I have a note, scribbled in Sharpie, taped in a journal:
“I don’t run away. I just get lost at high speeds.”
Why I wrote it and what it was supposed to remind me of I’ve completely forgotten.There’s nothing nearby to give it context. It’s just there, a motto keeping company with a mob of unrelated words.
I need motion. Forced to remain still for any length of time, unless my mind is busy enough to satisfy my restlessness, makes me panic. I start hunching down and fidgeting. My eyes dart around as I look for any reason to jump up, anything to break the monotony.Once upon a time, I could jump in the car and drive until I was calm again. That was months ago.
Anyone who has ever been in a car with me for any length of time knows that I use cars for more than basic transportation. They are tools for both expression and relief. Those unused to this and doesn’t trust both my reflexes and knowledge of my own limits, faced with my operation of a vehicle under the influence of any intense emotion, often ends up white knuckled and bug-eyed. For some reason though, they almost never criticize or suggest a bit more caution on my part.
In a couple hours, I’ll be heading to Greensboro…Not an exotic trip full of new experiences or anything.I’ve made it so many times…births, deaths, vacations. Add in work and I’d have all the makings of the American Dream.I can drive in while I sit here. I AM driving it while I sit here, fantasizing about four hours of mobility.
Of course it starts with the familiar swamps, tiny Elizabeth City, enough to get used to driving again.
The bridge across Albemarle Sound is where I relax, assured that my world has not been transformed into a snow globe while I wasn’t looking, that I won’t be slam into curved glass and find myself suddenly swimming in glitter. This is the bridge where I used to always roll the window down when I was coming home, even in the dead of winter. My first gulps of that water smell, air with texture. On the way back across the state I’d enact the same ritual, saying goodbye to real bodies of water.
Windsor. When I know I’m going somewhere. Times like these when I feel like I’m living life with my foot caught in a bear trap, it’s the first place I breathe freely on my way away from this home.
Still, this is the beginning of the part I hate the most. No bypass to keep Williamston at 45 mph from depressing me. No more swamps and sounds, and even in summer it feels dead to me. Steinbeck and Faulkner start quoting themselves in my head.
“My mother is a fish.”
Thank god I no longer have to rely on radio stations. The lack thereof made the stretch seem longer and even more dead. I remember one late night drive when we found a bluegrass station and got so excited that we missed an exit and almost ended up in fucking Manteo.
While I’m being thankful, thank God for all those new unfamiliar bypasses that let me avoid every familiar town west of Windsor.
With Faulkner finally drinking himself to sleep, I’ll be sliding north of Rocky Mount, pushing 85 and not thinking of stopping, not even for that Waffle House with its memories of gallons of coffee that kept me conscious for the last leg home from somewhere. Fuck memories and fuck a waffle too…I get started with the memories and, if this were my car (my dog was in the passenger seat and the cats were in the back), that northwest swerve would turn into an exit.
95 South as far as it will take me.
The waffles, even the coffee, just ain’t worth having to say: Oops, got lost again! A record two months for a five hour drive. You know how it goes…
So those are the rules. No stopping or thinking, unless that thought is, “Can I get away with 90?”
Driving is all numbers.
No more than 15 over.
17 to 64.
Going 110 in a 70.
2 hours to go.
Gonna make it by 10.
What was that whole thing about math being a pure language or some shit? Seems significant in this context.Fuck it.
Zebulon! Founded by aliens in 1742, a place where they could practice their strange faiths and antenna binding without fear of persecution as witches in the name of God and, more recntly, dissection by NASA in the name of science. They’re completely safe because, well, no one stops in Zebulon.
So it’s safe for me to stop here too…if I can just find a fucking Waffle House. Surely aliens eat waffles too.
Past Raleigh, past bars I’m banned from, streets that I swear pitch and wobble because I know that couldn’t have all been me. Chapel Hill, The Dean Dome, a pilgrimage I’ve yet to make but, for once, won’t be tempted by. After last year’s team of schizophrenics lacking even basic proprioception, I’d only stop to wail and rend my garments.I have few enough winter clothes as it is.
440 to 40…MY interstate. 64 miles of nothing on my mind but avoiding exhausted truckers kept sentient only by enviable amounts of speed and the rhythm of a hooker’s head on the steering wheel.
I wonder if truckers carry iPods now.
