Tuesday, November 30, 2010

I like this 51: Caution in Love.

Dear Globlets,

I like this:
"Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most fatal to true happiness."
- Bertrand Russell


If the love is mutual and the love is real...

Monday, November 29, 2010

Contest Entry: My Queendom by Lucy Varas

Dear Globlets,

I entered a contest on the blog, Why Evolution is True. The entry consists of a picture and a 250 word paragraph about the cat.

The story is told from my cat's point of view. In case you don't already know, her name is Lucy Varas, she is a desperate housecat, and this is her story... DUNDUN!

My Queendom by Lucy Varas

My name is Lucy (Lucifer) Varas and I am the ruler of my queendom. I enjoy long walks on the roof, sitting on laps watching movies, the fanciest of Fancy Feasts – we’re talking Florentines - but tuna straight from a can is also an acceptable meal, as is raw fish of any kind. I have three humans: comfiest, warmest, least-likely-to-carry-me-too-long Mama; understanding, best-when-in-bed-and-immobile, most-likely-to-receive-food-from Sister; male who I have a soft spot for (I always purr for him), most-likely-to-carry-me-for-too-long Brother. My duty is to protect my humans. Any stranger who comes into my queendom will be put under surveillance and subject to many tests, one of which includes the “I will rub against your leg and make you think I have accepted you but IN FACT I HAVE NOT; you are the equivalent of a chair leg to me, imbecile!” And if the stranger fails this test, the punishment is a scratch-and-hiss. Scratch-and-hisses are the most common form of punishment in my queendom and only when I try to leave my queendom (temporarily) might I inflict this upon one of my humans. I am pleased with my humans’ understanding of my stranger-intolerance, as they tell guests, upon arrival, not to touch me, for they are not worthy. They should be grateful for being in my presence at all. However, many strangers have ignored these warnings and accuse me of being the guilty one, but this is, of course, nonsense. After all, this is my queendom and I meow the rules.


Note: No humans were harmed in the making of this narrative.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Thank you, Crayola.

Dear Globlets,

My friend, Kay, asked me what I was thankful for today. (She is SUCH an American! Who celebrates Turkey day in MOVEMBER*?) I don't actually recall holy crap it's late being asked that in the past - maybe in elementary school, but that was a while ago and I definitely bullshitted and said something stupid like, "I'm thankful for my favourite Jungle Green crayon, my friends, and horses." However, I am still thankful for that crayon. I never liked the colour green but somehow this crayon made it to my top-crayons list. #1! And there never was enough Peach to go around, was there? You always had to settle for Yellow, or worse: Orange or Pink, when drawing people. As a photographer, I now never experience this problem.

Although it did not include crayons, the quick list of things I made in response to Kay's question went like this:
I am thankful for not being a turkey.
I'm thankful for my education and the ability to question things without discouragement or punishment.
I'm thankful for everyone I know, especially my family, and for the experiences I've had throughout my life.
I'm thankful for not being born in a culture where religion and superstition restrict my life and/or freedoms as an individual.
I am thankful for my vagina.
I'm thankful for being abnormal; "normal people" scare the shit out of me and make me weep for the future of humanity. The coolest people I know are abnormal.


I just thought I'd share.

Maybe I never thought about what I'm thankful for... like... on purpose... because I was too busy appreciating it in other ways. I never sat down and declared to my family or to strangers what I'm thankful for because it's not just one day that I'm thankful for these things. It's every day. This sounds like the kind of bullshit you'd write in response to a school assignment titled, "Thanksgiving: What are you thankful for?" but I mean it. I don't have to sit and think about it because I know I'm lucky every damn day I'm alive, even during these cold, slushy, wintery Canadian autumns when I'm wishing I could be thousands of kilometres away... (Who's a good Canadian using the metric system? I am! I am! Yes, I am!) ...getting a tan. If you knew how pasty-white my legs were, you would understand my pain.

My brother is two rooms away and I can hear him snoring. Really loudly.

Come to think of it, I am thankful for Lucy not having crazy Simon eyebrows.

People always say they're thankful for their family, even when they're not. I am, though. But they know it. And I know it too - every single day. I love them.


No, this was not me kissing ass by demonstrating my ability to be a wonderful daughter/sister/granddaughter/person/thing attempting to get totally rad Christmas presents this year, because I really just want socks. I'm not even kidding. Normal ones. Not fuzzy ones. I have TONS of those.

And a nice apartment downtown. - A loft, preferably. And, of course, a manservant.

That's all I need to be happy: a loft, a manservant, and socks. That shouldn't be too hard to get, right?


*More on Movember to come... probably.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

I don't like this #1.

Dear Globlets,



I don't like this. It's not about being a prude or embarrassed or ashamed about your body, it's about your privacy. I'd go through the scan if I had to but I don't like the fact that I would have to if I wanted to avoid being groped by strangers. Some of the comments on the post are good too. I already have a problem with people who abuse their own authority (border guards, cops, etc.) and assault, harass or harm civilians, or rather victims (who doesn't?), and I feel like this is getting dangerously close to permitting ... or appealing to those kinds of authority-abusers. They're making it easier.

As bug_girl says, there has to be a better way.

