| Baa. |
[14 Nov 2003|11:20pm] |
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1. How did you first find my journal?
2. Why did you originally decide to friend me?
3. What's your favorite part of my journal?
4. What's your least favourite part of my journal?
5. Ask me a question. Be as random as you want.
6. Recommend a band to me. I'm curious what you think I should be listening to.
...and the copying and the pasting and the humouring of me.
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[14 Nov 2003|05:52pm] |
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mood |
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 discontent |
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Listening is they key. When things aren't working and you feel like a bastardly little creature is screwing w/the cogs and gears of your current endeavors... It's telling you something. Is it to fight or try harder? Or to completely change direction?
I become so irritated w/myself when I look at what I've created for myself by being a chronic underachiever in high school. I have this attitude where I feel like I take things to a certain point to prove I am capable, then drop them. I distinctly remember my father getting on my case about grades one year. I picked a course and got upwards of 93% after that semester's end, just to prove I wasn't having any problems w/comprehension.
I had other issues while in high school to add to my arrogance, but I still can taste those moments where I blew it. It'll take a bit to fix this hole, but it certainly wasn't worth my sloth in years past.
Average people are doing more w/themselves than I. So confusing all this is...
So school. I still look about 14, so I won't stick out too much.
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[13 Nov 2003|06:58pm] |
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mood |
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 irritated |
] |
I've decided that TV is not good for me or my time.
I watch a lot. Yet despite this, if you were to ask me what my favorite show was, I'd have no answer. I don't watch TV, I look at it in 3 second spans of attention... flip around, then maybe succumb to something bearable in uninterested glaze. I sleep in front of it like a fish w/it's eyes open.
My room's a mess. Is there something wrong w/this not bothering me? The only thing I really dislike about my sloppiness, is when company comes over. I have to reserve 1/2 a day prior so I can bulldoze my junk into it's proper spaces. Ha. Company coming over. It's hardly ever my company. I think maybe 2 non-family members have even seen my room.
It feels great when everything's done though, I'm just not addicted to that feeling enough I guess.
Dumb entry. I have so much to do, yet it picks at my skull that I'm a slovenly bum. I think I'll go look in the mirror and declare myself the sad sack of shit I truly am.
It works, trust me. No pity for me please.
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[10 Nov 2003|02:21pm] |
It's okay to act like 2 kids on the subway, snickering and making silly comments about fellow passengers. All in good fun though. There's nothing like a good description. Privately I find the ugly fascinating. They spend time on their insides; they are surprises.
Split ends and hair like hay. I need a cut. I need a dentist to scrape my teeth. I need to be maintenanced before winter.
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| Rathole |
[04 Nov 2003|10:34pm] |
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mood |
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 sleepy |
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I did not get dressed today. Fermenting in white terry cloth and cherry chapstick, I decided to blend in and lounge around as Mummy Skin was ill. I made dinner and performed a few re-fills. Feeling domestic lately. I must dig out some curlers.
Watched The Fourth Protocol (1987) w/Michael Caine and Pierce Brosnan. It only served as mockery for me, sadly. Caine's elderly gait and yellowed teeth only prophesied that dastardly mess we've come to know as... the Austin Powers Trilogy. It being daytime and wholesome, the word "asshole" was dubbed over to be rathole. Caine's accent also mutilated the term "atom bomb". It reached the eardrum as atom bum. It was suitably funny. Rathole has won it's way into my jilted book of profanities.
Yes, movies don't stand a chance w/me.
The Cherub made me writhe like a pinned mealworm over the phone. He says he owes all his health-mania efforts as of late, to me. I've never been one to view confidence as a gift; I've always made mine. He quoted a dead American president, basically saying I was behind him and the person he was becoming. Embarrasing things; felt like Spock in the midst of a bridal shower of sorts.... I haven't done a thing though: I honestly haven't. I felt caught red-handed.
Tomorrow I arise. I'll polish and clean and make my path sheen. How embarrasing sloth is.