Too soon, there are those hills that actually feel like hills and the inevitable watery eyed sneezing that let me know I’m officially in That Part of the State, the never-ending traffic that ends my high-speed oblivion a good 30 miles before the Stopping Part.
No Asheville, Nashville, Knoxville, Memphis. At least that means no Arkansas or Oklahoma, but damn I’ve been desperate to see desert for months now. No clue why.
But I’ll force the fantasy to stop here, if for no other reason than that I need to pack and dog-proof the house.
For awhile after I make the trip back home (probably as a hung-over, grumbling passenger hunkered down behind sunglasses) I’ll only get my fix on the occasional nighttime, near suicidal runs through the un-populated roads of Camden…Windows rolled down, laughing and dressing up narrow two-lane roads as interstates.
But it’s not time to think of that yet.
No forethought has officially been added to my list of rules.
This has been a good year for drunk thoughts--They fill slightly over five pages (12 pt, Times New Roman).
This does not mean that I have consumed more intoxicants than in previous years. Actually, now that I think about it, a disturbing number of these were recorded in a state of relative sobriety.
I’m sure that the resurrection of my tendency to carry at least one notebook wherever I go has been great for actually remembering the quotes that didn’t occur near my computer. Only a few have been lost to salt water and/or the effect of impaired motor skills on handwriting.
So, three and a half cheers for the extra doses of weird. Huzzah, motherfuckers!
Beyond this personal renaissance of recorded babbling, a particularly happy thing for me is how much “Drunk Thoughts” has become a social circle phenomena.
As early as 2003, yelling, “Drunk thought!” when someone said something odd/peculiarly profound/outright stupid/etc had already become habitual with a few of us “in the know” people...even if we weren’t in a position to write them down or, often largely because of our intoxicated states, simply forgot to.
But, as people have observed this phenomena and naturally questioned why we were scribbling down/typing things they said (in addition to pointing at them, yelling in unison and laughing), the practice has become known to most people I’m around on an even semi-regular basis.
I guess it has officially become a tradition. This warms my heart.
Okay, enough misty-eyed sentimentality. Here they are...
***( Drunk Thoughts: The Current FileCollapse )
Ever wonder what it would be like to be completely honest with a government agency?
I'm almost considering sending this...possibly written in crayon.
As part of the written evaluation used to determine my ability to work, you asked what I do from the time I get up until the time I go to sleep.
I had every intention of completing this evaluation today (the same intention I had yesterday...and the day before) so I guess you can also cross-reference this answer under the question, “Are you able to complete tasks...?"
I have been absolutely stumped by this question of what my day consists of. As you well know, I'm jobless. I completely lack any framework which would give my day structure. Without a concrete plot line, I'm having trouble giving the vaguest idea of what a typical day is like in my world.
"Having trouble" is my way of saying that I've been staring at this question off and on for three fucking days and am no closer to answering it than when I started.
Having come to a complete stalemate in my wrestling match with more traditional methods of answering your question, I decided to try a new tactic--Essentially, writing about a day which has largely revolved around your forms and questions. Hopefully in the process I can both answer some of these questions and explain why this whole method is just not working for me.
I have an entire pot of coffee (plus a few of those nifty “black coffee shots” that you’re supposed to drink no more than two of a day) gnawing its way through my stomach lining and I am properly (if illegally) medicated with the dosage of amphetamines that supposedly helps me concentrate. Consequently, though I’ve been awake for close to 24 hours, I’m not sure at what point I will no longer be awake.
Generally, I sleep when I realize my eyes are refusing to focus, when I run low on cigarettes or when something bothers me to the point I decide that consciousness should be avoided at all cost. If one of the latter two reasons is the impetus for me to drag myself to bed (or to the couch, depending on my mood), I will probably lay there for an hour or two dwelling on something important like whether or not time exists or how depressing it is that I can’t even seem to complete my crazy person paperwork.
If I’m having a particularly loony day, I may get up several times, pace, smoke more, drink bladder-bursting amounts of tea while muttering to myself. Sometimes, if this goes on for too long, I rummage through the medicine cabinet (backpack, cabinets in general, under couch cushions, extra stash upstairs...) in search of sedatives and usually end up taking something or other that, coupled with exhaustion, knocks me out for 14-16 hours.
