming... you just didn't know when and how it would really affect you. But it affects you. It makes you YOU. A "you" you sometimes can't explain in words. A "you" you thank God that you are... even though it involves a lot of pain. A lot of pain that comes out at any time at any moment... sometimes even when you're just sitting in your yellow kitchen talking about mushrooms and spinach with Inari... And it makes you cry. I'm talkin' tears like cannons yo.
It just makes you YOU. A "you" that sometimes makes you hard to be around... And more than that... makes you easier to be around. It's weird. And I know a lot of people don't like the word "weird" and they slate it right up there with "interesting" but I like the word weird, because most of us and most of the unexplainable are and is in fact weird. Well maybe not "in fact" but you know what i mean. ...Or do you?
I miss butterflies. I miss endless conversations. I miss giving a fuck, you know?
Why do emotions either spike or plummet? Apathy is a form of procrastination I swear to God.
xoLola
If I were any fabricated memory I would be: your prom date and the AAAA Motel. (Ohhh memories...)
Monday, February 9, 2009
Screaming, reckless, banshee id
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
- I
If I were any human being, I would be...myself. With a vengeance.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
- I
If I were any human being, I would be...myself. With a vengeance.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
I’ve got an Ice-cream cone in one hand and a Semi-Automatic in the other… Only one of them is deadly.
It’s 11 am. I’ve hand-washed my delicates, read 3 newspapers, scavenged a hunt through the local No Frills and put on a little vinyl Cash to set the smoky tone of my surroundings. I momentarily retire now to my wobbly computer chair to ponder the near future as I savor some Orange Pekoe and polish my charcoal hued pistol – a chore I’ve been neglecting for quite sometime. I stare at it… the tea, the rather expensive leather chamois, and then over to the gun sitting gently in my palm. I consider it. Observing its length and shine. I think it’d be a venomous black-cat born of python and feline if said weapon took imaginary animal form. I think it’d be sexy. More sexy than one would think life-threatening.
Anyways, I’ve been thinking a lot about animals lately. How humans in the most basic sense, in the most primitive of explanations - are animal. Considering the big picture… there’s survival and everything else is just indulgence…the luxuries that pad the walls of humanity. The duck feathers that prevent displeasure or insanity when the harsh environment that confines us, and its zygotes tempt us (force us!) to bang our heads against the brick. It’s a reassuring thought to remind one self that we don’t need a lot to survive. Mind you… endurance and the Will for survival involves intangible factors beyond water and oxygen. They “need” (and I use this term loosely) a particular state of mind, an emotional attachment, a passion.
Passion is the “why” in the desire to survive. I have passion… therefore I want to live. I have the will to endure the pains of reality (surreality), and in the very least I have the bare essential desire to survive. But is this passion “animal” or is it the child of humanity’s technological boner? Arguably it’s both. Arguably “human” is by my and others’ philosophical definitions animal and machine. As is passion.
I struggle to determine whether I value human’s more animalistic instincts and pleasures more so than their intellect, desire for ingenuity and escalating advances in technological and psychological progression. Sometimes I find myself being a snob discrediting the tribulations of the human-heart and it’s need for attachment, dependency and flowers and candy on Valentine’s Day. But at the end of it all, I shed my cold-robotic shell and melt over the simplest of romantic pleasures. I am human after-all, which means I have a human heart. The heart is the malfunction in the human design. The heart makes people weak. It makes us insane. The heart makes us creative. It makes us want and therefore struggle for the fulfillment of those wants. It makes us FIGHT till the death until we have whatever it is the HEART desires. The heart is deadly. It’s as dangerous as a bullet is to human flesh or the sun is to a double scoop of frozen dairy.
It controls.
I could walk down the street and see a man or order a coffee in some 50s diner, or watch Gael Garcia Bernal slap a bitch on the silver screen and I can fall in love with any one of them in the blink of an eye… in the flutter of a heartbeat. And as I fall in love instantaneously and without any apprehension, anywhere at anytime, I imagine my life 20 years from now with said lover. I can see Gael and I on a boat docked in some Mediterranean sea-side in love… living off the bare essentials of life. Who needs technology when you’re in love? Heart trumps the mind. Heart even trumps the machine's distorted take over of sex. But does the MIND trump sex? It depends on the person you are I guess.