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| Arid |
[03 Nov 2003|08:06pm] |
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mood |
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 melancholy |
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It's been raining far too much lately. I'm tired of soaked-pants-up-to-the-knees and that wet mammal smell on the bus... the exhaled breath of strangers misting up the windows.
The Cherub discussing childhood candy in orgasmic thralls. I'm beginning to think I am a sucker. How poor can one man get before I become high maintenance? Nah, I couldn't do that. I dislike expensive rituals; although it would be nice to eat somewhere else: other than his parents' place. I feel like turning up my nose and demanding mountains of caviar. But where would he pull it from? I'm becoming poor myself.
Mummy Skin asking if I could cut her nails for her. How truly ludicrous this is. Crusty, thick toenails like rhinoceros horn. Hooves really. Most older people have to go and get them done professionally. What a humble life I lead. Corns and bunions... a veritable vegetable patch on the treads.
Guh. This entry is ruined.
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[31 Oct 2003|10:30am] |
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mood |
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 okay |
] |
I go for my flu shot this afternoon. Let's hope the good doctor can find a vein in under 4 pokes.
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[30 Oct 2003|12:57am] |
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mood |
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 working |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Massive Attack |
] |
Heehee. I'm shaking like a wound-up flea and writing like mad. I've starting talking to mysef and humming, the writer's high full throttle. Reverted to paper, as my erratic cricket spindles of verse cannot be contained on a precise keyboard.
Weeeeee. I wish I had some peenie.
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[29 Oct 2003|07:54pm] |
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mood |
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 cheerful |
] |
| "Arthur is his name", she pled,
he's curious, hardy and very well bred.
Latex shell and creamy hide,
the perils of a solo ride.
The day of brunch fell back a step,
we reconverged and became hep. |
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[27 Oct 2003|10:43am] |
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mood |
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 groggy |
] |
Simple soft things, like poached eggs or meeting someone's mother. I feel like the poppies are putting me to sleep. I'd better wake up before winter comes.
Rather than go over everything in gleaming perfection and make myself sound very "together"... fuck, we're going out and doing some of it. I sound dumb when I discuss anything out loud. Mainly because it's very neutral and undecided. I want ridiculous things that older people would entertain, but never seriously absorb. When I have it, then we'll talk.
Noooo... not doing well. Doing things that seem to be meant not to work. Yeah, you don't know what I'm talking about. I do though. Saying it out loud makes me attached to it, makes me responsible for it.
All these horrid habits I have to grow out of. I'm positive living w/someone who's entire life is an excuse, would dust off on me a bit. When I visit my Dad, the stagnant atmosphere makes me ill. He's aging quicker due to lack of use. Rust on a car body, innate complaints about money, a sense of waiting for nothing. I dislike seeing him more than I can describe.
My brain doesn't glow neon through my skull.
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[24 Oct 2003|11:12am] |
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mood |
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 complacent |
] |
Talking on the phone every night for the loosely allotted hour fails to be successful sometimes. Affronts to my innate character were made, I laughed as he tiptoed around me, peering inquisitively... making sure I wasn't angry w/him. Womanly tact.
He's trying to get me to be more social, coax me out of my shell. Don't you hate that expression? It implies I'm not a mammal, but a crustacean.
He can look, but I get annoyed once in a while and.. er... clam up. Damn.
Can 2 people so different even stay together for a decent amount of time? Who knows... I think I stick around to satisfy my curiosity. I enjoy being an oddity to him. My fat man-child w/a woman's conscience and similar levels of affection.
I had a depressing dream last night. I was invisible and trying to hitchhike.. I ended up actually jumping in front of a car to get their attention. My body imploding their windshield would make them see me...
I'm glad all my dreams are lucid.
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[23 Oct 2003|08:36pm] |
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mood |
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 annoyed |
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Every time I leave my door open by chance to write, I am reprimanded by calls of my name across the apartment, then have them reach my ears in crescendo annoyance. What the shit, hold your tongue until I can hear you. If I'm sharp, catch them early and yell a response... I'm called ignorant. That'd be nice. So would complete hearing loss.