This makes me a complete time whore. I sleep my way around the clock, am completely indiscriminate. I recognize that this is aberrant behavior and can probably be found in the DSM as some sort of insomnia-related paraphilia, which should add another layer of validity to my already well-founded claim.
I’m fighting the temptation to see if there’s a word for “clock fetish” that I can combine with “pan-" and “somnolence” to make a yet another inside-joke word for myself.
...I wonder how much my attention span has decreased since the advent of Google.
Alright. I need to put the brakes on here. Besides being a little off topic, I’m way ahead of myself...( Let's try for something like chronological order here.Collapse )
**I started writing this rant this morning but temporarily abandoned it to visit with the family and enjoy the accompanying laundry privileges.
I had every intention of finishing it tonight and am still determined to do so, in spite of my dog having sabotaged my righteously indignant tone.
I walked in tonight and did my usual immediate survey of the house for damage Dara might have done in my absence.
I saw that the entirety of the downstairs was speckled with white powder. Even though, being accustomed to such puzzles, my brain immediately registered, “Shit. Bitch ate my coffee creamer,” I was overwhelmed with hilarity at the spectacle of her usual greeting--Jumping a good four feet in the air repeatedly...this time with her ecstatically grinning face thickly ringed in white powder.
I felt like I’d interrupted an incredibly sloppy canine coke binge. I haven’t seen anything close to that since I was in college.
So, if I finish this off a little weakly, it’s because I just finished scrubbing coffee creamer off the floors and I’m still suffering from the occasional fit of giggles.**
But, I am nothing if not persistent so, even though it now feels a little anticlimactic...
Part of my usual morning routine is to watch the previous evening’s news while I drink my coffee and orient myself to waking reality.
This morning I fed the dog and put her outside, went to the MSNBC site and flopped down on the couch. I made it about 5 minutes before stumbling back across the room to turn it off.
The main story for the day was whether or not the much discussed Quran burning by the “Dove World Outreach Center” will go forward. I’ve been sick of this story since pretty much the day after it first aired with all the gung-ho media outrage we’ve come to know and...have our own opinions of.
My own feelings on the subject have largely been split between eye-roll inducing annoyance at the surfeit of media coverage of a church that consists of approximately 50 bigots and indignation at this example of our own clueless, fucked priorities as a society...Not to mention my usual naive bafflement that people can have so little sense.
First, a silver lining:
This made me realize that book burnings are officially obsolete.
I was happy to see several friends on facebook “attending” an event called “Burn the Quran...to CD” as well as quite a few “You know it IS available on Kindle” jokes.
Granted, some historic incidents of “media burning” (the old school version) still make me happy (E.g. Disco Demolition Night
But really, since book burnings once served to both intimidate dissidents AND limit access to materials considering threatening to a given group, it’s good to know that the latter half of that effect is obsolete and the former is certainly questionable.
So now, these acts make these fucktards look medieval...or at least like an antique bunch of strychnine gulping, snake handling loonies foolish enough to follow the lead of a pastor with horrifying mutton chops.
Realizations such as these are what keep me from becoming a complete
Luddite. Okay, before I go any further: I in no way condone, let alone approve of, this act. I hate intolerance. I love books.
Of course, as someone who believes in free speech no matter what the cost, I would defend to the death these whackos' right to burn any book they want (except those that are beautifully bound, first editions, those of great historical importance, etc...) and spout whatever hate-filled gibberish crosses their inbreeding-addled minds.
Granted, in this case, I wouldn’t mind a few casualties on my own admittedly reluctant side of the battle and I also feel I have the right to call people out for being morons, but still...
But yeah, the media reaction to this relatively insignificant act has annoyed the hell out of me...
I am sick of hearing about how this will “put our troops in danger” by giving the radical Muslim world a symbol to rally around.
I’d like to email a huge tip to some promising, hungry upstart reporters, the makings of an expose that could make their careers by its shocking, previously unreported nature: Muslims can use the internet too!
It is not against their religion. You're thinking of the Amish.
They haven’t all had their hands cut off for thievery. Those reports of masses of angry, ill-informed, handless Muslims are an urban legend.
I’m sure there is no significant difference between Muslims and non-Muslims in ability to comprehend and make use of technology, though I can’t quote statistics to back up this assertion They are no less intelligent or technologically able than people of other religions.
Google does not have a “No Muslims May Search” policy.
