Blinkins

From the ages of 4 to 9, I had a worn out VHS tape I used to play over and over in between my breaks from my Wizard of Oz marathons.

They were these...anime looking fireflies that get stuck in a blizzard while searching for one of their own that has been captured by a grizzly bear. Bitch got captured because instead of being indoors like all the other good Blinkins, she had to be stubborn and hide in a cave in a temper tantrum.

So yeah, I'm shocked I just thought of that movie a few minutes ago, since it's been ages since I've seen it. I remember the soundtrack and their little voices and the bears growl...The best thing was when they all came together to create a huge "Winter Witch" to scare off the bear. The huge witch was just thousands of blinkings working together under a big blanket with arms, sort of like a scarecrow that moved.

It's hard to explain really, but they made it snow hard enough for the bear to believe it was winter again instead of spring time that was just starting. Pretty much I just remember two things as my favorite outta that whole deal: the tanned Blinkin with curly blonde hair seen on the left side of the pic above (she was me...or who I wanted to be) and how their cute lil butts lit up in middle of the heavy snowfall...almost like a chain of stars through the forest. I wish I could find it on DVD anywhere, I'd love to have it again.

I used to wish so fervently they really existed. That someday I'd live in some foreign country where it would snow, not some tropical island with sand and regular green fireflies and no bears.

It's been snowing lately, and going to snow tomorrow too here it seems. No blinkins in sight. Not even green ones.

Yari, Super Duper Villain

I've decided to set aside a fund directed to my future career move. Hold on, don't panic.

I know you're thinking I just started a new job and I'm quite possibly insane. You're right on the first one, and very right on the second one. However, wait till I'm done with this entry to make your final decision.

What better super duper character can I be, if not Cheesecake Vixen? Ok, so it's not a good name but tell you what, I will bring havoc into this heartless world! (Except during winter months, in which I'll be CurlUpNDie Girl, not even remotely bothered to comb hair when rolling out of bed...)

I have a plan. Cheesecake Vixen shall feed you cheesecake to your heart's content. Then? She'll feed you more. Continuous supply. Fattening the planet. Making everyone obese and diabetic. Mwahaha! My car will be made of graham crust, with the inside made entirely of NY Style cheesecake from that awesome lil bakery in the corner of some street in the Bronx that I'll never remember the name to cuz I was too little. It will smell of warm caramel topping and maybe instead of fluffly dice on my rear-view mirror, I'll have two small Cool Whip dollops.

My costume? The one above will do I think...Xcept in a nice cream cheesey ivory and my lips will taste of absolute perfection. It will be the lure I need. Next stop? Heart attacks and insulin shots.

I have a plan. Cheesecake is always a plan.

Salted Flakes

I sat down earlier, and wrote a poem in spanish about how when it snows, the snowflakes melt on your face and it looks like you're crying.

Except I was crying, and the my face looked drenched this morning. It tasted like salted snow and radioactive tears...or maybe the other way around.

Projecting

Is my mood that crappy today that it made the desert wake up to freezing temperatures and sleet/snow?

I couldn't sleep last night, and although I should be used to it like an insomniac, there's nights you just wish you could be like everyone else and get some shut eye once your head hits the pillow. Not me. My mind was racing about nothing, really. Mostly I had this feeling of dread that made my stomach shiver, my teeth chatter and I was very weepy. If I were normal, I'd say 'Oh! Must be that time of the month again!' But no, usually those times are characterized with horrible back and leg pain and fever. Lovely. Too much info? You read it!

Anywho, I was thinking about how bad last November was. This one is not nearly as gut wrenching as last year's, but as much as I've fought it, I don't think I can anymore. Usually, well no, lately I've been trying to feed myself and others the whole "you can't seep into that depression forever" crap. It's actually true and for one's own benefit to do so. However, I have to remember that it is okay to want to curl up and die every now and then. I don't have to be a ball of joy all the time I guess. It's okay to be sad, angry, indifferent. Perhaps it's the brain's way of purging, locking down, anything to keep you out of a straight jacket.

So that's how my night went, with the increadible need to purge. Crying wasn't doing anything but making me feel stupid. Being angry would take too much energy. I wanted to talk about my grandma, and I needed to hear my grandpa's voice. That lead to the fear I usually have that the next time I'll see grandpa, it'll be in a coffin. Maybe I can afford to go next year? I hope he's still there. I wanted to talk about my cousins, and growing up an only child. I turned out pretty okay for being raised by 6 older boy cousins with big hair and Iron Maiden/Whitesnake posters on the wall. I'm so increadibly sad today, and I just feel like sitting at Denny's and drinking coffee and just looking at people walk by.

