Ben Franklin wrote a dialogue between himself and his gout. It's my turn to be mad at my body.
For years, I've been living with a bum knee. It's pretty much hindered my entire life. Almost three months ago, I got surgery to rebuild and reconnect the broken and torn parts.
The act of healing isn't going as smoothly as hoped.
Johnson: What in the hell is wrong with you? Can't you just heal like every other knee I've talked to?
Knee: What would be the fun in that?
Johnson: You really find fun in this? In all of this pain?
Knee: Watching you wince is pretty entertaining, yeah.
Johnson: You're an asshole.
Knee: I'll agree with you.
Johnson: You realize all of this freezing and being unresponsive to therapy might result in more surgery.
Knee: What?
Johnson: Yeah.
Knee: No one told me that.
Johnson: Well, what did you think was going to happen if you didn't heal?
Knee: Nothing. I just thought this would go on a bit and ... More surgery? Really?
Johnson: We don't know yet. But it's certain that you get to be injected with dye and then magnetically imaged again.
Knee: Crap. I'm an asshole.
Johnson: And I'm tired.
Knee: Wait! Look! I'm all better. (tries to bend)
Johnson: YEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW!
Knee: Damn, that's not fun at all.
Johnson: I think I'm dying.
Knee: What have I done?
Johnson: Oh, god. Now I'm hemorrhaging.
Knee: What!
Johnson: Yeah. Hemorrhaging money, you son of a bitch. When this is all done, I'm going to torture you with running and skiing and trampolines. I'm getting my five years back and my money's worth.
Knee: (swells)
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Woe is knee.
I heard my doctor say the words. But they didn't quite register.
"I'm concerned."
He said it twice. He explained what could be happening and what the resulting course of action would be.
And I listened.
And I kept my composure.
And I agreed.
He promised to me, as a doctor and fellow human being, that he would figure out the problem and fix it.
Fix me.
Make me whole again.
Give me life. Again.
It's not just a knee anymore. It never was just a knee, actually. It was the proverbial straw that sent the camel crashing to the floor.
It was the blow that gave me mortality. The initial shock was all I needed to prove that I was indeed breakable. That I would not live forever despite what my not-quite-twenty-year-old brain thought.
And for years, it's been a constant reminder that I'm less than.
Less than perfect.
Less than strong.
Less than most.
My knee became my crutch. As a damaged human, I could never push myself hard enough to get hurt again. I could live forever, albeit not fully.
So I waited. And when I finally overcame the fear of healing, when I was ready to be whole again and face the world, the knee felt differently.
And my surgeon frowned. And I looked at the floor. We made plans. I limped to my car.
And I wept. Because this was the reason I waited. Because after a scary decision, I didn't want to go through the motions only to not improve.
Because the road ahead grew so much longer. And vanished over the horizon.
"I'm concerned."
He said it twice. He explained what could be happening and what the resulting course of action would be.
And I listened.
And I kept my composure.
And I agreed.
He promised to me, as a doctor and fellow human being, that he would figure out the problem and fix it.
Fix me.
Make me whole again.
Give me life. Again.
It's not just a knee anymore. It never was just a knee, actually. It was the proverbial straw that sent the camel crashing to the floor.
It was the blow that gave me mortality. The initial shock was all I needed to prove that I was indeed breakable. That I would not live forever despite what my not-quite-twenty-year-old brain thought.
And for years, it's been a constant reminder that I'm less than.
Less than perfect.
Less than strong.
Less than most.
My knee became my crutch. As a damaged human, I could never push myself hard enough to get hurt again. I could live forever, albeit not fully.
So I waited. And when I finally overcame the fear of healing, when I was ready to be whole again and face the world, the knee felt differently.
And my surgeon frowned. And I looked at the floor. We made plans. I limped to my car.
And I wept. Because this was the reason I waited. Because after a scary decision, I didn't want to go through the motions only to not improve.
Because the road ahead grew so much longer. And vanished over the horizon.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Did you hear that?
I heard a phone ring. And it freaked me out.
Because it actually rang. As in "ring ring." It didn't play rap. It didn't sing a country song. There was no disco.
The phone actually rang. Like phones used to do once upon a time.
But it's not so much the ring that was unnerving. It was the fact that I didn't know what the sound was.
"Did the oven just ding?" I asked.
"Veronica, there's no oven here," a coworker told me.
Sure enough, he was right. There was a flat screen display, a lamp, and other standard office materials.
Someone's pocket, though, roared with an ancient noise.
Ring ring.
"I think someone's at the door," I said as I peeked around a corner.
The ringing stopped.
People just stared at me.
Then someone turned up the music on his computer.
"Hey," I blurted out, "someone should answer that."
Because it actually rang. As in "ring ring." It didn't play rap. It didn't sing a country song. There was no disco.
The phone actually rang. Like phones used to do once upon a time.
But it's not so much the ring that was unnerving. It was the fact that I didn't know what the sound was.
"Did the oven just ding?" I asked.
"Veronica, there's no oven here," a coworker told me.
Sure enough, he was right. There was a flat screen display, a lamp, and other standard office materials.