I'd consider getting some of these:



This is a post from Skepchick:

Touched by a Stranger
November 16th, 2010 by bug_girl


So, I’m going to be flying several times over the next couple of months. And, as I’m sure you’ve heard, the TSA has now implemented a variety of different new screening techniques. From that article:

“If a full-body scanning machine shows something strange or a passenger declines to go through the machine… an officer will perform a more personal search. The examinations routinely involve the touching of breasts and genitals, invasive searches designed to find weapons and suspicious items.”

Folks are freaked about imaging technologies which seem to produce detailed NEKKID images of your body. (A company called Flying Pasties sells an amusing line of…well, shields for your naughty bits. Kudos to their marketing savvy.) There also is the issue that while the Feds claim they will delete all those images of you in the buff, apparently by “delete” they actually mean “stored centrally for an extended period of time.”

The full-body scanners also involve unspecified amounts of radiation, which several scientific and medical groups, not just the tin-foil hat types, have expressed concerns about. So, opting out of the full body scan seems like it might be a good idea. I’ve had a LOT of x-rays, CAT scans, and MRIs. I’m not Evil Knievel, but I have managed to break a lot of bones, particularly in my head. (Hey! Let’s not extrapolate!)
Anyway, on the advice of my doctor, I’m supposed to limit my exposure to radiation and microwave sources. Ok, simple enough. I opt out of the scan.

Except. When you give the technology a pass, you are now subject to a fairly intimate groin grope and feeling up. A lot of folks have said that if you don’t want to have the scan and fly safely, or accept that some strangers will have to touch you, then you should just not fly. The reality is, though, that for many of us we must fly semi-regularly as part of our jobs. It’s not entirely my choice to fly; I can’t take a week of work off to drive to California and back for a business trip. So, bring on the grope.

Except. I am a rape survivor. And I know that if I am forced to have the kind of circle jerk that I’ve seen on video–where a bunch of TSA screeners surround me and one of them touches me in very private places–there is a real chance I’m going to freak out. Traveling is always very stressful, in part because I have visual processing issues and epilepsy (see above; i.e, fractured head). Add onto that reliving a painful part of my past–someone touching me and I have no ability to say “I don’t consent“–I am not a happy traveler.

I’m getting ready for a business trip right now. I’m on the job hunt too, since I’ll be laid off next May. I’m hoping to make some important connections with these meetings.

Am I worried that I won’t make a good impression on the bigwigs that I’m going to meet? Am I spending time crunching data to make a good impression when I present my TPS reports?

Nope.
I’m freaking out about just getting on the fucking plane. That’s what I’m spending all my energy on. And that’s not right.

For my friend with a colostomy bag. For my sister with a partial breast reconstruction. For the oh-so-many other women who have been raped or molested.

There has to be a better way.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

I like this 50: Tampon Cozies

Dear Globlets,

If I knew how to knit, I'd knit tampon cozies.

This is a great article my mom shared with me:

FUNNY WOMEN #1: The New Rumpus Humor Column: I Am Sorry That I Didn’t Write a Comedy Piece
Wendy Molyneux - September 8th, 2009 - filed under Funny Women, rumpus original


The other day while sounding out the words on a Web site called The Rumpus, I saw this article asking for women to submit more comedy pieces. So I put down my giant chocolate bar, stopped crying, and thought, yes, that is what I will do.

I will write a comedy piece. But just as I sat down in my bay window (filled with pillows that I knitted myself while waiting by the phone for potential husbands to call) and opened my pink Mac laptop, I happened to see a lady walking down the street with a baby of her very own.

So then I started crying again because I don’t have a baby. I cried big rolling tears that fell down onto my “Mrs. Stamos” T-shirt that I purchased off of eBay and photographed myself in for my eHarmony profile. I always say, “Dress for the job you want,” and the job I want is being Mrs. John Stamos! So, once my shirt was soaked, I had to go change it. I walked into my closet, which is gigantic because women love to wear lots of expensive clothes and shoes all the time, and I thought, “I know what will make me feel better! I will feel better if I try on all my clothes and shoes to the tune of an upbeat Motown song such as ‘My Girl.’”

And so I did that. I tried on all my clothes, and I felt better until I tried on one pair of pants that didn’t fit me anymore. And then I totally started to cry again, because I am so fat. I cried for a little while on the floor while my cats crawled all over me, purring and being symbols of how lonely I am. My cats love to be symbols of my loneliness. Sometimes, I have to be like, “Stop signifying so loudly guys, I’m watching Grey’s Anatomy!”

At this point I still had not written my comedy piece written by a woman. So I went back to the window, opened my pink computer again and looked at pictures of cute baby ducks for awhile until I felt like writing. But then I remembered that I hadn’t made anything for dinner! Every night, I like to make an elaborate dinner. Then, I set it on the table and open all the windows. My fondest hope is that the wafting smells of a home-cooked meal will lure men who are passing by to come inside and eat dinner. And then after they eat dinner, I hope they’ll eat something else. If you know what I mean. Get it? Eat something. I mean dessert. I want them to eat dessert. Because the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Also, they are always leaving the toilet seat up! Am I right?