How impulses flop out of the elderly like ridiculous items from a clown's pocket. How full of holes their filter. How demure they become when caught with their pinkie in the molasses.
But then it's gone. Just gone. I have to write about the incident to fill my slot. How the mind goes and temper comes.
To live alone would be relish w/mousse.
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| A tad alienated... |
[22 Oct 2003|01:39pm] |
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mood |
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self-analytical |
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I've been invited to a party. Two parties hosted by the same verbal Vikings that happen to be The Cherub's friends. I hate parties. Parties are most certainly havens for the intellectually dim. Activities described to be occurring in this party are, "smoking, drinking, pot and people making asses of themselves". I don't speak loudly unless I have to. I am not going. I refuse to dumben myself and I doubt hiding out w/their two cats for the entire evening will be socially acceptable. Why would he even think of asking me. He doesn't know me at all; this irritates me the most.
Here's where I feel a bit sorry for myself, but I figure I'm entitled. I shall begin another bout of trying to find some people like me I can enjoy some time with. It's a tough thing to do, but I know myself... I know myself to feel like meeting people should be effortless and accidental. It isn't. It isn't effortless and it isn't happening. I vow to not allow myself to label this desperate in any way.
Oh, but why can't I fit in better? I meet maybe 1 person in 6 months I even feel a slight connection with. Bah. It stinks. I find the smelliest aspect of this phenomenon, is the one-sided response I get. They think I'm great, I think them cold oatmeal.
I find this isn't a huge issue most of the time. I don't get lonely very much, I prefer my own company, I have bland hobbies that satisfy my own interests...
I'll put it on my "To Do" list.
Parties are for the birds though. I honestly can't ever see myself worked up about one.
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| Pork |
[16 Oct 2003|10:29am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 gloomy |
] |
| [ |
music |
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"Antistar" by Massive Attack |
] |
Sitting at The Goof (originally their sign read "Good Food", but the D burnt out and they never replaced it) in a tiny booth w/a fine spread of unintimidating Chinese food. I felt content for a brief moment as I regarded each platter, no bites or fork tracks in sight. All that potential. After writing that out, I'm glad there was some depth to it. I was puzzled in that moment, wondering if my life was destined to be of a pork.
The Cherub's battle w/The Leech continues. I find myself repulsed by him.. cannot say no or refuse him. He flops down for week long stays that are gratuit, cleans out his fridge, then quits the job that was the pretense of originally being able to stay. I had to have a conversation w/The Cherub in his building's laundry room as The Leech was upstairs. Mother of crap he better not come across any difficult obstacles in his being. He'll be toast.
He won't listen to any of my reason, so I'm forced to keep quiet as he bemoans his very simply-solved woes upon me. I simmer in silence. Bah. Of brains he is not. I've found those of brains are distant and complex... afraid of emotion as I am. I'm trying a different flavour this time I suppose. He has a golden heart and is as doting as a puppy.
But damn I miss someone w/smarts sometimes.
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| my curiosity of the day unraveled... |
[14 Oct 2003|08:24pm] |
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mood |
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 curious |
] |
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music |
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"Almost Over For You" by Laurens Van Rooyen |
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The Origin of the Word "Fuck"
The word is derived from the Danish word "fokken" to breed cattle and Swedish "fokka" to copulate.
I have had classes on ren history and in truth yes the F-word does mean Fornication Under Consent of the King, but it was ingraved in the entry ways of brothels, it ment that the brothel was legal and paid taxes. Henry the 8th made prostitution legal and taxed it in order to make more money.
Actually the word "fuck" has nothing to do with Kings or their consent to have sex. Fuck is an Old English word which means "to sow a seed" (as in farming). "To sow" means to scatter seeds, similar to the process of a male ejaculating in to a female.
Popular etymologies agree, unfortunately incorrectly, that this is an acronym meaning either Fornication Under Consent of the King or For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. The latter usually accompanying a story about how medieval prisoners were forced to wear this word on their clothing.