So, I have no doubt that some random extremist looking for a good excuse to fly a plane into a building (or just in need of fresh religious propaganda) could easily make use of the internet to find images (or even video!) of the recent “Ground Zero Protest.” Those infamous images from Abu Ghraib and reports of prisoner abuses/denial of basic civil rights from various “detention centers” are still widely available.
Hell, they could even do what I did a few minutes ago; Type in “Anti-Muslim Violence” and find any number of reports of much more violent anti-Muslim hate crimes. I found this link
on the very first page of search results! Lots of fodder for "Anti-American sentiment" there.
Christ! Seven years of war (not to mention all our previous violent meddling in the Middle East) is enough in itself to generate Muslim outrage (and, in an ideal world, outrage from people in general).
So, with all this mutton-chop free fodder out there, how is a single backward, disgusting act by a small group of Christian extremists really going to “put our troops in danger” and do that
much damage to our international reputation?
If so, perhaps the question asked by the media should be more along the lines of, “Why is our position so precarious and what does that say about our actions as a country on a larger scale?
But, even “liberal” commentators, who should have the balls to point out the flaws in this logic, have picked up this reasoning and run with it instead of questioning the idea that we must protect the troops who protect our freedoms...by forgoing those freedoms and insisting that others do the same.
(That sentence hurt my brain...real bad.)
Beyond the annoyance of convoluted logic, I see the entire argument as cowardly. It seems like we always have to hide behind some concrete effect as a reason why we think people shouldn’t do something.
This will endanger people! It’s a matter of national security! Puppies will die!
It’s like we’re terrified of asserting simple moral judgment calls (How passe and reactionary!)...We can’t just say that we find such acts distasteful, barbaric and...*gasp*...wrong.
No. Moral judgments should be left to the book burners. OUR opinions are founded in logic and are therefore superior...not to be judgmental or anything, of course.
...As in the stable boys are on the verge of striking for hazard pay.
Some things are just fucked up and, yes, wrong.
But there's something even more important to think about here...
What I keep asking is, “Why the hell has this little group of hick zealots dominated most of a news cycle?”
Why do they merit calls from the president, secretary of defense, etc? Why are they treated like honored ambassadors from The Land of Crazy?
If you go with that whole “endangering the troops” argument, doesn’t that make every news organization equally guilty?
Do they think their stern censures and carefully crafted arguments against such acts are going to teach these people a measure of decency and respect?
...But it is
teaching them (and all the fruitcakes of their ilk) a big lesson.
It's a lesson that most parents can tell you about from first-hand experience. It’s the same thing a wailing toddler learns when a parent gives in and does whatever it takes to shut the little bastard up: This will get me attention! When I want attention, I'll be obnoxious!
Those same parents could also tell you that the best way to deal with those tantrums is to ignore the kid until it learns that throwing a fit doesn’t get them a damned thing other than being ignored.
Well okay, sometimes a good ass-busting is necessary...but it doesn’t fit with my metaphor. Unfortunately, freedom of speech does not allow me to give these people long overdue corporal punishment.
Another, probably more apt example then...
Awhile back, the NSM decided our little backwoods Southern town was a perfect spot to set up an office.
Of course the local newspaper ran a few stories/editorials on this, including quotes from our new neighbors about the “strong support” they have here.
There was some indignation from people here of course but, at least amongst people I know, there was also some head-shaking amusement.
“You know any Nazis?...Me either...Wonder where they’ve been hiding themselves.”
“Fuck, if nothing else, people here are damn sure not into goose-stepping. That’s a lot of energy wasted on walking funny.”
They made the news again when they decided that a parade/rally was a sure-fire way to get attention.
Again, a couple of stories in the newspaper. Again, annoyance amongst the locals, somewhat overwhelmed by a stronger feeling of, “You’re shittin’ me, right?”
Anyway, they had their parade...about twenty ragged rednecks with swastikas and all that shock-factor crap trotting down Main Street, looking bewildered.
Bewildered? Were they lost? Why bewildered?
Because other than a couple bored reporters and a few folks engaging in the time-honored rural pastime of “weird-watching,” no one showed up.
No confrontations. No supporters or counter-demonstrations (Counter parades! There's an amusing plan!). No television cameras.
Without any of those trappings, they looked pretty silly.