Anyway, twelve hours later after I had cooked, baked, cried, sewn a blanket for my hope chest, called a telephone psychic, had all my favorite Cathy comic strips laminated, and then stayed up all night trying on all my clothes and shoes again, I finally felt ready to write my comedy piece. I decided to start by asking myself, “What’s funny?” That is a tough one for me because I have no sense of humor. I mean, I assume that I have no sense of humor because all of the funny things that are made especially for women like me, such as Sex and the City, 27 Dresses, and yogurt commercials don’t even make me laugh. But I guess my humor deficiency is one of those womanly crosses I have to bear, along with P.M.S., making seventy cents on the dollar, and paying for my own rape kit. You know what they say though, you can’t make the willing pay for their own rape kits! I think they say that. Probably somebody said that. God knows I didn’t say it myself! I only say things like: “What are numbers?”

Oh, there I go again on one of my tangents. I guess it’s time for me to get serious about writing this comedy piece. Emoticon. I mean, I probably shouldn’t even try to write a comedy piece since Christopher Hitchens wrote an article in Vanity Fair saying that women just aren’t funny. He’s probably right. And even if he isn’t, I think it’s great that we live in a country where you can say anything you want, like that women aren’t funny or that Christopher Hitchens is a huge douche who runs a successful child pornography business and has an inability to get an erection unless he’s reading Nazi literature.

Well, would you look at that? I’ve totally run out of time, and now instead of writing a comedy piece, I have to go report to my regular day job knitting tampon cozies and being best friends with everybody.

Oh well, I probably would have been terrible at it anyway.

I like this 49:

Dear Globlets,

I like this:
"You can never underestimate the stupidity of the general public."
- Scott Adams

Sometimes I do underestimate it and then I'm surprised by it. I think I'm learning now, though, that some people, a lot of people, are just dumb. I might not have vast seas of knowledge cooped up in my brain, but I'd like to think I'm a critical thinker and a skeptic. I question people's words and consider the consequences of all actions. "If I do A, plus B, C would be... " That stuff isn't hard but it seems like there are far too many people who don't get it, and that's scary.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Can I Get a Ramen?


Dear Globlets,

That time of year is getting closer and closer - the race to get the best Christmas present ever and for the best price you can find just in time. Of course, two days after you buy your last-minute gifts, everything will be 50% off. (Which is why I want to celebrate Christmas the week after...) The countdown to Christmas has commenced and soon it'll be time to put up your Christmas tree. But what will you decorate it with? Candy canes and (empty*) presents? Trains and elves? Animals and angels? Perhaps. But will you put spaghetti and meatballs on your tree? Are you cool enough to praise our Lord Pasta? Are you Pastafarian enough to add the word "Pastafarian" to your Blogger dictionary AND put pasta at the top of your lit-up tree during the holiday season? If so, then you're like me.

If you're like me, and I'm like you, then you and I are like the lovely people who contributed to this blog! I feel a trip to Michael's coming along!!!

May your holiday season be filled with presents and pasta!

Ramen.

I like this 48:

Dear Globlets,

They are such sick fucks ... and I love them:


Also,

"The problem with the designated driver program, it's not a desirable job, but if you ever get sucked into doing it, have fun with it. At the end of the night, drop them off at the wrong house."
- Jeff Foxworthy

That would be pretty fun. I'd probably lose a lot of friends that way, though.

"Human beings are perhaps never more frightening than when they are convinced beyond doubt that they are right."
- Laurens Van der Post

See extremely religious people are refer to arguments people get into with them. What the hell is up with this sentence? I blame my cursor displacement problem. >:(

So much wasted time on that... although there is a part of me that still hopes that I presented ways of looking at their beliefs from a logical and reasonable perspective that will make or had made them question their faith even for just moment.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

In favour of the Rent is Too Damn High Party.

Dear Globlets,

I just added "globlets" to my dictionary.

In other news,

(Click to enlarge) (Teehee, if only it was that easy, eh boys? Well, sometimes it is.)

The rent may be too damn high, but so are our wages. $8 minimum wage in BC, baby. Lowest in the country. Victoria. Vancouver. Expensive places to live in. I think we're rather comparable to Ontario and Quebec, although I might be wrong.

However,

Alberta $8.80
BC $8.00
Manitoba $9.50
New Brunswick $9.00
Newfoundland $10.00
NWT $9.00
Nova Scotia $9.65
Nunavut $10.00
Ontario $10.25
PEI $9.00
Quebec $9.50
Saskatchewan $9.25
Yukon $8.93

(http://canadaonline.about.com/od/labourstandards/a/minimum-wage-in-canada.htm)

Did you enjoy my transition words followed by the picture/table as much as I did? I hope so.

The crucial numbers you'll see in the first image indicate how much I'd need to work to be able to live on my own. To survive, I'd need to earn $800. $800 means I'd need to work 20 hours per week at $10/hour. It'd be a miracle if I found a job that paid more than that. Now, tell me when I'd fit school in there and how I'd pay for it. Tell me when I'd fit life/friends/etc. in there and how I'd pay for that. Mhmm.

The secret code in the excel spreadsheet makes sense, doesn't it?

My options are:

Go to school full time and live at home.
Go to work full time and live alone.

Yay, life.

Holy Shit, Bitching, and other Curses

Dear Globlets,

Holy shit:


This is mindblowing technology. This is also rather terrifying. It's great for good guys, but it would be good for bad guys too in a bad way. This will tie in nicely with the globulation I'm going to post soon about technology. I wrote it, initially, for my morning pages (which I'm done with, finally!) for ENG154, but along with many other morning pages, I found it quite globulative.

Is Blogger going to let me schedule this post? It's been very frustrating lately because it's not letting me right now.