I hate the holidays, they make me sad. They always do. Even when I was little, Christmas time just pestered me to no end. Maybe I've always had that intuitive side of me, even as a little nerd with MicroMachines in her pocket, that knew I had to fight against another year ending. I had to fight at night, because another day was ending. Time was flying by, and I was steadily moving away from the things that held my heart. Maybe it's because I went to sleep, and when I woke up grandma was gone and I didn't get to say bye. I hate the night, I hate the dark, I hate being alone in a crowded world. But I'm always up at night, in the dark, trying to fix everyone's world one day at a time. I need a pick me up.

The horrible day was too much to take today, so I had to come home from lunch and write. Because I can't cry at work. Because I feel stupid for being sad when my life could be much worse. Maybe I'll feel better later in the month...because so far, December is kicking my ass into a hybernating ball of 'meh'.

P.S. I miss that Waffle Crisp cereal POST used to have out years ago. Tasted like little maple waffles floating in my milk. I bought Kellogg's Eggo cereal recently, it's quite tasty...but it's no Waffle Crisp. Maybe I'll have waffles at Ihop.

Yes indeed I'm alone again
and here comes emptiness crashing in
it's either love or hate
I can't find in between
cause I've been with witches
and I have been with a queen

it wouldn't have worked out any way
so for now it's just another lonely day hey hey
further along we just may
but for now it's just another lonely day...

- Ben Harper ,"Another Lonely Day"

Hockey Night

Well, that was fun!

Seriously, very, very fun. However there are things I'd like to share. My view of certain things hockey I'd like to see, or not see, during a game. Also, there was a fight 4 seconds into the game. I was giddy.

1. There is never a good time to play YMCA over the loud speaker. Because: A) Apparently not everyone knows how to do it right and end up spelling god knows what with their arms and B) It will get stuck in my head and I will involuntarily tap my foot to it.

2. It gets really cold in the coliseum, and somehow, the mention of anything Twilight makes certain people warm up and find it amusing... :|

3. There's a lotta pushing and banging and smacking around in hockey. I like it. Of course, it's perfectly okay to let the guys duke it out if they feel like fighting. However, it is NOT okay to beat each other with the hockey sticks.

4. Glass shatters when a puck goes through it. And it's awesome.

5. Clappers. Where do I begin? I have one now. And it, too, is awesome. Maybe I'll using during staff meetings...

6. There's a lot of random pauses during a hockey game. Also random? The music they play during said intervals. Someone's Ipod Shuffle must be reviewed next time he's in charge of music. It is NOT okay to play the Macarena right after Dropkick Murphys.

7. I swallow gum when I try to talk with it in my mouth.

8. Just because you can have long hair, it doesn't mean you don't look like Weird Al/Ben Franklin with a straightener and a jersey on.

9. The referees at hockey games are brave souls...or they get paid really good. I don't think its the latter. I was informed hockey personnel gets paid in cheeseburgers.

10. Hockey "super fans" and stalkers are oddly the same thing. I still say they were stalkers.

11. Is there really any reason to wear a suit to a hockey game? Yes, if you're the radio sports dude. I don't know why either, don't worry.

12. Only in Texas will they show a clip from the Blue Collar Comedy standup routine in between breaks...

13. I need to go to a hockey game again. Asap.

Half of me would like to explore more in depth the dynamics of such a night. But all shall remain in this above and certain things just for me. I'm happy.

P.S. Santa came early:

The Humanization Of A Lurker

“Little boxes on the hillside…”, echoed dimly against the darkness of her bedroom. Malvina Reynolds sounded so melancholic with the wind howling outside the window on this eerie night. She frowned at the source of the music, her cell phone, and reminded the brain once more to never use songs she really liked as ring tones. It always seemed like a good idea to use her current favorite tune, until days like these hit. It was rather cute until the 35th time the phone rang in the last 20 minutes.

Sliding wearily from under the covers, her fingers searched the floor for the wretched thing. She blinks rapidly at the bright screen, stinging eyes trying to discern the name on the caller ID. Of course it was him, who else? This wasn’t the first round she’d fought against that person, so she knew what to expect and how long it would last. She had survived it almost 7 times, this being the final straw. This time it felt different. So, sticking to her guns, she ignored the call again and turned the settings on her phone to “SILENT”. She flipped the phone with the screen side on the floor to block the glowing coming from it as it rang incessantly, angrily despite her declining behavior towards it.