After a couple months (...and a couple acts of vandalism that had to have been pretty inconvenient for them), they slunk off to wherever they came from.
Lesson learned? That shit don’t fly here. You’re beneath our contempt and not worth our energy. Being the polite, well-raised people we are, we aren’t going to force you out or anything...
But no way in hell will we give you the attention you’re so obviously begging for...and one morning you might find yourself having to clean up broken glass and spoiled meat products.
You get the idea.
These people are mental and ethical toddlers with fucked up haircuts. Don’t reward them for bad behavior.
Or, to put it another way, fuck those ignorant shit birds. I’ve got a coffee creamer covered dog in need of scrubbing.
Having one’s priorities in order is indeed important.
A couple quick notes (see previous post
for all other points of interest):
1. Rob has claimed his drunk thoughts. Thanks to his bravery, these posts feel much more complete.
2. Hereafter, anyone referred to by name within a quote shall be known as "Jim".
2005 being largely lost to the afore mentioned "act of god" and 2006-2009 showing a serious decline in the number of drunk thoughts (at least recorded ones), this is a relatively short list.
Still, good times...
***( Drunk Thoughts: The Dark AgesCollapse )
Two down, one to go...
Well, he LOOKS intimidating.
He's moving fast (17 mph), a category four with sustained winds of 145 mph. Hurricane winds extend 90 miles from the center, tropical storm winds 230 miles.
The beach has been evacuated...Shitty timing for us to lose our last big weekend of profits in this economy. State of emergency declared...National Guard called up...all that.
I'm sure there's not a loaf of bread to be found in three counties.
I don't know for sure, but I was told that they handed out those "in case we find your bloated corpse" bracelets on Ocracoke. Sick as it sounds, I've always wanted one of those to keep as a souvenir.
Currituck county suspended alcohol sales. Since my whiskey stash is long gone, I can't help but wonder if Pasquotank was equally cruel. If so, I hope locals had the forethought to take "Port Condition Whiskey" seriously. The idea of a bunch of dry hurricane parties makes my heart hurt...That would be worse than a Methodist wedding with an alcohol-free reception.
Nevertheless, it seems that no news or weather service can decide whether we're going to get a bit of drizzle and wind or a giant mass of watery doom. I guess it all depends on those little turns and wobbles they always make right before Hatteras. I've given up on trying to make predictions. At this point I just shrug and say, "Well, it's not like we're going to be in suspense much longer."
I did indeed spend my birthday preparing for the storm...probably insuring in the process that we won't get shit out of it.
I didn't do anything major...no boarding up windows or the like. I just cleaned up in case people in trailers and such needed to evacuate here and so that, should we be without power for a few days, the house won't be completely
Dug out candles/flashlights...filled water jugs...all that good stuff.
Today all I have to do is bring potential projectiles inside, make enough tea and coffee to keep me caffeinated through any power outages and remember to check my mail.
I only slept about three hours. Hurricanes do that to me...I guess I react to the general feeling of anticipation in the air.
It's overcast and there's almost no wind. We've had that pre-thunderstorm feel for a couple days. My nose is stuffy and my ears keep popping from the pressure drop.
I wonder if, before TV and radio, people here paid attention to these things and knew what they meant.
Other than my pained sinuses, it's a good feeling.
Seeing pictures/video from the beach has me wishing I had a working car (more than usual). I'd brave evacuation traffic to see the ocean right now...would love to stand out on one of the piers and feel the spray hit me.
As it is, I drink coffee and look at satellite images. Soon I'll get my ass in gear and do the last little bit of work to be done.
After that...it's just a matter of keeping myself entertained.
Maybe I'll play Monopoly with myself. More probably I'll sit on the porch and feel the pre-storm goodness.
Edit 11:33 am: Earl covers about 166,000 square miles, larger than the state of California. That, my friends, fucking rocks!
I woke up to this post from ladyheatherlly
. It made me grin and cry and laugh.
This girl really is the most awesome friend ever so I just have to share the latest way she made me feel incredibly loved:( Top One Hundred Reasons That I'm The Shit!Collapse )
To be thought of that highly by even one person in the world, especially such an awesome person (yes, I said especially...*giggle*) makes me feel like I can't have done too badly over the last 31 years.
That feeling is a damn good birthday present.
Yes, I am MORE than sassified!
To everyone not referred to in this post, my apologies for interrupting your internet experience to bring you fail.