I think I'm going to go paint my and my mom's toes now. I can't believe I don't have a bright red anymore. Ugh. I looked at them too. I was at Shoppers and the red nailpolishes caught my eye, as if my subconscious was telling me that I should be purchasing one of them. I'm kind of sleepy though. And I feel funny. And Tentacles said something that I'm completely overreacting to. Obviously, I'm not really reacting to it but I perceived it weirdly and I've gotten emotional over it in a negative way, which is rather silly. And it's silly that I know it's silly but I still feel pissed off. Now he's going to ask me what it was and that he didn't mean it that way and I'll tell him I know because, obviously, I do. But still. (See?)

In other bitchings, there is something wrong with me/my keyboard. I don't understand how this is even possible. I've had my computer for quite a while now but only as of late, when I type, has the cursor done weird things. It moves and clicks on a different part of the page, which sometimes results in my typing on my desktop and therefore producing nothing, or it goes to a different part of the page I'm writing, or it'll select a part of a paragraph that I will then proceed to eliminate by typing a single letter, or the worst one... where it'll click outside of a text field on a webpage and then I hit BACKspace. Which means that unless the webpage is courteous enough to ask me if I really want to change pages after writing 3,000 words, everything will be lost because it simply goes back to the previous page. And the forward button will not make your 3,000 words show up in the text field again. That really only happens in Facebook, but all I can say is Thank Lucy for Ctrl+Z. I cannot even tell you how many times my cursor was displaced while I bitched about my cursor being displaced. Actually, that sentence might have been the only one where that did not happen. Now I'm just being super careful. I shouldn't have to be. (Jinxed it).

Are my fingers fatter? Is the mousepad on my laptop more sensitive all of a sudden? What do I do? I've already trained myself to not hit BACK when I'm texting in T9 on my cell phone (because it deletes EVERYTHING unless you're very careful, but you're always screwed if a text is coming in at the same time anyway). I don' want holy shit I almost just left this page. DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN? Probably not. AGH! And it just went into the "Labels for this post" field.

Right. So. I can do crazy shit with that video-mapping software thingamabobber but I can't type without my cursor displacements causing me to eliminate or misplace words that I write. And I swear I don't touch the pad, but it seems to think I do, but I don't mean just touch. I mean it clicks. I don't care if it moves around and dances and prances and donner and vixens! Wait, it's Blitzen. I always think it's vixen but I'm pretty sure Santa keeps that reindeer to himself. I DO care, however, when the cursor displacement fucks me up.

For example:
Currently in the "Labels for this post" field: aing re ni ME
I'm not kidding, Globlets.
OH! OH! Now it says: aing re ni s - just because I wrote the above sentence.

I'm going to go bald soon, aren't I?
/bitchend.


Man, that felt good. RAWRAWRAWRAWR.

Friday, November 12, 2010

I like this 47:

Dear Globlets,

I enjoyed all three of Google's Quotes of the Day today (which is actually from Thursday but Blogger is a poo and lalala).

"If Pac-Man had affected us as kids, we'd all be running around in dark rooms, munching pills and listening to repetitive electronic music."
- Marcus Bridgstocke

Wait a second...
I love Pac-Man! Who doesn't? Now I want to play it.

"One never notices what has been done; one can only see what remains to be done."
- Marie Curie

See the latest election in the United Sates.

"From now on, ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put."
- Sir Winston Churchill

I just enjoy this one.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

FCA #7: Public Transportation

Dear Globlets,

For this assignment I was to withhold the most important detail of a story. For example, have a man and woman witness a murder but don't mention the body. I probably withheld too much - the type of transportation, the mysterious man/crash, and the reason the two girls were travelling together. I had a lot of fun writing it, though.

What kind of transportation do you think they're on? Ferry, bus, train, airplane...?

Public Transportation

Katy and Holly walked over to the pair of empty blue seats and sat down quickly. They put their small bags on the floor and slightly underneath their seats. More people stepped inside and walked past the girls. After some time, a rumbling came from beneath them and Holly shifted her bodyweight to accommodate the jolt she knew would soon come. It came, and once it did, she repositioned herself in order to travel more comfortably.

Holly sat on the right and scanned the people around her. She did not recognize anyone. There was a family of four nearby: a frustrated mother and tired father with their toddler and infant. Holly was grateful that the children were behaving. Suddenly, a loud high-pitched shriek came from the toddler. She decided she might have to suggest to the parents getting muzzles for their children when they were out in public. Maybe not the baby since it’s still pretty young, but the kid could probably use one if necessary, she thought. Holly couldn’t stand noisy children, but worst of all she couldn’t stand parents who let their kids get away with the most classic troublemaking. Nobody uses belts any more, she said to herself. She laughed quietly, pinching the bridge of her nose, realizing that she’d sound crazy if she actually meant that. Belts, she thought. Maybe those gangster-boy wanna-bes wear their pants with the waist down to their knees to show they’re against child abuse. They’re statements. Hah! If only.

Holly turned her attention to Katy who hardly looked at the other people. She stared outside, watching the raindrops fall and make clear paths through the fog on the window. She could not have seen anything beyond them.

“We’re never going to get there at this rate. We waited so long! Why do they even bother saying what time they’ll arrive if they come and go whenever they damn well please?” Katy glanced at the watch on her wrist. Holly wondered why Katy bothered to so often since checking the time would never increase or decrease the speed that the minute hand travelled at.

