Hard floors and white sheets
Linen curtains and a ceiling fan
murmuring on low
She lies on her stomach with
sweat pooling slowly in the small of her back,
brow knotted,
while I fix something simple at the stove
June 29, 2009
June 19, 2009
more crap
so i've been meaning to rant for some time now about how unbelievably furious i get when people misuse the word "actually". as in: you play them some awesome song that no one could possibly dislike and they say "that's really good actually!"
but then some upstart blogger beat me to it. so anyway i'm going to shit out a couple of other word-use phenomena that've been making me increasingly angry before someone beats me to it:
(1) "Random"-- i don't feel like fully exploring how badly most people my age butcher the meaning of random. I'll just say this: those 25 Random Things i read About You on Facebook last January were NOT random. pretty much the exact opposite actually.
(2) "Literally"-- So I guess it's become vogue to point out/make fun when people misuse "literally". As in, "I literally shit a brick" or whatever. But like, isn't this just hyperbole? And really clever hyperbole at that?
I read something recently (Slate?) about how this use of "literally" bothers people, but no one ever cares when people use "really" in exactly the same way. As in, "the UVa baseball team really fucked the dog last night". No one is like, "really? they REALLY fucked the dog last night??" But it's the same shit.
It's the same shit.
but then some upstart blogger beat me to it. so anyway i'm going to shit out a couple of other word-use phenomena that've been making me increasingly angry before someone beats me to it:
(1) "Random"-- i don't feel like fully exploring how badly most people my age butcher the meaning of random. I'll just say this: those 25 Random Things i read About You on Facebook last January were NOT random. pretty much the exact opposite actually.
(2) "Literally"-- So I guess it's become vogue to point out/make fun when people misuse "literally". As in, "I literally shit a brick" or whatever. But like, isn't this just hyperbole? And really clever hyperbole at that?
I read something recently (Slate?) about how this use of "literally" bothers people, but no one ever cares when people use "really" in exactly the same way. As in, "the UVa baseball team really fucked the dog last night". No one is like, "really? they REALLY fucked the dog last night??" But it's the same shit.
It's the same shit.
June 11, 2009
Not Quite Blogworthy, Part Three
Ironies:
Really scraping the bottom of the barrel here.
- Liking Peyton Manning more since he won the Super Bowl
- Everybody loves robots, but everybody hates the Fox NFL robot
- Hate karaoke, love singing in Rock Band (not sure this is irony)
- I love watching TV more than anything in the world, but I hate TVs in taxicabs. I've got nothing better to do when I'm in a cab, but I still fly into a blind rage every time the TV comes on.
Really scraping the bottom of the barrel here.
Not Quite Blogworthy, Part Two
I was too big of a pussy to have a rebellious streak. The one thing I can remember doing was lighting a fire in a metal trashcan in my basement as a fourteen year old. It quickly set off the fire alarm upstairs and the last thing I remember about it was crying to my parents.
I was burning pages out of an old Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Weeks earlier I had cut out all the pages with models on them and thrown the rest of the magazine away. One day I came home and decided I couldn't bear the risk of embarrassment if someone found the pictures so I decided to burn them.
I didn't want to do it outside for fear of torching the whole neighborhood like my brother almost did with some fireworks a few years earlier. Eventually I decided the Donald Duck wastebasket in my bedroom was safe enough because it was metal, but I also brought a bucket of water down from the garage just in case. Then I lit a match.
So anyway I'm on the white couch upstairs with my mom and my stepdad and I'm crying. But the thing is I didn't actually want to cry; the whole thing was kind of a charade. After the alarm went off and I knew I'd be in trouble, I calculated that crying would make my parents think something Serious or Important had just happened and I'd be better off in the long run if I were shown some compassion instead of being punished for almost burning down their fucking house.
And I guess it worked. I'm sure I got some nominal punishment, but I don't remember it. What I do remember was Mom asking if I was burning something important and that she would show me how to use the shredder in her office if I needed to get rid of anything sensitive. But I just lied and said I wasn't burning anything in particular, that I just wanted to see what it looked like.
Apparently I was more afraid of being exposed as a masturbator than I was of my parents thinking I was one of those dead-eyed pale kids who light shit on fire for no reason.
I was burning pages out of an old Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Weeks earlier I had cut out all the pages with models on them and thrown the rest of the magazine away. One day I came home and decided I couldn't bear the risk of embarrassment if someone found the pictures so I decided to burn them.
I didn't want to do it outside for fear of torching the whole neighborhood like my brother almost did with some fireworks a few years earlier. Eventually I decided the Donald Duck wastebasket in my bedroom was safe enough because it was metal, but I also brought a bucket of water down from the garage just in case. Then I lit a match.
So anyway I'm on the white couch upstairs with my mom and my stepdad and I'm crying. But the thing is I didn't actually want to cry; the whole thing was kind of a charade. After the alarm went off and I knew I'd be in trouble, I calculated that crying would make my parents think something Serious or Important had just happened and I'd be better off in the long run if I were shown some compassion instead of being punished for almost burning down their fucking house.
And I guess it worked. I'm sure I got some nominal punishment, but I don't remember it. What I do remember was Mom asking if I was burning something important and that she would show me how to use the shredder in her office if I needed to get rid of anything sensitive. But I just lied and said I wasn't burning anything in particular, that I just wanted to see what it looked like.
Apparently I was more afraid of being exposed as a masturbator than I was of my parents thinking I was one of those dead-eyed pale kids who light shit on fire for no reason.
June 9, 2009
Not Quite Blogworthy, Part One
[NB: Here's the first of a few entries I worked on recently but eventually gave up on. The lack of blogworthiness should be readily apparent.]
So you know that part in The Omnivore's Dilemma where he tries being a vegetarian for a while, and the first objection he has is how awkward it is to attend a dinner party because either you tell the hosts ahead of time and you feel guilty about making them go out of their way to make you something special or you don't tell them ahead of time and then THEY feel guilty because you don't eat anything all night?
Fine. But remember all this comes from a guy who advocates eating locally- and organically-produced food. Which anyone with an asshole can tell you is way harder for the average host to accommodate than a simple fucking pasta salad.
So you know that part in The Omnivore's Dilemma where he tries being a vegetarian for a while, and the first objection he has is how awkward it is to attend a dinner party because either you tell the hosts ahead of time and you feel guilty about making them go out of their way to make you something special or you don't tell them ahead of time and then THEY feel guilty because you don't eat anything all night?
Fine. But remember all this comes from a guy who advocates eating locally- and organically-produced food. Which anyone with an asshole can tell you is way harder for the average host to accommodate than a simple fucking pasta salad.
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