There's so much to do!
There's so much to learn. I'm ravenous to eat the knowledge that's all around us, all the time, that we take for granted.
I want to dig up the names of the kids I went to church camp with and google them. I've always assumed that out of such a scrabble of repressed freaks, some of them would have achieved some creative or notorious fame. I'll be disappointed if none have.
My coworkers were devouring "romance" novels at work, and I got curious. I borrowed one, something by the possibly pseudonymous "Angela Knight". I discovered a few things.
First, there's not much "romance", but there's a lot of good old-fashioned fucking. Next, the writing is surprisingly good. No spelling errors (!), although not a lot of big words either. It's not literature of course, but it has a fast-paced, well-formed, thorough and plausible plot. Most importantly, the sex is good. I was pleasantly surprised. Creative, raunchy, and hot fucking. Lots of it, and lots of variety.
I'm working on a book now. It's just an unusually complete serial fantasy. Nothing could be easier.
My otherwise full day of lying in the sun and masturbating was interrupted by an alarming moment when I glimpsed from my window two men embracing, inside the open door of a pickup parked in a nondescript backyard. Redneck, AB. I froze, and hovered, spying.
The smaller, younger man looked so reluctant, scowling, as the other larger man, sitting inside the truck still, hugged him from behind, and lifted his shirt, running his hands over the standing man's back and chest.
I spied for long enough to realize my mistake. It was not, in fact, two men, but one irritated young man and a large, extremely masculine woman. I breathed out, then wondered why my initial reaction was shock.
Was it that it's been so long since I've witnessed any open gayness?Was it the context? This is the last place in the world I'd anticipate encountering random public acts of male to male affection. I'd expect that to be dangerous.
Or, was it the alarming mannishness of the woman? If I were that guy, I'd be scowling too.
I am absolutely certain that our world going to change dramatically and drastically in this year. It's already beginning.
This is the last summer we'll have that things will continue to seem relatively the same, as the cost of our life mysteriously goes up, hmmm (?).
Interestingly, I don't feel an urge to talk to everyone about it. It seems almost sly, that I don't want to wake everyone up. Am I hoarding knowledge like food during drought? Don't want to spark the run on the bank, the landslide of awareness that will likely cascade us into a grabbing frenzy. The sky is falling! Everyone to Walmart to buy all the water bottles!
Maybe I don't want to be the freak in the bunch now, just the one who turns up alive later.
It's an interesting time to be alive.
"I am glad that you are here with me, Sam. Here at the end of all things…” ~Frodo Baggins, The Return of the King, by J.R.R.Tolkien
8 Isometrics.
7 Practice ridiculous dance moves, both seriously and not. You have achieved success if you manage to make yourself laugh.
6 Squinch your eyes tight and observe the phosphene show.
5 Stretch your back. Hang from the straps and feel your spine uncoil. Ahhhh. You can also adopt extreme hunching and arching postures that your back will also enjoy.
4 Invent and practice scatching comebacks that didn't come to mind at the necessary crucial moment. This form of redoing can calm your damaged ego.
3 Practise sexy poses, especially: hip thrusts to either side, sexy lookbacks, hair grabs, and lower back curvature. Pretend to be a thong model or automobile accessory. That should do the trick.
2 Masturbate
1 Kegels
Three things not to do in a stand-up tanning booths:
3 Inspect your skin. Unusual places look startlingly blue, like a bruise, in booth light. This is disconcerting.
2 Think about getting locked in, like in a bad teen movie. But, if you were... I assume most stand up booths cage their bulbs in like rebel teenagers. If you have the foresight to get locked into one of these, first, unplug the big plugs that connect each section of bulbs to each other, or else, untwist the bulbs so they go out - as fast as you can - there are an awful lot of them. Then, the walls of the booth are clipped together like toolbox lids, so you can unclip until the walls fall out, or you can push the ceiling out. See, I didn't follow my own advice. I thought about it.
1 Sing.
If so many people don't read Margaret Atwood's books, and shiver at the idea of the imagined content, then who's making them bestsellers? Do people buy them for their Canadian prestige, for the reflected aura of edge and intelligence? Do they place them on their shelves for appearances? Do they then feel the eyeless spines of the unwelcome houseguests watching their backs when they turn; hear the unread malice of their contents murmuring at night?
Wake up and read. The Handmaid's Tale may be the most alarming and necessary book of our century. Or maybe it's Oryx and Crake.
I'm unbelievably outraged by the heist of the HNIC theme song by CTV. Not to mention the interests of Dolores Clayman, whom I must assume is a catty, shriveled, vindicative, money-grubbing beast. What was CTV thinking? Coup of the decade? More like, nice one, you just paid 3 million for a ditty that no CBCphile is ever going to want to hear again, and is gonna make many shut off TSN in disgust. Wow.
There is nothing to describe the agony of being an unsmoking person in a smoking house.
When you're helplessly forced to inhale carcinogenic air, it seems debatable whether breathing, or not, is the more lethal choice. I feel the cancer. I know when I'm being poisoned.
Why would anyone choose to put something so toxic, with full knowledge, into their one, vulnerable, delicately functioning body?
The others are under the impression that they are considerate, for not smoking when I'm in the room, making concessions to smoke only in adjacent rooms. This of course makes no difference at all, but a smoker can't smell their own smoke any more, so they really don't get it at all. I can not only smell it, but feel it crawling on my skin and hair. It creeps up my sinuses to pinch my brain with its sticky, oily fingers.
Headache and nausea arrive for me on the tail of recognizing the scent. The craving for clean air is desperate (I have to move out! In the next 10 seconds!). I'm not angry or resentful. I panic. I instantly want to cry, am asea in self-pity. I have to flee the house entirely when smoke seeping around the cracks of my door wake me at night.
My lungs are getting smaller from taking mincing, minimal inhales, trying to preserve SOME of my precious alveoli.
My loathing of cigarettes produces mild disdain through hostility towards smokers, those mysterious people who choose their slow death.
Daniel Craig is the only celebrity, to my recollection, that I have masturbated to orgasm "with". He was great.
On second thought, Tommy Lee Jones as well
Maybe each letter received by the governemt counts as the opinion of 10 people in their statistifying is because anyone who has the energy or inclination to write a letter to their MP is probably also talking 10 others into seeing it their way.
Helen Mirren's sympathetic Queen is possibly a true version of the real Queen. Probably not at all, but it would be nice to think so.
The first mousquito sighting of the year is always remarkable, like snow. I always catch them, and then when I look in my hand to see if I got it, it flies away, to divide exponentially into millions of bloodthirsty more.
I remember learning to pronounce certain words, at times. I learned to read so well that I was figuring out my own pronunciations based on the knowledge at hand, principally, that certain structures sounded predictable. This turned out to not be a universal constant. I remember learning how to say (or more accurately, being corrected when I said) "catastrophic", "slough", and "Siobhan", among others. I notice them now when I read, because my own childhood decision was strong.
What is up with George Clooney and swooning, masturbating females? I just don't get it. Don't. He's like, a 6, maybe. 5 or 5.5. I have no idea why he's the sex god everyone thinks he is. I mean, why everyone thinks he's a sex god, when he isn't. Even my boyfriend insisted "he's an above average goodlooking guy...comeonnn". Nope. Don't see it.