“I want to go home already,” Katy said. “We’ve barely left. I can look outside and know we’re still in the same bloody area. Can’t see much, but I know. Gosh, what is he doing anyway?”

“I think you need to relax,” Holly said.

“How are you not concerned about the time? Do you have any idea what time we’ll get there?” Katy put her head in her hands.

“Why don’t you read your book?”

“It’s bumpier than usual. I don’t want to get sick here.” Katy lowered her head to her knees. She couldn’t go all the way because the seat in front of her was too close.

“Here, have one of these.” Holly reached down and took out a small plastic container containing a variety of pills from her bag. “The little round white one,” she said.

“What is it?” asked Katy.

“Valium.”

“Really?”

“No! It’s a mint!” Holly laughed.

“What are the other pills, then?”

“This is ibuprofen, this is Midol, and these are mints.” Holly pointed out the groups of pills. “I’m not a drug addict, I’m just well-prepared and I don’t like pain. Plus, I like to stay minty-fresh.” She grinned.

“You know Midol is just like a lot of ibuprofen, right?”

“Drugs are drugs. They could be placebos for all I care, as long as the pain stops.”
Sensing that Katy was not as interested in being minty-fresh, Holly closed the container and put it in the pocket of her hoodie. All of a sudden, everyone on board nearly jumped out of their seats as the trip hit a bumpy stage. Everything was bouncing and shaking for a moment.

“Jesus Christ! He’s gonna kill us!” Katy shouted and grasped her seat, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Katy, calm down! You’re going to freak people out.” Holly put her hand on Katy’s shoulder. “Lower your voice.”

“I’m sorry. I just… I don’t like travelling like this. I’m afraid of…”

“You’ll be fine. Trust me.” Holly rubbed Katy’s arm. “Just take out your book; it’ll keep your mind off things.”

“Thanks,” Katy said. “I was worried about doing this with you, but you’re actually all right.”

Holly laughed. “Thanks, I think? I was worried too, but you’re only half as bad as I thought you’d be.”

“What?”

“I’m kidding! Valium?”

Katy smiled, but just as she reached for the mint, all of the pills flew up into the air and came crashing down on the floor as a huge bump shook everything on board. It caused the other passengers to scream and shout and grab onto whatever they could. Standing passengers fell to the floor, some landing partially on others’ seats. Hysteria spread like fire on gasoline, and it was the very smell of gasoline that had begun trickling in. The toddler cried and shouted for his mom while the baby started to wake up. Holly was glad to see that they were all right.

Katy began to cry. “I knew it. These things aren’t as safe as people think! I don’t want to die!” She plunged her back firmly into her seat and grabbed the edge of it so tightly her knuckles turned white. “This is why I hate travelling on them!” Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

The baby began crying and the little boy screamed. A second bump struck them, forcing everyone to abruptly shift forwards and then backwards. Shouting and groaning erupted from all around.

“We have to get out of here,” said Holly. “What are they doing up there? Why aren’t they using the intercom to give instructions?”

A large man in a blue uniform and hat stepped in front of the panicked mob. His black boots thudded on the floor and, acting like a gavel, silenced the passengers. His face was dark and serious, and his big arms hung casually but firmly at his sides. “Come with me,” he said. He turned around to walk away and people leapt from their seats to follow the man. Shouting, some people demanded an explanation for the disruption and others demanded a refund, to which the man did not respond. Katy got up as well but Holly thought it was strange to deal with such an accident in this way. No one knew what was going on, no one knew how bad the accident was, and yet they followed the man.

Katy shoved Holly. “Get up,” she told her. Holly obeyed, reluctantly.

Something isn’t right, Holly thought. Still, she followed the herd of people being led away from their seats. Something isn’t right at all.


Mark: 8.5/10

FCA #6: Separate Ways

Dear Globlets,

For this assignment, I was to take to lines of eavesdropped dialogue and incorporate it into a story. I had a lot of fun going out and eavesdropping on people and some of the eavesdroppings I got are ones I might use for future short stories. I love taking one thing - a piece of dialogue, an image, an object - and using it as a starting point, something to base the rest of the material off. I don't need much detail, but if I have something like that, writing comes really easy to me and it's very handy when you're out of ideas/brain-dead.

I've put the eavesdroppings in bold. This was supposed to be 2-3 pages but it turned out to be 7 when double-spaced. Actually, it might be 1.5-spaced. It's 3 pages-ish PER character. So there. I got the highest grade out of all my assignments for this one which I'm really happy about; the grade is indicated at the end of the piece.


Separate Ways

Now that Mike’s gone, this is my week to do my thing,” Sylvia told her friend on the phone, who laughed in response. “I can make it at that time. Relaxxx? The club? I’ll be there soon.” She hung up the phone and threw it on her bed. “Shit,” she said. “What am I going to wear?” Sylvia walked to her closet and flung the doors open. She began searching through her dresses and blouses; none were quite what she was looking for. “I have nothing to wear. I never have anything to wear!” She flailed her arms in the air. She grabbed several coat hangers full of eveningwear and threw them on her bed. She removed her jeans and sweater and tossed them both on the floor.

