Gin-soaked buoy

The Field of Dreams 

I think deep down where it's damp and cold, there - where fungi make attempts to thrive.......I'm very scared. I'm afraid to be forgotten.

But I have an awesome family and supercool friends. They'll either rot with me or will salve the wounds that run deep so they heal faster. I love them. So sober or not I know eventually I'll be fine.

I'll be great. They're my fungicide. They're like the radiator heat. They're the dehumidfiying stones. They make things warm, dry and fungus free.
People in my life - YOU ROCK!

Kudos to you for dealing with me and staying upbeat through it all!

Cosmos and kamakazis

A while ago i got drunk.
It was fun times.
I even pretended to have a hang-over the next day.
Any excuse to pick a fight with your roomies is a good one, right?
And I found this entry shrugged off, in the corner of an archive in some half-assed mostly obsolete online journal.
I don't consider it as bad a piece of writing as normally...and thus reasons to preclude this from this study in how NOT to blog evade me, yet.


De-evil 

So I got drunk yesterday.
It was fun I say.
Fun fun fun.

I'm a friendly drunk. Really I am. I made friends and everything. yesterday.
I don't remember them. Today. But i made friends. And how.

I'm a conversationally inclined drunk. It appears that way (grammactually - it WOULD appear that way). Didn't even know it. Tell you what - you lil punk(s) out there that believe in the absoluteness of the Carpe Diem - I'm with party. Bring it on.

Seriously. I was pretty pissed with life and biteful, hateful emotions – naught made sense I say. Until I got drunk and saw the - what shall we call it - the right of my ways?

Yes, the right of my ways. I was able to JUSTIFY.

Follows herewith that very same epiphany I had when drunk was me - hec, if you aren't resentful of something - you aren't going to be able to appreciate a first-rate thing when it comes your way. Isn't that a delicious piece of wholesome advice-ish-sounding bs?

Alcohol just makes so much more sense.
Or sense is made when alcohol is had.

Hmmm. Haiku!

The fuzzy logic thing had me. Really had me in the big heart-a-roo yesterday. I was spun around by the absolute magic that is alcohol. It had me hot and bothered yesterday. Yes men, all the one of you reading this highly inaccessible piece of worthless muck journal writing – I was turned ON. And how.

Men are so predictable and that wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t just as easy to manipulate. Alls you gotta say is “I’m so fucked up” and they come running – drawn by a will unlike another quite like a moth to a flame. Moth. Flame. BIG BURNING carcass of a moth. Heh. Nice analogy Vin. NICE.

I think I might still be a lil drunk. I was slightly over tipsy and under plastered yesterday.

5 drinks (2 cosmos, 1 Kamikaze, ½ rum and coke, 2 tequila shots) and I was piss-assed drunk. I was happy-lets party drunk. I was I wanna lay the next guy that comes around the corner drunk. Not the pajama washed-stumbling bumbling idiot drunk. But pretty decently sloshed.

Proud am I of such unwarranted drunkeness. You can almost tell it was worth it. But you had to be there to really KNOW how exemplarily drunk I was. It was one of those things.


Faerie Breath 

Weak Weeks and lesser evils

I've certainly been having quite a week.
It's been most unusual.
I think I'm on the verge of a break-through.

Just can't pinpoint what exactly I'm on the verge of breaking-through.
But I'll break through with panache, that I guarantee my scant audience.

Speaking of scantiness, this is like the bleakest time of my life - colorwise.
I feel very, um, gray. Like that song by the Dave Matthews Band. Grey Street.

I live on Grey Street. It's literally gray...isn't it irritating the way I jangle back and forth between the different spellings of grey/gray. I JANGLE. Heh. That's quite irritating too.

So anyways - On Wednesday, I was sooooooooo bored...i got a haircut. And by a hair cut I mean a HAIR CUT. As in definite snips and CUTs, no measly trims or any such merry scissor actions. Hard core snips, so hard they actually snapped.

Here's the aftermath.

It got labeled - "drastic". That's the aftermath.
Drastic.


hair-cuttery

Hmm, there are positive connotations to the word. Aren't there?
After all these people hitting on me can't be becoz it looks so godawful. Can it?
So what if "all these people" aren't exactly my favorite people in the world?
So what if "all these people" remind of a time when "all these people" kinds were not included in my list of admirers.
So what?
That's my new rallying cry. So What?!

So I can't exactly say that I have had a past of bountiful hair-cutting experiences.
There's a sad story if ever there was one.
I once let my little brother cut my hair.
Tragedy struck.


Ancient Horrors

Of hobbits and long legs...

My patch of grass is a mound upside down 

I hate tall people.
With their long legs and long torsoes. Ugh.
What an atrocity on the senses!

This obtuse quality of tallness is detestable.
Of all the hateful things tall people are the most detestable.

A hatred so ill-founded and completely superficial is but a characteristic of hobbits.

Which is what I've metamorphed into - as I'm dimunitive, apparently can't be heard coming in or out of doors and live in a hole UNDER the ground with a lil meditation space equipped window.


Hobbit-Hole 

Not to worry, am bound to grow hairy feet soon or later.
Not to worry.

I shall call myself Greta Bobbitson and be eventually referred to as "Greta the Great" once I've conquered the evil that bequeaths minimalistic jewellery.

So I shall be forever on jewellery centered quests that shall involve wise white haired wizards, lovely looking elves and large golden eyes. And loads and loads of special effects. All very magical.

It sounds very nice. Very fairytale like. Mmmmm...

Dog-kings and masters of disaster

The world is round and makes no tumbling sense.

I knew a person once, who thought they cared.
But they didn't. And it was very sad for all parties involved.

Which got me thinking, as rational selfish beings, are we capable of genuine emotion and amour? Not to be confused with Lust and infatuation. Or are we so jaded, and disillusioned by the phoniness that we refuse to care, refuse to acknowledge it? Have we aged before time? Has the fatuuity of our predecessors made us unwisely wizened to the folly that is love?

That we are now bred to un-care and suspect?
That it might now actually be a forte not a fault to not look for love?
To look for temporary do-overs?
That we might actually be looking for it unmitigated by shame.


Xontemplative 

Usher in the age of commitment-phobia.

So what'll it be?
a) A helping of - As long as you aren't in a position to hurt me - I'll pretend to care about you?
b) Or a dash of - as long as I think you fulfill certain criteria in my chargesheet for love - you can be a marginal part of my life?

Living on the edge, this reminds me of.

Are we are so unsure of getting it back that we refuse to put it out there at all.
We can't bear to risk pain. No matter what the benefits.

Is that what care has been whittled down to? Need-based affection?

We demand and expect painless living and if it doesn't deliver and then with a wave of the hand and whoosh of wind it's all gone.

Is it possible, despite all the de-sexifying talk above, that everything in your body be screaming unreasonably for something that it shouldn't be. Are you allowed to be quixotic and passionate anymore? Or are you stereotyped if you are?

How infallible is this crushing emotion?
Masochism is what it's seems like.
Unbearable pain is what it feels like.
An Addiction is what it probably is.

segue. segue. segue. Must learn how to segue. sway and segue into conversations.


Dreamless