Deriving the etymology of this word is difficult, as it has been under a taboo for most of its existence and citations are rare. The earliest known use, according to American Heritage and Lighter, predates 1500 and is from a poem written in a mix of Latin and English and entitled 'Flen flyys.' The relevant line reads: "Non sunt in celi quia fuccant uuiuys of heli." Translated: "They [the monks] are not in heaven because they fuck the wives of Ely [a town near Cambridge]." The word was not in common (published) use prior to the 1960s.
Shakespeare did not use it, although he did hint at it for comic effect. In Merry Wives of Windsor (IV.i) he gives us the pun "focative case." In Henry V (IV.iv), the character Pistol threatens to "firk" a French soldier, a word meaning "to strike," but commonly used as an Elizabethan euphemism for fuck. In the same play (III.iv), Princess Katherine confuses the English words "foot" and "gown" for the French "foutre" and "coun" (fuck and cunt, respectively) with comic results. Other poets did use the word, although it was far from common. Robert Burns, for example, used it in an unpublished manuscript.
The taboo was so strong that for 170 years, from 1795 to 1965, fuck did not appear in a single dictionary of the English language. In 1948, the publishers of The Naked and the Dead persuaded Norman Mailer to use the euphemism "fug" instead, resulting in Dorothy Parker's comment upon meeting Mailer: "So you're the man who can't spell fuck."
The root is undoubtedly Germanic, as it has cognates in other Northern European languages: Middle Dutch fokken meaning to thrust, to copulate with; dialectical Norwegian fukka meaning to copulate; and dialectical Swedish focka meaning to strike, push, copulate, and fock meaning penis. Both French and Italian have similar words, foutre and fottere respectively. These derive from the Latin futuere. While these cognates exist, they are probably not the source of fuck, rather they probably come from a common root. Most of the early known usages of the English word come from Scotland, leading some scholars to believe that the word comes from Scandinavian sources. Others disagree, believing that the number of northern citations reflects that the taboo was weaker in Scotland and the north, resulting in more surviving usages. The fact that there are citations, albeit fewer of them, from southern England dating from the same period seems to bear out this latter theory.
There is also an elaborate explanation that has been circulating on the internet for some years regarding English archers, the Battle of Agincourt, and the phrase Pluck Yew! This explanation is a modern jest--a play on words. However, there may be a bit of truth to it. The British (it's virtually unknown in America) gesture of displaying the index and middle fingers with the back of the hand outwards (a reverse peace sign)--meaning the same as displaying the middle finger alone--may derive from the French practice of cutting the fingers off captured English archers. Archers would taunt the French on the battlefield with this gesture, showing they were intact and still dangerous. The pluck yew part is fancifully absurd. This is not the origin of the middle finger gesture, which is truly ancient, being referred to in classical Greek and Roman texts.
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| To Mr. Shawaz: |
[11 Oct 2003|12:23pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 rejuvenated |
] |
| [ |
music |
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"The Boys of Summer" by DJ Sammy |
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How you put me to shame, driving a cab... another anonymous shadow. Realizing how spoiled and fat I was despite my meager physical girth. How bland and stupid; a slice of Canadian wonder bread. Silly teasing that made me laugh in embarrassment. Lilting punctuation like the Hungarian shepherdess or an ancient sitar. Oh how I longed for cumin on my tongue. You admonished me w/flair and courting within 30 minutes. Dark cocoa twisted into creative engagements. I wanted to see your long fingers; your dusky chest. See the wisdom of one who has truly built a door and gone through it. Flashing grin like the infant devil that lingered for days in my soul. True humility. True love that passed like my first taste of pear from a tree.
Perhaps in another life you can be my little sister and buy me gifts and love me. But we both know what you have in mind when you say this. Perhaps one day I'll wake up and be enlightened; my eyes no longer blue and vacuous. Deep brown like the earth, like the Ganges... like coffee unconsumed.
Signed,
Girl in the back of your Cab
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good
artistic
content
bored