Some journalist from Baltimore, I think his name is H.L Mencken… or L.H Mencken… or maybe it was D.L. Hugley… I can’t recall… Anyways… this man who is apparently noteworthy enough to quote… he said, “Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence.” This fucks me up a bit. We believe the truism that imagination comes from the mind – it is what our brains think up and create. But lately…. I’m starting to consider the heart as the equivalent to the brain in terms of its power. The mind thinks. The heart creates, believes and dreams. So where does imagination spawn? Does imagination come from the heart?
Regardless… imagination is beautiful… but is beauty animal? Or is it machine? Perhaps it is neither. There is a third element we often forget about and tend to overlook… the supernatural.
Imagination, and therefore beauty... is magic.
Alas... All of these longwinded, over-written ruminations simply come down to my back and forth debate on whether or not I will go out freely and willingly on Valentine’s Day (alone or with friends) or stay in and get off on doing homework and some form of chronic. Where does passion lye? Which will feed my passion? Ohhhhhh… the trifles of a young socially awkward tamale... sexless and sometimes restless in the City.
Check out this link on animal superstitions about Valentine’s Day and love.
http://www.indobase.com/holidays/valentines-day/valentine-day-facts/valentine-day-superstitions.html
XOLo.
If I were a fictional illegal substance I would be – A version of Neapolitan ice-cream made with hot tamales – banned in 50 states because of it’s manless-orgasm-causing stimulant. Obviously it’s banned in this supposed scenario because of its natural castrating abilities.
Anyways, I’ve been thinking a lot about animals lately. How humans in the most basic sense, in the most primitive of explanations - are animal. Considering the big picture… there’s survival and everything else is just indulgence…the luxuries that pad the walls of humanity. The duck feathers that prevent displeasure or insanity when the harsh environment that confines us, and its zygotes tempt us (force us!) to bang our heads against the brick. It’s a reassuring thought to remind one self that we don’t need a lot to survive. Mind you… endurance and the Will for survival involves intangible factors beyond water and oxygen. They “need” (and I use this term loosely) a particular state of mind, an emotional attachment, a passion.
Passion is the “why” in the desire to survive. I have passion… therefore I want to live. I have the will to endure the pains of reality (surreality), and in the very least I have the bare essential desire to survive. But is this passion “animal” or is it the child of humanity’s technological boner? Arguably it’s both. Arguably “human” is by my and others’ philosophical definitions animal and machine. As is passion.
I struggle to determine whether I value human’s more animalistic instincts and pleasures more so than their intellect, desire for ingenuity and escalating advances in technological and psychological progression. Sometimes I find myself being a snob discrediting the tribulations of the human-heart and it’s need for attachment, dependency and flowers and candy on Valentine’s Day. But at the end of it all, I shed my cold-robotic shell and melt over the simplest of romantic pleasures. I am human after-all, which means I have a human heart. The heart is the malfunction in the human design. The heart makes people weak. It makes us insane. The heart makes us creative. It makes us want and therefore struggle for the fulfillment of those wants. It makes us FIGHT till the death until we have whatever it is the HEART desires. The heart is deadly. It’s as dangerous as a bullet is to human flesh or the sun is to a double scoop of frozen dairy.
It controls.
I could walk down the street and see a man or order a coffee in some 50s diner, or watch Gael Garcia Bernal slap a bitch on the silver screen and I can fall in love with any one of them in the blink of an eye… in the flutter of a heartbeat. And as I fall in love instantaneously and without any apprehension, anywhere at anytime, I imagine my life 20 years from now with said lover. I can see Gael and I on a boat docked in some Mediterranean sea-side in love… living off the bare essentials of life. Who needs technology when you’re in love? Heart trumps the mind. Heart even trumps the machine's distorted take over of sex. But does the MIND trump sex? It depends on the person you are I guess.