Her stomach felt sick, almost like it was turning itself inside-out and climbing steadily up her chest. The heartbeat thudded heavily in her head and throat, making her panic and uneasy despite knowing he couldn’t do anything to her. Nor would he, given the chance to be within a few steps from her, ever so much as raise his hand at her. He’d hold on to her for dear life and thank God she existed. She tried not to think about that, about how this man had managed to slide himself into every crevice of her head. How co-dependant their relationship had been from the beginning, full of emotional abuse and spiritual bonding. Ha! Those two concepts together in one same sentence. Was it really any surprise that they had almost killed each other? She grew even more impatient and almost wavered in her final stance as memories of how they met and what they had been through flooded the clouded thoughts floating over her head.

She had been in that chatroom before and knew some of the screenames as “old-schoolers”, or people that through the years had managed to survive the onslaught public chats often had on someone’s soul. The place was riddled with underground currents of drama and secret cliques or alliances that often destroyed newcomers within days. There were the usual leg-hump guys that were in there with the sole purpose of making lonely, desperate women feel like they had found someone to trust and confide in. There were the older ladies, maybe retired or rather successful businesswomen, who had no other hobbies than to feed off the gossip streams going on in chat and made the new ones think they’d found in them someone to trust and confide in. There were the young, depressed crowd who wanted to make everyone else down with them or high with them at times, and felt powerful when the ‘newbies’ would befriend them and spill their little hearts thinking they had found someone to trust and…well you get it. Nobody was what they seemed. Nobody in there was mentally or emotionally stable. Nobody was normal. Not even she was, or why would she live in there for 19 hrs of the day?

Some people in the room proclaimed he was crazy. Others professed love for his poetic soul. Some called him a ‘legend’, someone who had been there for more than a decade and despite the tides coming in and out of that snake pit…he always prevailed. He was always there. When all the other crazies call you crazy, you know its bad. So she maintained her distance. She saw him in the room, seemingly unmoved and unperturbed by the others’ taunts or greetings. He would be there for hours at end, idly posting long poems, even if everyone blocked him. She liked poetry, she liked that he hadn’t sent her an instant message trying to gain her trust or hump her ‘e-leg’, she was drawn by his mysterious silence…was he even real? So one night, at 3 a.m. she signed into her usual hangout room and there were a handful of screenames logged on. A few spoke of food, others of insomnia, the bots flirted poorly and the cheese stood alone. The cheese being him. He was posting poetry, never-changing as he was, to a room that probably had him in the ‘iggy-bin’ for the past 10 yrs. She read it, line by line, and found it soothing at that late hour of night when nothing comforted her. His 11 pt., italic Old Book Antiqua font in a pale lavender shade just scrolled endlessly in prose and romance up a screen, sliding in between bot greetings and crude immature one liners. How could anyone ignore it?

She had sent him a few private messages, not very personal ones, after some of his poetry. Most said “thank you, that was beautiful”, to which there were never replies. She’d go in the room at lunch time, or odd hours during work to find him there perpetually posting his poems. In one occasion she logged on and had an ‘offliner’ message waiting for her, in the pale font, simply saying “heh. You’re welcome”. It made her smile, it made her curious and it made her sad. Did he ever talk to anyone? How could someone that provided the room with something as beautiful as poetry be crazy? You could choose to read it or not…so why the hate? She was determined to spend more time reading his poems, something about his presence in the room soothed and slowed her mind down. It brought out a forgotten side of her she had neglected to feed for years. Every night, instead of reading books or poetry, she was going into a room full of strangers and predators looking for acceptance. Every night she drank until the emptiness inside her faded and she became the entertainer in the cyber world. He made her want to be sober enough to not miss the beauty found in words, the peace found in rhyme.