The first dress she picked was a plain black cocktail dress, cut slightly above the knee. She decided she wanted something a little sexier, something with more cleavage. The next dress was navy blue with gold buttons that were not meant to keep anything closed. Once she tried it on, she looked down at her breasts and decided that the dress was sufficiently low-cut. Picking shoes wasn’t going to be a problem; her black pumps made her long legs look amazing and they went with absolutely everything. She picked up her jewellery box from her nightstand and found a chunky gold necklace with matching earrings to wear. She walked over to her mirror to put them on. She looked at herself up and down, turned sideways, flattened her dress along her abdomen, looked at her legs and sighed. “I’m going to be cold. Fashion wins again.”

***

Mike got out of his friend’s green Dodge Durango and slammed the door behind him. He inhaled the crisp, fresh, forest air deeply and let out a sigh. “I can’t believe her sometimes, honestly.”

“Are you going to bitch about her all weekend long? I thought that’s why we came up here: to get away from nagging women,” said Mike’s best friend, Bill, as he closed his door.

“You’re right. Sorry, man. This was a good idea. Pass me a beer?”

“You’re drinking already? Whatever. I’m down.” Bill took out a red cooler from the trunk and set it on the pine needle-covered ground. He took out two beers and passed one to Mike. They opened their beers simultaneously and some foam erupted from the cans, but they managed to salvage it in time by quickly bringing the cans up to their mouths to slurp up the bitter micro-bubbles before they dripped down their hands. God forbid they would waste any. They took their duffle bags from the trunk and made their way to the log cabin in front of them.

“You know, we haven’t had sex in over two weeks,” said Mike.

Bill groaned and smacked his forehead with his free hand and asked, “What? How do you survive?” He dumped his duffle bag on the floor near the old brown couch in the small living room.

“This is serious. I have a woman that I never get to see naked, which is just stupid.” Mike chucked his bag on top of the couch.

“This is your week off from her, right? Why don’t we drive into town and visit the strip club? You’re missing titties, so we’ll get you some titties.”

“I miss getting laid.”

“We’ll work on it.”

The two men took several long sips of their beer as they stood around an old wooden coffee table that was stained with dark rings due to the absence of coasters in the cabin.

“You know what the worst part is?” Mike asked.

“What’s that?” said Bill.

“I might actually love her.”

“You need more beer.”

***

Sylvia was moving to the pulsing techno music among an ocean of young drunk people. Her long blonde hair swayed in all directions as she moved her hips back and forth. Her vision was compromised after having had numerous shots and a couple of ciders, but she was still able to pick out good-looking men to dance with. One got especially friendly with her later in the night; they danced and drank and laughed until two in the morning. Their dancing became progressively more intimate and they eventually found themselves making out against a wall in the club. His hands ran all over her body and through her hair. She pulled him close and finally he asked her if she would like to stay at his place for the night. Her head was spinning but she stared at him and smiled.
“Let’s go,” she said and they left the club.

***

“How does she even do that?” exclaimed Mike, gesturing to the mostly-naked woman who was hanging by her legs upside-down on a vertical brass pole on the stage in front of him.

“Who cares, man? Just look… Oh man,” said Bill. The two men stared and grinned while the stripper performed her erotic acrobatics for them. She slid down the pole elegantly, got on her hands and knees and began crawling like an animal towards Mike and Bill. Her bare hips swayed one way as her exposed breasts swayed the other. They began shouting and cheering her on, and she stopped to rub her hands all over her body. The stripper then crawled to the other side of the stage to please some of the other men in the club. Mike and Bill finished the last of their third round of beer.

Two women, a blonde and a brunette, approached the friends. “Would you boys be interested in drinking a couple of shots with us, by any chance?” one of them asked. They didn’t have to think about it for long; they said yes.

Sylvia walked up a set of steps behind the handsome stranger she had met at Relaxxx. He dropped his keys while attempting to insert one in the keyhole. Both he and Sylvia laughed and nearly fell back down the stairs but they regained their balance in time. He tried the key again and finally managed to unlock the door. They stumbled in. He pressed her against the wall and they began kissing once again, hands running all over each other’s bodies. Jackets, shoes, pants and underwear came off one at a time as they made their way to the bedroom. They left a trail of clothes that began at the entrance and went down the hall like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs in the forest. The house was soon filled with sounds of sex: laughs and squeals and grunts and moans. The windows in the bedroom fogged up and the alarm clock and books fell from the nightstand due to the shaking of the bed and misplacement of legs. The pulsing beat of the techno music was replaced with the pulsing beat of the headboard banging against the wall.

***

Mike dove with his mouth for the shot that was secured between the breasts of the brunette. They, along with Bill and the blonde, laughed hysterically as he gulped down the shot. Another one was placed between the woman’s breasts but this time Mike was unable to grab it in his mouth properly and he spilled it on her. He began licking and kissing the brunette’s chest, trying to slurp up as much of the liquor as he could, although he was paying more attention to the breasts than he was to the alcohol. She laughed and yanked his head back by his hair in a rough-love sort of way and kissed him. He grabbed her and they began kissing.

“Can we go back to your place?” she asked.

Mike turned to his friend who had started kissing the blonde and he tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. “Do you think I could bring this fine, foxy lady back to our cabin?”

“Are you kidding? We can’t drive. We can hardly stand up straight!” replied Bill.

“Right. I’m sorry babe,” he turned back to face the brunette. “Do you have any room at your place?”

“We’ll go to a motel,” she said.