Some journalist from Baltimore, I think his name is H.L Mencken… or L.H Mencken… or maybe it was D.L. Hugley… I can’t recall… Anyways… this man who is apparently noteworthy enough to quote… he said, “Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence.” This fucks me up a bit. We believe the truism that imagination comes from the mind – it is what our brains think up and create. But lately…. I’m starting to consider the heart as the equivalent to the brain in terms of its power. The mind thinks. The heart creates, believes and dreams. So where does imagination spawn? Does imagination come from the heart?
Regardless… imagination is beautiful… but is beauty animal? Or is it machine? Perhaps it is neither. There is a third element we often forget about and tend to overlook… the supernatural.
Imagination, and therefore beauty... is magic.
Alas... All of these longwinded, over-written ruminations simply come down to my back and forth debate on whether or not I will go out freely and willingly on Valentine’s Day (alone or with friends) or stay in and get off on doing homework and some form of chronic. Where does passion lye? Which will feed my passion? Ohhhhhh… the trifles of a young socially awkward tamale... sexless and sometimes restless in the City.
Check out this link on animal superstitions about Valentine’s Day and love.
http://www.indobase.com/holidays/valentines-day/valentine-day-facts/valentine-day-superstitions.html
XOLo.
If I were a fictional illegal substance I would be – A version of Neapolitan ice-cream made with hot tamales – banned in 50 states because of it’s manless-orgasm-causing stimulant. Obviously it’s banned in this supposed scenario because of its natural castrating abilities.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Suicide Girl profile #3 – I’ve got sense, but I’m not innocent
SEE PREVIOUS POSTS for INARI's & LO’s
Name: Velveeta
Interests:
INTO... cowboys, peanut butter, Tim Horton’s coffee, Zumba, writing, power bars, sketch comedy, stretchy pants, Naveen Andrews, werewolves, Egyptians, and double-decker bus crashes
NOT INTO... dishonesty, closed-mindedness, PDA, the watery liquid that comes with fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt
MAKES ME HAPPY... ambition, waking up and not having to get up, serendipitous run-ins, rewatching old Buffys, the mall, abs, hitting the dance floor
MAKES ME SAD... unrequited friendships and love
HOBBIES... journaling, fitness, ordering free things in the mail, deciding what I want to wear and eat
5 THINGS I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT....water, air, laughter, words, and coffee
VICES... caffeine
THOUGHTS ON SG… so far so good
Personal:
OCCUPATION... ‘Flirty’ front desk girl, previously Wild Roses “writing assistant” (unknown episodes)
CURRENT CRUSH... Desmond
STATS... out of the frying pan and into the fire
BODY MODS...Ankh-le (Ankh on my ankle)
HEROES... Joss Whedon, Joanne Rowling, Tina Fey, Emma Thompson, Charlie Kaufman, Aurora Browne
GETS ME HOT... cowboy gruff
SIGN... Sea Goat
MOST HUMBLING MOMENT... watching him buy her a drink across the dance floor
I LOST MY VIRGINITY... in a dream
CIGARETTES.... sexy on celluloid
MY DIET... peanut butter and oatmeal, sometimes bananas
ALCOHOL... Rum and Diet Coke, Bailey’s and Timmies, Homemade Sangria
MY DRUG USE... caffeine
MY KINK FACTOR... greater than (> )“innocent” , and less than (<) “Did you have sex in Cuba?”... and therefore a mystery to the men in my life
MY POLITICS... Lord of the Flies
POT... you say jump, I’ll ask _______?
MY STATUS... sadly still clinging to him by that pinkie finger
MY IDEA OF A GOOD TIME... a hot cup of coffee and an honesty circle with a good friend
MY PIGEONHOLES... joker, film nerd, sweatheart (blech), or pair of legs
Well, that was as good a use of my time as a make-out...
Signed,
Desiree
If I were a household safety device I would be... a carbon monoxide detector.