To the person referred to in this post:
When you first contacted me on Facebook, I did not respond to the message and blocked you from contacting me on that site.
I have ignored subsequent contact as well. Obviously, I am no longer ignoring it.
I would suggest that after reading this you navigate away from this page and never again attempt to spy on my life/contact me via any social networking site or by any other method.
That is not just advice; That is a formal request that you do not
contact me in any way at any point in time. Neither is it the first such request.
Thus, should any such contact occur, my response will not be to you. It will be reported as cyber-stalking to your ISP and the proper authorities.
How is that possible?
Brief explanation. This is you.
You should know...
Because of "people" like yourself, I use IP tracking/logging wherever I am publicly accessible on the internet, and will continue to do so indefinitely. Every time you have been here in the last three months has been logged.
Should you begin using an internet connection/computer that does not belong to you or is not exclusive to your personal residence, rendering the above information slightly
less useful, I should also warn you that this info would not be essential
should I choose to pursue this issue further.
The messages you have sent, including the two where you have explicitly referred to yourself as "stalking" me have been saved in both their original form online and in screen captures.
I don't believe that any further explanation is necessary.**This public service announcement has been brought to you by "You Done Fucked Up". Please do not respond. However, disregarding the content of this message will bring repercussions.**
DEFINITELY my song of the moment. It makes everything okay...
...And though there's a pain in my chest
I still wish you the best, with a...
I pity the fool that falls in love with you
Well, I’ve got some news for you.
...I really hate yo' ass right now.
Yeah, I could listen to that shit all day.
Going to the siblings' to hang out/do laundry today. I'm actually excited by this...Between tutoring Jade and making use of their plumbing, I'd gotten used to seeing them quite regularly so now that I'm not able to drive, I miss them.
Admittedly, I'm also excited about having clean socks.
I couldn't sleep again. (Btw, this insomnia thing has GOT to stop soon so I'll quit with the excessive posting all over the internet and sending people frantic emails about marmalade at odd hours.)
Anyway, I was up until almost 3:00. I had the bright idea last night that I'd sleep on the couch, put the phone beside me and turn the ringer/answering machine volume up...just in case I slept through my alarm.
Then, something outside made the dog start barking around 4:30. I got back to sleep about 5:30.
Then, the bloody phone rang at eight-fucking-thirty.
IT WAS THE GODDAMN NRA AGAIN!!!
If I'd been even vaguely coherent, I would have answered...asked them if they'd support gun-ownership rights by sending me a free one...and the address of their call center.
Beyond this, Ren has given me a replacement for the Eight-Ball since, because of its pathological lying, we're not on speaking terms.
Now I talk to god
God is also a much better conversationalist than the Eight-Ball.( Outwitted by artificial intelligence.Collapse )( Will you play leapfrog with me?Collapse )( Gettin' frisky with deities...Collapse )( After awhile, even God wants me to shut up.Collapse )
Speaking of gods and their twisted sense of humor (or, if I'm being less of a megalomaniac, my OWN twisted sense of humor), I was watching the news yesterday.
On my birthday, "Operation Iraqi Freedom" will become "Operation New Dawn."
That's almost as good as when my birthday falls on Labor Day weekend...and knowing that I was born on the anniversary of Hitler's invasion of Poland.***
...And as one thought leads to another, one more decision down. I've decided that, for my birthday I will get the gift of no longer being blatantly ignored. If nothing else, it doesn't count as ignoring someone if they have officially taken their brand of giving a damn off the market.
Two down. One to go.
I've meant to post this for awhile in response to multiple requests. The file is too lengthy for a single post so I've divided it into multiple eras.
The first, of course, is the Gboro period. Unfortunately, between losing quite a few of my backup disks at one point and a lightning strike to my computer, many quotes from this period are lost forever.
It's enough to make history cry.
Before I get to the actual goodies, a brief history:
Drunk Thoughts is the name of a file on my computer, always kept on the desktop for easy access.
It began in 2002 when JP, very intoxicated at the time, expressed concern over another (MUCH more sober) friend's ability to drive home by asking, "Are you drunk enough to drive in park?"
This mangled question sent me into hysterics and, being very much under the influence myself, I put it in a text file so I would remember it later. I named the file "Drunk Thought."