“I’m going home with… sorry love, what’s your name again?” Bill said to the blonde.

“Candy,” she told him for the third time.

“I’m going home with Candy. I’ll see you later.” Bill made a shooting-gun motion with his hand and winked at his friend goodbye.

***

The next morning, Sylvia woke up with a headache and a sick stomach. She got out of bed slowly, just in case moving quickly would trigger an unwanted reaction and cause stomach acid to spew out of her mouth. She put her hand up to her head as if to try and stop the uncontrollable spinning she was feeling. She did not recognize the room. She saw a naked man next to her underneath the blanket and he definitely was not Mike. She looked at him and pressed her eyebrows together in confusion. A cool draft blew against her skin and she realized she was naked too; she decided to put on one of the white robes that were hanging on the closet door. Her stomach rumbled and she got up to find a bathroom, grasping her waist. After wrapping herself in the robe, she found a bathroom and the moment she saw the toilet, she ran to it, opened the lid and threw up. The naked man heard this, woke up and promptly put some pants on. He came over to see if Sylvia was okay and when he saw that she wasn’t, he went over to her and held her hair up so it would not get dirty. He rubbed her back in an attempt to settle her stomach. There was a break in Sylvia’s purging and he grabbed a nearby glass and filled it with water from the tap to give to her. Her hands were shaking, so he told her not to take it and he brought the glass up to her lips for her. Sylvia’s vomiting did not seem to faze the man very much and instead of being repulsed as she would have expected, he was helping her. She drank the water and her blue eyes started to water as she stared up at him. He took his free hand and wiped the first falling tear from her face.

***

Mike opened his eyes and was faced with a white empty pillow and a black radio clock that said 11:27AM. Without moving, he looked around the unfamiliar motel room but found no one else was there. He threw his arm to the other side of the bed and thought about the times he woke up to his beautiful Sylvia. He sighed and, thinking he was feeling well enough to stand up, he thrust himself up from the bed, turned, and sat with his legs off one side. His head throbbed and the room spun uncontrollably. He grasped his head in his hands to try and steady the spinning. Finally, he looked up and had a vague memory of an attractive brunette. She had been there with him. He got up slowly, and walked around the bed and then into the bathroom. He found no trace of a female anywhere. He sighed and searched for his pants. He picked up his jeans from the floor and, knowing he would have trouble balancing if he put them on standing up, he sat down to do it. Next, he put his shirt on but did not bother to button it up. He got up again, in search of his keys and wallet. He found his wallet but it felt lighter than usual. He opened it up. His credit cards and all the cash he had was missing, and he knew there should have been more than a few nickels and dimes left over from last night. He shoved his hands in his pockets in search of more cash but found nothing but a condom wrapper in one of them.

“That girl must have taken my shit! Goddamn it.” Mike grabbed the nearby phone and dialled Bill’s cell phone number. Luckily, this town was civilized enough to have half-decent reception, although there was a persistent crackle on the line. It rang four times and went to voicemail. Mike hung up and called Bill again. This time, Bill answered, mumbling a “Hello.”

“Check your wallet. That girl stole my shit,” said Mike.

“What?!”

“I just woke up. She’s gone now; she left this morning.

“Man, I’m sorry. Let me check to see.” Bill set the phone down and Mike could hear fumbling and groaning coming from Bill’s end. Bill shouted in frustration and picked up the phone again. “She’s got mine too. Son-of-a-bitch.”

“Do you have your keys? We’ll sort this out,” Mike said.

“So much for a week of fun. Sorry, man,” said Bill.

“Not your fault. I’ll meet you in town in an hour,” Mike said.


Mark: 9/10

Monday, November 8, 2010

I like this 46:

Dear Globlets,

I like this:

"The trouble with being punctual is that nobody's there to appreciate it."
- Franklin P. Jones


I like to be early. I hate being late. I pretty much always make it just in time even if I started out being late, even if I've waited for over half an hour for a bus that's supposed to go by every ten minutes. It's still hard for me to leave my house at the time I would prefer to leave, but I always try to. The latest I ever want to be is on time.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

FCA #5: Peter's Show-and-Tell

Dear Globlets,

This assignment was intended to make us focus on detail and setting. I was to make something impossible in the real world happen and make it seem as realistic as I could.

This was the first (and only) thing I could think of:

Peter’s Show-and-Tell

“All right, everyone! It’s time for show-and-tell!” shouted Mrs. Endersbe. “Go get your things and then come sit in a circle here. Sally! Put your shoes back on. Thank you.” The young students rushed around the classroom, smashing their chairs into desks, some ripping open their Dora the Explorer and Spiderman backpacks, their hands plunging inside them, searching for their special items to bring to the circle. Within what seemed like seconds, every child was sitting in a sloppy semi-circle on the blue carpet around Mrs. Endersbe.

“Jack,” she called, and the first presenter stood up and faced the class, his back against the blackboard. He dug his hand down the front pocket of his jeans and pulled something out which he kept enclosed in his fist.

“My show-and-tell is this really cool thing I found,” he began. “I was playing with my cat and then on the ground I found a butterfly. I thought it was cool so I brought it for my show-and-tell. Here,” Jack said as he handed the insect to Mrs. Endersbe. She seemed reluctant to take it from the boy but she did anyway. She looked down at the lifeless creature and frowned.