Here comes the moment she made up her mind, and set the catastrophe in motion. It happened a Tuesday in January, at 3:00 a.m. It started so peaceful, that thinking back on it now makes it almost seem like it was destined in both their lives to be there that exact second. A day before, a day after, the dynamics of it all wouldn’t have clicked. She logged into the chat room, somewhat drunk or mostly asleep, and saw the place was deserted with the exception of a few regulars from the other side of the world, who were in the middle of their working day and the omnipresent poet. There. In all his stagnant glory. She sank back in her couch and immediately relaxed once she started reading the poem he was posting. It seems he had favored this specific poem for the past 3 days, “Bianca Amongst the Nightingales” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and was idly posting it over and over; unaware and uncaring of what was going on in the room. She had read this poem once before when she was a young child, and thought it evoked loneliness and a feeling of despair, hopelessness. This was it, the moment she was waiting for all along. She started interjecting quirky little one-liners into his poetry, mostly when the he posted the “The nightingales, the nightingales” sentence…she’d reply a quick ‘the goddamn nightingales, sheesh!’. Suddenly, the most extraordinary thing happened. She made him break in between his poem to put an ‘lol’. Small, non-meaningful event to everyone else; but to her she saw that she had broken the barrier he held tight around him and made him seem more human.

So it began. Or maybe the end was what started that precise time in their history. A few days later the private messages started. Again, unlike the rest of the guys in the room who wasted no time making their intentions known (even the “older, serious chatters” ha!), their first conversation started with him asking her if she was an INFJ. She had no idea what he was talking about, and soon he explained about it being a psychological profile indication the type of personality one had. She read the traits of an INFJ character and didn’t pay much attention to what it meant, even though a clearer warning could not have rang. The conversation flowed easily into spirituality, invisible warfare being fought in other realms; and even though he seemed a little ‘off’, she couldn’t help but be drawn at such a calm deep thinking person. After a week or two, she was withdrawing herself from her usual online friends more and more, avoiding phone calls. She was spending almost every second of her free time in empty chat rooms where they both would post endless poetry while he alternated playing their favorite songs through the speakers. Soon there after she would play guitar in the chat just for him, and stumbled upon staying up until 4 a.m. just doing trivia between the both of them. It was safe and comforting, and habitual. He was much older, his deep warm voice and rich laughter would almost lull her to sleep every night.

Then the phone calls began, and they found they really had no reason to be online or in the chat rooms anymore. It was consuming, spending so much time together talking about nothing. About absolutely, nothing. Sometimes it was complete silence, listening to each other’s t.v. sets blaring and oddly enough, it was a sense of not being alone. Things continue in perfect bliss until she started also spending time with her other friends she had neglected. She’d tell him she was going to spend a few hours with them playing music or planning her trip to visit them in a few months, and he would get quiet and snippy. Other times he’d fly off the handle cussing her out and threatening to harm her if she ever stopped talking to him, serious threats. She knew he was bipolar, had known for a long time, but still it took her by surprise and often scared her to tears. She didn’t know if he really meant it or if it was just his bipolar and it would all blow over when his mood was over. Eventually, she couldn’t handle his threats and abusive words, she couldn’t handle what he turned her into. When they fought it was violent, she’d throw low blows she didn’t even know she was capable of, she’d aim to kill, she’d scream and get hysterical when he’d refuse to let her get a word in edge-wise. They weren’t even a couple! Were they? And just like that, it dawned on her. He saw her as more than a friend. Fuck.

She had a talk with him and explained that they could not be anything, that she didn’t see him that way but she did love him dearly as a friend. She tried to bring it up softly, to no avail. He really went off the handle then. “How dare you say you love me and reject me?” She stopped for a second and realized he was not capable of grasping the type of friendship where you tell your friend you love them. When he said “love you” he meant he LOVED you. Jesus. She had no choice but to say, that all she could offer was the friendship she always had and he would have to deal with her not being IN love with him. This, of course, prompted the catastrophe that was known as the Great Freak out of May. It wasn’t normal, she thought, that he acts in such a childish obsessive way. She now knew why he was declared clinically insane and was on disability. It went beyond being bipolar, and she was now even more terrified that the threats of showing up at her doorstep and creating havoc were materializing at a rapid pace. She offered a final offer of peace, a final offer of friendship, which he blasted over and continued his never ending insulting tirade. She blocked his screename and took him off her list. Then he produced at least 45 different screenames to PM her with every time she blocked one of them. Eventually she ran out of room in her iggy bin and had to change her settings to block every PM coming her way from someone that wasn’t on her buddy list. That stopped the IM’s…but not the emails. Emails threatening to post her info in the chat rooms, her name and address and phone number. Emails stating he would make her friends’ lives miserable. She replied a few to try to calm him down, but it seems that’s all he needed, some sort of affirmation that she was still affected and reading his emails. He continued the threats, to which this time she stopped replying. Until it all stopped. One final call did it. He had called her after a horrible last confrontation that left her shaking and in tears after saying she was through. She was curled up on the couch feeling like someone had died, when the phone rang and it was him. She answered, but said nothing. His voice was shaking and full of tears as well, and he simply said: “You are the one doing this to us, not me. So if this is it, finish IT. Say IT.” She took a deep breath and said: “I’m sorry J. I can’t do this anymore. This is over. Bye”. Just as she said bye, it felt like a brick was thrown on her chest and she was about to pass out from crying. She couldn’t remember when she had ever felt this way, was it normal? He simply cried out quietly: “I don’t believe this…” and hung up.