Name: Velveeta
Interests:
INTO... cowboys, peanut butter, Tim Horton’s coffee, Zumba, writing, power bars, sketch comedy, stretchy pants, Naveen Andrews, werewolves, Egyptians, and double-decker bus crashes
NOT INTO... dishonesty, closed-mindedness, PDA, the watery liquid that comes with fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt
MAKES ME HAPPY... ambition, waking up and not having to get up, serendipitous run-ins, rewatching old Buffys, the mall, abs, hitting the dance floor
MAKES ME SAD... unrequited friendships and love
HOBBIES... journaling, fitness, ordering free things in the mail, deciding what I want to wear and eat
5 THINGS I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT....water, air, laughter, words, and coffee
VICES... caffeine
THOUGHTS ON SG… so far so good
Personal:
OCCUPATION... ‘Flirty’ front desk girl, previously Wild Roses “writing assistant” (unknown episodes)
CURRENT CRUSH... Desmond
STATS... out of the frying pan and into the fire
BODY MODS...Ankh-le (Ankh on my ankle)
HEROES... Joss Whedon, Joanne Rowling, Tina Fey, Emma Thompson, Charlie Kaufman, Aurora Browne
GETS ME HOT... cowboy gruff
SIGN... Sea Goat
MOST HUMBLING MOMENT... watching him buy her a drink across the dance floor
I LOST MY VIRGINITY... in a dream
CIGARETTES.... sexy on celluloid
MY DIET... peanut butter and oatmeal, sometimes bananas
ALCOHOL... Rum and Diet Coke, Bailey’s and Timmies, Homemade Sangria
MY DRUG USE... caffeine
MY KINK FACTOR... greater than (> )“innocent” , and less than (<) “Did you have sex in Cuba?”... and therefore a mystery to the men in my life
MY POLITICS... Lord of the Flies
POT... you say jump, I’ll ask _______?
MY STATUS... sadly still clinging to him by that pinkie finger
MY IDEA OF A GOOD TIME... a hot cup of coffee and an honesty circle with a good friend
MY PIGEONHOLES... joker, film nerd, sweatheart (blech), or pair of legs
Well, that was as good a use of my time as a make-out...
Signed,
Desiree
If I were a household safety device I would be... a carbon monoxide detector.
Head high, heart fast
You know what I love about not being able to sleep?
Absolutely nothing. It sucks.
I'm up, I'm up, I'm up and there is no end in sight. It's because my twelve weeks of freebird scheduling is coming to a close and I'm once again subject to the whims of the Real World. This also means that I'll be seeing more people against my will, losing more sleep than I can tolerate and generally risking a relapse of constant panic attacks. I don't like it one bit.
But oh! Isn't there a bit more optimism in me than that? For, as Lo often says, everything happens for a reason and this strike would fall neatly in the category of 'everything'. As I see it, the past twelve weeks provided a much-needed sense of grounding, of calming, of ssssshhhhh. Although CUPE ended with a whimper, I can safely say that despite the amount of dread filling my cavities at the prospect of before-noon subway rides and soul-crushingly painful anxiety, I'll come out of this hiatus entirely optimistic, mostly refreshed and partly healed. So much trepidation soaked into that last sentence, folks, but you just gotta shake it off, shake it off, shake it off.
It's a good time to shake off melancholy because you can only wear that shit for so long before it starts to stink.
With loose disquiet,
Inari
If I were a struggle, I would be....in with a bang, out with a fire-bomb.
Absolutely nothing. It sucks.
I'm up, I'm up, I'm up and there is no end in sight. It's because my twelve weeks of freebird scheduling is coming to a close and I'm once again subject to the whims of the Real World. This also means that I'll be seeing more people against my will, losing more sleep than I can tolerate and generally risking a relapse of constant panic attacks. I don't like it one bit.
But oh! Isn't there a bit more optimism in me than that? For, as Lo often says, everything happens for a reason and this strike would fall neatly in the category of 'everything'. As I see it, the past twelve weeks provided a much-needed sense of grounding, of calming, of ssssshhhhh. Although CUPE ended with a whimper, I can safely say that despite the amount of dread filling my cavities at the prospect of before-noon subway rides and soul-crushingly painful anxiety, I'll come out of this hiatus entirely optimistic, mostly refreshed and partly healed. So much trepidation soaked into that last sentence, folks, but you just gotta shake it off, shake it off, shake it off.
It's a good time to shake off melancholy because you can only wear that shit for so long before it starts to stink.
With loose disquiet,
Inari
If I were a struggle, I would be....in with a bang, out with a fire-bomb.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