Looking back up to Jack she said, “This isn’t a butterfly.” Jack tilted his head in confusion. “This is a moth. How long was it in your pocket? It’s squished.”
The entire class let out a moan, “Ewwwwww!”

Jack replied, “Since yesterday. But it’s like a butterfly. Look!” He took it from the teacher and spread its wings excitedly – so excitedly that one of the grey-brown wings broke off. Some of the girls screamed but most of the class simply repeated the moan of disgust.

Jack frowned and said, “Whatever,” as he shrugged off his classmates’ disapproval and shoved the crumpled moth back into his pocket.

“Go wash your hands please, Jack,” said Mrs. Endersbe.

“Fine,” Jack frowned, tears forming in his eyes, and he trudged towards the sink with his arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“All right. Let’s see who is next. Hmm.” Mrs. Endersbe scanned her list of names.

“Here we go! Peter, you’re up.”

A small, brown-haired boy jumped up from his spot in the circle, adjusted his glasses and exclaimed, “You’re not going to believe what I brought for my show-and-tell!” His classmates looked at each other in puzzlement.

“All right, Peter. Settle down. Bring what you have to the middle of the circle here,” said Mrs. Endersbe calmly.

“No!” shouted Peter. “I can’t. I mean, it won’t fit. You have to… Just hold on. I’ll go get it.” Peter dodged tables and boxes of toys on the floor as he rushed to the window.

“Peter, what are you doing?” Mrs. Endersbe stood up from the blue plastic chair and put her hands on her hips. Peter climbed onto the counter and started opening the window as his teacher began hurrying towards him.

“Axel!” Peter shouted out the window. “Axel!” He grinned at his teacher.

“Peter, what are you… Oh my gosh!” Mrs. Endersbe gasped and raised her hands up to her mouth. Several deep, loud, stomping noises came from outside, the windows shook, and suddenly all the children were on their feet, none daring to go closer to the window. Their eyes widened in both excitement and horror. Their hands clasped in anticipation as Peter sat on the counter with an enormous toothy smile, waiting for his classmates’ jaws to drop. With everyone in the room holding their breaths, a long, soft, grey, snake-like tube came in through the window. Nearly everyone screamed, including Mrs. Endersbe.

“This is Axel. He’s my elephant!” Peter announced as he pushed his chest forward and gestured his hands as if to say, “Ta-da!”

The whole class said “Woah!” The children could only see four grey stumps, the trunk, and two white bits of tusk that were like an elephant’s equivalent of facial hair stubble. The long tube led to a large head with wide eyes and huge floppy ears, which you could only see if you looked up and out the window, for he must have been at least ten feet tall.

“Peter! How did you… what… how?!” exclaimed Mrs. Endersbe.

“I brought him for my show-and-tell because not everyone has seen an elephant yet. They have ‘em at the zoo but I thought you might like to see one in our natural habitat.”

“Peter, where did you get this elephant?” Mrs. Endersbe demanded.

“I met him at the circus. He was real friendly. He really likes peanuts too! Here, watch!” Peter took out some peanuts from his pocket and stuck his hand out in front of Axel’s trunk. The soft trunk smelled the peanuts and began searching for them. Soon it found them and in one smooth sweep, the trunk took them from Peter’s hand, came back out the window and dropped them straight into the elephant’s pink mouth.

“He’s from the circus. But my dad knows a guy and he helped us bring Axel! There he is. See?” Peter pointed at the man outside who was standing with three men behind the elephant. They were from the circus and came to make sure Axel's visit went smoothly. They waved to the class. Some of the more courageous children stepped forward and the bravest even asked to pet the animal.

“Mrs. Endersbe, can we go outside for my show-and-tell? Please?” Peter pleaded. Mrs. Endersbe, still wide-eyed and speechless, nodded.

"Okay, but don't run to Axel because you might scare him," said Peter. All the youngsters threw up their hands and shouted “Yay!” as they ran out the classroom door towards the four men. The men told the children they could go up two-by-two if they wanted to pet Axel’s trunk. The girls giggled and some of the boys stepped forward to pet the elephant. Peter had grabbed Mrs. Endersbe’s hand and pulled her outside of the classroom. She looked at the men in confusion, but before they could explain to her how they managed to arrange the visit, Peter took her hand and gently put in it some of the remaining peanuts from his pocket. Mrs. Endersbe's hand shook as the peanuts fell from Peter's small hand into hers.

“Put your hand out like this, Mrs. Endersbe,” said Peter as he demonstrated how to hold out her hand. The other children stepped back, giving their teacher and the elephant some space. Without a word she lifted her trembling hand towards Axel. Peter nodded and smiled at her. Axel’s trunk came swooping towards the small human hand and gently took the peanuts from it. Mrs. Endersbe held her breath when it touched her skin and exhaled once Axel opened his pink mouth to quietly gobble up the peanuts. Everybody stared at the two, waiting for a reaction. No one moved. Finally, Mrs. Endersbe blinked.

“He’s… so soft!” exclaimed Mrs. Endersbe and everyone smiled at them. “Peter, do you have more peanuts?” she asked.

“Sure, I do!” he replied and ran back into the classroom to fetch some.

That day, Axel got to see humans in their natural habitat, Mrs. Endersbe fed Axel at least fifteen peanuts and got a free pass to the circus, and it was decided that Peter had given the best show-and-tell ever.


Mark: 8.7/10