Months went by, and she didn’t hear from him in any way. The phone stopped ringing, the emails stopped coming after the last one he sent saying: “Because I love you, I’m willing to leave you alone. I never meant to harm you. I guess I didn’t understand what friendship meant to you. Now I know and I’m sorry I couldn’t be a friend back”. That one had been tempting, it almost seemed like he was back to his senses…but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough for the threats, and the words he’d spoken and not apologized for. So time went on, she missed him dearly and often thought of him. She stopped going to the chat rooms, but the nightingales were still in her head. She avoided listening to music, but she knew she was humming “Queen Bee” by Taj Mahal…and that he was listening to it wherever he was. Poetry didn’t mean much anymore, and even during her happy moments and her trip to visit other friends, she’d hear his voice in her head. Well, just his laughter. She had always liked how his eyes got full of mischief when he threw his head back and laughed at something. She doesn't know how, but one day she decided to go to twitter and look him up. Sure enough, he had a page and only one entry. The entry was dated a week after they parted ways and it read: "The nightingales sing through my head! The nightingales, the nightingales." Her heart broke. And that’s how things began a second time. Things that we are supposed to leave in the past, that almost killed us, should not be sought again. Sought she did. This time there was no one to blame but her.

Firing up the Yahoo Messenger one last time, she created a quick random screename and checked to see if any of his main 10 ID’s were online. One was. She sent a PM saying “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I’ll never bother you again.” He didn’t even ask who it was and quickly said: “I’m sorry too, I missed you. I’m sorry you have to go again but I respect that.” She apologized again, profusely. He apologized too, and asked her how she had been and he hoped she was happy. They talked back and forth, she felt her heart swell and burst that they could be friends again. She told him straightaway that she couldn’t go through the same thing again, that she almost died the first time around. He nodded, and said: “me too”. So they embarked on the second round of friendship, this time carefully side stepping anything that could be taken the wrong way. They again spent time on the phone, catching up and listening to music. This time the online interaction was minimal, since she had swore it off altogether. It seemed to be going okay, although she often caught him starting sentences and then saying “nevermind”, in a defeated voice. She’d ask him what was wrong, and the subject would be changed. All seemed well until one day she was telling him that she had started guitar classes. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

He said: “I bet he wants to fuck you.”, and giggled. She felt the rage tingling in her fingers and her voice vibrated as she spat back “Not everyone is you, some guys are actually capable of being friends and professionals.” He immediately went on a “this is all your doing, you know how I feel about you, why don’t you give me a chance” rant as she pinched the bridge of her nose. She quietly said she wasn’t doing this again and said good-bye. Deleted the fake screename and ignored the phone calls. This time he emailed almost immediately apologizing over and over for ruining things, for being out of line and not being a friend. He said he would leave her alone, he wasn’t going to torture her and pester her any longer. He kept to his word, and she saw that in fact he had changed. He knew that now his words and actions had consequences. She called him back and cleared up, demanded an apology, which he did right away. He knew she wasn’t the type of person that deserved any sort of lewd remark. This time their talks were strained, and short. She started making excuses to not call him, he didn’t seem to get angry as much as tired and sad. But even that didn’t last long. They were in the middle of a trivia game in an empty room at 4 a.m. when a newcomer came by and asked everyone’s name and location. The guy’s name was Robert and he was from GA, seemed like a nice kid, then again in the beginning they all do. She was weary about saying her information, but before she could say her name, she witness the first time the infamous chatter broke down publicly and said: “Well, thanks to the humanization of the [insert screename] that’s been going on, I am J and I’m from Minnesota.” She couldn’t believe he had actually come out and given anything about him. She quietly said her name, and Texas and spent a time wondering what just happened.