A couple nights later, walking across the parking lot of a club while very intoxicated again (I was in college; Don't judge.), I announced that I was starving. JP proudly announced that there was a "Roby's Arse Beef" in the car that I could have.
Upon returning home, I added this gem to the file and pluralized the file name. Thus, Drunk Thoughts was born.
I guess my bald guy deserves quite bit of credit for the birth of this phenomena. He was the turkey baster that inseminated my brain.
Yeah, Texts From Last Night
totally ripped me off. I should have copyrighted that shit.( Rules for Drunk ThoughtsCollapse )
The back-story taken care of and rules established, on to the good stuff.
( Drunk Thoughts: Part the FirstCollapse )
And remember kids, "Alcohol: It does a body good."
Speaking of which, this shirt has a High Point tattoo parlor address on the back. Does anyone know who the original owner was?
Next installment? Whenever I feel like it.
Now, since I've finally gotten my computer un-bogged down enough so that Photoshop doesn't creep along like it's being run by hamster power, I'm going to get some actual work done.
My sister and I should not be allowed to communicate via internet after approximately 9:00 pm, especially since, in our current mutual lack of mobility, she has begun engaging in such unhealthy, mildly nefarious activities as late night browsing of Encyclopedia Dramatica
and...well, I’ve obviously taken to raving about whatever subject enters my increasingly depraved consciousness, particularly when sleep-deprived and lacking other entertainment.
My diatribe for the evening?
Recently an uncomfortable number of people from my past that I dislike intensely (a couple of whom are SERIOUS nutters) have decided to contact me online using various methods, while I become more and more displeased.
I’m convinced this is happening because they know (probably via an ad one of them placed on Craigslist) that I’m without a car at the moment and therefore less able to flee from them.
Everyone knows that crazy people can easily outrun the relatively sane through sheer power of psychosis.
Tonight a person tried to get my attention who, though a relatively minor character in my admittedly somewhat degenerate history, managed to earn an unusual amount of my enmity for quite some time.
This was obviously instant fodder for a largely stream-of-consciousness email to the two people on the planet who I know will always at least pretend to read my harangues with some measure of enjoyment and not judge the often violently offensive or outright nonsensical content.
An excerpt for your reading pleasure:( Warning: Contains excessive profanity and exaggerated fits of rage.Collapse )
Amusement ensued from my usual colorful language, particularly “vagina flytrap,” which is in this case used as a verb meaning, “...the act wherein a girl who annoys and/or repulses you attempts to establish a rapport with you by making cutesy, pseudo-sexual comments.”
Moments later, my sister sent me an email with the subject line “Behold Vaginabike,” thus establishing the theme for the evening.
It included this image.( Possibly NSFW, depending on how exactly you pay your bills...Collapse )
This made me happy.
More aptly, all rage was transformed into labial glee!
I giggled at the stern (but proud) looking woman wearing what looks very much like an Amish-style bonnet, standing in front of a vagina bike
! It even has hair!
Well, a little bit...the scraggly aspect actually made me laugh even harder.( More of the vagina dialogue...Collapse )
Thus, no new vagina-related email has arrived for me in quite some time.
However, though the night may be old, the morning is young...and neither I nor my female sibling have gained the slightest bit of maturity since adolescence.
My heart is warmed by the glowing potential I feel in the world.
Every time I read Jane Eyre
, it becomes one of my favorite novels for at least a month.For a lit slut like myself, that’s a rather lengthy period of infatuation.
In between, I generally have a hard time remembering why that is...I start remembering it as more than a little dated and annoying.
Then I pick it up out of boredom and...*boom*...I'm in love with it again.
I love how, every time you re-read a book, you find some new thing that never stood out before, but suddenly seems highly significant or at least pretty fucking cool.
I actually once obsessively tried to find every single reference to "red-hot pokers" while reading Virginia Woolf's To The Lighthouse
Recently I decided I actually kind of like The Great Gatsby
after detesting it for 15 years.
Weird shit like that, ya know?
In this case I found a quote that had some serious synchronicity going on with my own feelings at the time:
“I know no medium: I never in my life have known any medium in my dealings with positive, hard characters, antagonistic to my own, between absolute submission and determined revolt. I have always faithfully observed the one, up to the very moment of bursting, sometimes with volcanic vehemence, into the other...”
It described me. I'm self-absorbed. So I totally fell in love with it.