Alas, she would never know what bought it on. After Robert left the room, he started arguing about him being tired and not sleeping due to her. He was done with the abuse, to which she asked what was she doing to abuse him. He went on and on about her just not giving in to what he wanted…sigh. Again. She was tired too this time. She didn’t even wait for it to get her upset. She knew this was the end of him, for good. She said: “Ok, then I wont abuse you anymore. Whatever.” , logged off and turned him off her mind. This time she was not sad, or angry. It was indifference. She had tried.

Which brings us to “Little Boxes” ringing angrily into the night. It was over. He realized she wasn’t going to answer and emailed her: “You stupid bitch.” She felt the anger coming up and quickly pushed it away, he had no control over her. She deleted the email. Two days later, the last communication from him came through. The email’s subject was “Sad”. The body read: “I feel so sick. Can’t you see what you’re doing to me?” Again, she deleted. It’s always a game. It’s always mind control. In the beginning she had felt she did something wrong, by simply being a friend to someone everyone avoided in the chat room. Maybe they had it right. There was a point to people ignoring him…and now, so did she.

This story had to be written, because it needed a way out of me and to be buried into the past. You live, and hopefully, you learn. The nightingales will always be yours, J. I hope you find a way to silence them. I have.

He says to her what moves her most.
He would not name his soul within
Her hearing,—rather pays her cost
With praises to her lips and chin.
Man has but one soul, 'tis ordained,
And each soul but one love, I add;
Yet souls are damned and love's profaned.
These nightingales will sing me mad!
The nightingales, the nightingales.

-Bianca Among The Nightingales
by Elizabeth Barret Browning

Ugly Side

Act 1: Bright, Shiny Object that holds your attention. It's new yet familiar. It's intriguing, mysterious yet gives you a feeling of security. It, too, observes you and holds you in the same view as you do it. It finds you alluring, intriguing but absolutely trustworthy.

Act 2: You walk closer to it, feeling rather daring and not really knowing what's happening. You never act this way, you've been through enough things in your life that have taught you to be cautious. To be a loner. Some call it jaded. You call it experienced. But this new thing is really catching your eye, it seems to be in good condition.

Act 3: Walking up to it, with that wonderful yet dreadful feeling of excited nervousness, you're close enough to see it for what it is. It looks an awful lot like you do, which has to be good right? You decide to go out on a limb and let it get close to you, close enough to see the battle scars and slight imperfections. You feel somewhat exposed, since this is the part one always hates. It's easy to be accepted and belong when it's purely superficial. One can have the right look, the seemingly perfect qualities to draw others to oneself. But eventually the time comes when things have to come out. It's what separates true friends, from acquaintances. The ones that accept the imperfections, that are smart enough to realize we all have skeletons that wish to remain uncovered.

Act 4: It looks at your offering, and your slightly marred spot. It traces its fingers over your wounds and by doing so gets a bit of your history, the unforgiving past we all try desperately to move away from and erase. You become sad, remembering how many times you've opened up like this to something, only to have it laugh or simply scurry away unable to process your ugly side. But this time, it looks up at you and smiles, making you release the breath of air you didn't realize you were holding in. It grabs your hand and hesitates a few seconds before turning slightly to the side, and exposing it's rotten, broken side to you. It only shows you part of the scars, enough to let you know there's more ugliness under there that doesn't need to be exposed just yet...but you should have a knowledge of. It waits for your reaction, at proving itself your equal, in some ways. It too wonders if you will look up and smile, or shudder and walk away...

"Ugly Side"
By: Blue October

I must have sneezed
On knees I freeze
I mean I just choked up
Somehow I slept
I dream, I mean
I dreamt of nothing
Able to breathe
A sweet relief
Now that you're here with me
A northern degree
Dove into me
Now I'm recovering

[Chorus]
I only want you to see
My favorite part of me
And not my ugly side
Not my ugly side

Hook up a C.B. Wave a way
For conversation flow
I'm shoved in your cave, to wage this rage
Don't let me go
A kick and a scream is all that seems
To mean a lot thus far
I won't let you on my stage, my page
You can't know
Yet you have to know

[Chorus]

So calm... and now it's dark
I look for you to light my heart
I'm in between the moon and where you are
I know... I can't be far

Blackest Friday...THE HORROR!

It was midnight last night, and I found myself fidgeting on the couch resisting the urge to get in my car and drive to Toys-R-Us for their Black Friday sale. I really had 3 things in mind. First, I really really want the Monopoly City Edition board game, badly. I'm not sure they had it on sale but I felt like getting it anyways. Secondly, I beg don't laugh at me, but they had the Twilight AND New Moon board games sold as bundles for $16.99, when just one of them runs about $25. Ok, laugh. Lastly, but actually what I want more, the Marvel Minimates Secret Invasion Box Set. My cubicle at work craves them, I must have them all, to keep me company. I also want the Heroes and Villains Box Sets of said Minimates. Anyways, I resisted and decided to head out shopping at 4 a.m. like a sane person. Balanced people shop that early...right?

At 2 a.m. I was still up, making sure I didn't oversleep for my big trip to Best Buy/Target/ToysRus at 4 a.m. I had it all planned out, my mom backed out last minute but I was still going to head out by myself and see what goodies I could pry of some soccer mom's cold dead fingers. I sort of drifted off, woke up scared at 4:16 a.m. and started getting ready, only to sit back down on the couch and think "Do I really wanna be one of THOSE people who acts like Black Friday is the Apocalypse of the year?" Was there really anything I could NOT live without? Not really...except those Minimates. But, I digress. I decided to just sleep a little longer, and head out at 6 a.m. Surely the crowds wouldn't be that bad that early? Heh.

I eventually rolled out of bed at 8 a.m., not really caring if I made it to the good sales or not. The way I saw it, I just prevented major money spenditude on my behalf on things I would almost immediately get buyer's remorse about. I had me some Jack in the Box breakfast, everything seemed calm enough there, aside from the people driving around like...well like people on Black Friday. I stared at Target, and instantly said "Not no, but hell no." No way. Wasn't going there. I opted to start at JC Penney at the mall, since they like chunky monkeys like myself and provide us with decent jeans/pants. I actually found a pair for $20 bucks I liked, whereas I usually find them for $46. Also, found a 1/3 ct princess cut pair of diamond studs (I was going to get them on "sale" for $179.99 at Zales, actually 1/4 ct) for $44.00 on sale and did an internal happy dance that I found a replacement I actually got for a pretty damn good price.

I headed out of there and walked around the mall for a bit, ended up at Journeys where I found a pair of RocketDog shoes that just screamed Yari! They were $25 on sale, so again, I did good and got em. Wanna see? Look:


Yeah, I rock. Anywho! After that I headed over back to the car and met up with Ricky for lunch, stuffed my face with a Pecan Cinnabon which was kick ass. Then headed over to ToysRUs *cue dramatic music*. The place was a freakin' madhouse. Insane. I have no words. Not only did I not find ANYTHING I was looking for, but the lines were snaking around every aisle along with kids screaming like they were being denied toys. Oh, wait, they were. Who the hell takes their little kids Xmas TOY shopping and then gets mad at them for crying when they realize: A) They can't get every toy in the place AND B) The ones they CAN get, they can't open for another month?! Yeah, smart move there mom and pop. So I hightailed it out of there, rather upset about my Minimates (ok and my Monopoly game) and skidaddled over to Best Buy.

Now THAT was awesome. Best Buy had the best deals by far, and not only that, but they were constantly re-stocking all their sales items. There was no panic, no rushing, no rudeness. It was crowded as hell, but even the line moved quickly and I was out of there in no time. However, as I was walking out of the Best Buy, a lady in an SUV just failed to notice people walking across the street to their cars and decided to just drive thru like the fuckin Indy track. She ended up hitting the outside of my right leg, specifically my knee, before I slammed my fist onto her hood leaving a very painful dent (painful for my hand, and knee). She hightailed it outta there, and I limped to my car. It aches.

Lastly, I attempted to go to the Midland Mall...yeah, I lasted about 5 minutes inside JC Penney and said screw it. Drove my happy little butt through traffic back home to tell you all of my lovely tales of shopping. I'll probably spend the rest of my Friday night hanging out at family's place in the west side...should be nice and lovely. *eye twitch* But, I have new shoes. I have nice earrings. And, quite possibly have a good weekend ahead, so I'm a little giddy.

Oh and this is yours truly today, rocking the flannel, cleavage and Boston cap on my shopping expedition:

Goat Love

Maybe it's that I've been cooped up all day, or simply that I'm a sucker for sweet guys with shaggy hair, but I sat down to write and got entirely sidetracked by what was on my screen.

The Chronicles of Narnia was playing on Disney Channel. How I got to that channel in the first place, I may never know. But, in front of me was the ever adorable Mr. Tumnus, walking through the snow wearing a scarf and playing his little flute to little Lucy.