I also found myself looking at Jane in a whole new light...as a potential addition to my collection of crazy women in literature who I admire and use to justify my own bad behavior. She passed the test with flying colors...though I DO have a few problems to work out before the official canonization.
She's a quieter kind of bad girl, totally pragmatic but seriously foolish once that whole love thing happens, totally okay with odd things staying unexplained but perfectly willing to run when the shit gets too deep...
Her seeming simplicity, innocence and virtue are in total conflict with other parts of her personality. She’s impertinent, smirking, prone to strange fantasies, impulsive and occasionally a pretty cold bitch.
I think one of Mr. Rochester's early descriptions of her sums up what I'm trying to say:
“...I see you laugh rarely; but you can laugh very merrily: believe me, you are not naturally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious...I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you; and then your looks and movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now. I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high."
The bit of their second conversation, where he suggests she's a fairy and she plays along is one of my favorites as well, one that shows both characters at their best while showing off how much their individual oddities set them both apart from most people, but I'm refusing to fall into the usual trap of quoting half of a book while talking about it because, "This part is too fucking awesome..."
Instead, a quote-free synopsis of the book for anyone who never got around to reading it and/or wants to see how much I maul the narrative. Ha - What a trade-off! Instead of Bronte quotes, you get the Henchman recap.( Jack in his corset, Jane is in her vest. Me, I'm in a rock n' roll band...Collapse )
Who could imagine I would actually like that sort of story, let alone relate to it?
I'd never get myself into such a strange mess!
And even if I was the type of person to accept that
much weird and fall for someone that
fucked up, I certainly wouldn’t creep off in the middle of the night only to come running back, based on a disembodied voice no less, once he was a beat-up invalid. Nope, I have WAY too much sense for that shit.
I, of course, would have run away to Venice with him right after the disturbingly hot near-rape scene.
Yeah, that suggests some seriously twisted standards on my part.
I’m just a sucker for un-mutilated, sight-endowed guys with seriously deep-seated emotional problems.
So, I've gotten attached to Jane and relate to her more than I would expect to. I've adopted her into my personal canon of anti-heroines.
But usually my insane/immoral literary women are adulteresses and/or seriously destructive. Most of them end up committing suicide.
The wife in the attic was probably more the type I go for...before she went completely over the edge and was reduced to spitting, growling, wailing and setting people on fire.
Jane would be described more as unconventional and...overly forgiving. Definitely not a bad girl.
She can be almost cloyingly good and the whole compulsive self-sacrifice thing is a little creepy. But somehow she avoids priggishness, which is intriguing. I might be able to work with that sort of "governess with a heart of gold but a fire in her loins" thing.
I'm pretty sure there's this whole sado-masochistic theme going on...which has me both thinking that Miss Bronte might have been a pretty kinky bitch AND wondering about Jane's marital relations with one-handed Mr. Rochester.Captain Hook. No need to say more.
Then there's a question that comes right back around to that first quote. If Jane has to submit completely or act in violent opposition, how does she handle a helpless, dependent Mr. Rochester.
Maybe her need to sacrifice won out over those urges, or the dichotomy was a necessity for survival rather than an actual preference. Maybe he had to be rendered less "antagonistic" so she wouldn't have to live completely in either state. Maybe there's some symbolism about women running from frightening elements of their own sexuality, unless they can be tamed and controlled.
I'm also thinking that maybe it's a mistake to concentrate too much on Jane, at least when it comes to the way the novel ends.
I mean, there IS adultery in the novel.
Maybe Bronte is doing to her adulterer what all the other writers of the time did with their adulteresses...punishing him.
After all, most of the women who sin in literature end up deceased. They at least go through some serious shit, usually before retiring to a boring life of penitence. Maybe she was turning the tables.
...But that would make Jane nothing but an innocent bystander who got a kind of rough deal and was too foolish to realize it. Of course, her acceptance of all this does means she has to be pretty fucking batty.
I'll be thinking on this for quite awhile. Hence the "Pt. 1"
Maybe I'll be able to sort through my ideas more logically after I stop feeling embarrassed that I'd probably be just as much of an idiot as Jane...other than my more pragmatic solution of running away to Venice pre-maiming.
I can at least be proud of my total lack of morals and complete indifference to social conventions.
Looking on the bright side, as usual.