My heart skipped a beat when they did a close up, on said faun, oh gorgeous satyr! The actor who portrays him is James McAvoy and he's not particularly good looking really. However, I couldn't help smiling when looking at him. I mean, the man's half a goat or something. He's fuzzy and has hoofs and, oh he's just lovely. I refuse to believe I'm suddenly attracted to mythical creatures, so I sat down with my sis and went down a tiny list of things I liked about goat boy.

She mentioned his nose, which yeah, it's sorta nice and round and cute. But that wasn't it. His eyes are very, expressive...sorta. But still, that wasn't it. He had a messy hair thing going on, some facial hair I rather enjoyed. He had a soft quiet voice, and a big heart. Besides, I've never been one to care much, if anything at all, about looks. I like sense of humor (sarcasm is a must), and not being expected to wear 'sexy' attire to go out. Jeans, converse, t-shirt kinda girl. Besides, I'm practically an walrus myself, who am I to judge? So hell, if you have a lil extra fur and hoofs, its okay with me!

There, I feel better. Now ya'll know I'm into kinky stuff. Oh, and as far as Mr. Tumnus, the scarf DEFINITELY did it for me. Oh. Yes. The scarf.

Obituary

I drove by the cemetery the other day, right around dusk. My eyes always scan it for the one tomb, automatically, that always makes me think of the day I'll die. The head stone is in shape of a marble guitar, and it always has a crown of fresh flowers around the neck of it. Even though I've, for the most part, decided on being cremated when I pass away, there's a part of me that would love to have a resting place like that one.

My parents, who were in the car with me at the time, asked: "Are you getting that because you like guitars?" I simply said: "No."

It's more than a sign of who I was in life, and I, do not simply like guitars. I feel their tone and vibration inside my chest with every strum. Every guitar is different, and I must have them all. But the point of my thoughts that day was not simply on the fact that it was a guitar shaped tombstone. My mind was running more along the lines of "What will people remember of me, if anything, once I've been gone." Not only in the first few years, but will they even think my name and who I was in life 20 yrs down the road?

I have no dreams of everlasting glory, of my name going down in books and people discussing me over ridiculously overpriced chai tea in some fancy cafe. In that sense, I have no ambition. I simply want to be happy. I want to live long enough to see my goddaughter Hannah graduate high school, and in the same hand, not outlive my loved ones. I would ask to live long enough to be able to relocate to my homeland again, but by then odds are I'll have no legs, be blind and in kidney failure. My remaining family members would be dead by then. So I'll skip that.

What I'd like people to remember of me? The time I wrote a play, selected the cast, directed and was the leading old lady in it when I was in 6th grade. I did it out of fun with my best friends, it ended up with us touring schools and doing it for teachers/students around the island. Do I want them to remember I wrote it by myself? No. I want them to remember that I died my hair gray and wore an inflatable tube under my moomoo, as "Tita" the 80 yr old break dancing grandma...(and break dance I did, slip showing and all).

I want them to remember my sense of humor, and the times I stayed up with them on the phone simply listening and offering the best comfort I could. Also, I want them to remember my mannerisms as I speak, the looks I give when I think no one is watching me, that tiny freckle I have of the corner of my left eye right above my cheekbone. It would be something if they heard certain songs and remember those were my favorites, or simply miss me. I'd like to be missed. Not just in the beginning, but someday when they're old...I want them to miss me. I would've been a good bingo partner, probably smudging the card with sticky chocolate-covered fingers.

It's my hope they don't remember that when I was 12 and found out grandma had cancer, I stopped visiting her for almost 2 weeks. I didn't want to accept she would die, and I really hope no one else remembers the way she looked up from her wheel chair and asked me softly "Why didn't you come see me anymore, because I have no hair?". I am ashamed of myself for that forever. Maybe they won't remember the times I wished my mom dead, whole-heartedly, as a teen...even though she's my life. Hopefully they will forget the times I lied about my feelings, or the times I simply denied them. Love should never be denied, love never need be faked. My many flaws, the words I spoke out of anger, the words I didn't say...those I hope fade out of their memories.

So many fears, wishes triggered by a simple guitar shaped tombstone, that's not so simple at all. Who was that person? Musician is but one label. Father? Daughter? Husband? Friend? I am all. I am none.

At that point in my inner ramblings, my parents interrupted with a very rude: "Why are you stupid and talking about wanting a tombstone anyways? You idiot, talking about death!" That's right, pops. I forgot we don't die. Must've been a glitch in the Matrix.

Will anyone be sad I've left this world too early?