Someone's pocket, though, roared with an ancient noise.
Ring ring.
"I think someone's at the door," I said as I peeked around a corner.
The ringing stopped.
People just stared at me.
Then someone turned up the music on his computer.
"Hey," I blurted out, "someone should answer that."
Let's vituperate!
You try to post a blog onto the internet every fuggin' night
WITHOUT internet access
WHILE moving furniture
WITH a painful gimp leg
WHILE painting walls
AFTER a full day of NONSTOP work
INCLUDING writing all daytime hours
DURING thunderstorms
WHILE hungry, so you have to go to the store.
AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!
You want blog? You're going to have to wait for blog.
...
This is the worst thing I've ever written.
WITHOUT internet access
WHILE moving furniture
WITH a painful gimp leg
WHILE painting walls
AFTER a full day of NONSTOP work
INCLUDING writing all daytime hours
DURING thunderstorms
WHILE hungry, so you have to go to the store.
AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!
You want blog? You're going to have to wait for blog.
...
This is the worst thing I've ever written.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
I must keep writing.
Work's been busy. It's been non-stop writing.
Which is what it's supposed to be. I'm a professional writer, after all.
So guess what the last thing on earth that I want to do when I get home is?
Yep, you guessed it. Eat steak.
Which is what it's supposed to be. I'm a professional writer, after all.
So guess what the last thing on earth that I want to do when I get home is?
Yep, you guessed it. Eat steak.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
I don't have internet.
I don't have any internet service this week.
There's public WiFi available outside. But that's where the mosquitoes hang out.
So I'm trying to type this AND fight off mosquitoes at the same time.
I'm sure the vivid, luminous screen of my Mac isn't helping me out. 'Cause those little bastards are attracted to the beauty of my laptop.
I can't really blame them, I mean this is a fantastic computer.
But do they have to make a pit stop at my blood supply? Seriously? Go attack that guy over there. He looks juicy and tasty.
Not that I want to taste his juiciness. I prefer beefcake (you know who you are).
There's public WiFi available outside. But that's where the mosquitoes hang out.
So I'm trying to type this AND fight off mosquitoes at the same time.
I'm sure the vivid, luminous screen of my Mac isn't helping me out. 'Cause those little bastards are attracted to the beauty of my laptop.
I can't really blame them, I mean this is a fantastic computer.
But do they have to make a pit stop at my blood supply? Seriously? Go attack that guy over there. He looks juicy and tasty.
Not that I want to taste his juiciness. I prefer beefcake (you know who you are).
Thursday, April 17, 2008
What did the mouse do today?
Hickory dickory dee
The mouse ran up a tree
He slipped on turd
And shot the bird
Hickory dickory dee
Three drunk mice
Three drunk mice
See how they chug
See how they chug
They all climbed into the liquor sink
And drowned all their sorrows in Irish drink
And now all of their noses are really pink
Three drunk mice
Little Bunny Foo Foo
Driving down the highway
Didn't see the crossing mouse
And ran right over his head.*
*Good thing the mouse was wearing a super helmet! He was fine.
The mouse ran up a tree
He slipped on turd
And shot the bird
Hickory dickory dee
Three drunk mice
Three drunk mice
See how they chug
See how they chug
They all climbed into the liquor sink
And drowned all their sorrows in Irish drink
And now all of their noses are really pink
Three drunk mice
Little Bunny Foo Foo
Driving down the highway
Didn't see the crossing mouse
And ran right over his head.*
*Good thing the mouse was wearing a super helmet! He was fine.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
April showers bring may powers. Part 4
Alice froze as her coffee cup touched her lips. Her eyes glazed over as her brain went into overdrive.
Did that just happen, she thought.
The pile of clothes that once contained her daughter Lisa seemed to be mocking her.
"Now before Lisa comes back, you need to compose yourself. You can't act like this is weird or you will upset her," Grandma said.
Alice shook her head and blinked. "How did you two do that?" she asked her mother. "Mirrors? Did you use mirrors?"
She set her coffee down and ran her eyes over the entire room. "Strings? Did you use strings?" She cast her gaze downward. "Did you drug my coffee?"
"I didn't know how to tell y..."
"Where is my daughter? Where did she go?" Alice's voice cracked.
"She probably went to my bedroom. At least that's where I told her to go." Grandma set down a little cup full of rain water. "She's supposed to count to one hundred before she returns to the kitchen."
Alice gulped. "What just happened?"
Grandma shared this morning's events with her daughter. She told Alice how Lisa believed she was allergic to rain because of the "you're so sweet, you'd melt" adage, too."
"But," Alice paused, "she didn't melt. She ... teleported? ... Is this a hidden camera show?"
"She has a very active imagination."
"You used to tell me the I-was-made-of-sugar thing all of the time. And I never blinked from site and appeared across town!" Alice's voice was now on it's way to being hysterical.
Grandma forced eye contact. "And you also grew up to be an accountant. You weren't a very imaginative child."
Little Lisa skipped into the room wrapped in a towel. "Mommy! Want to see my magic again?"
Alice shot a horrified look at her own mommy. "Um, no, not right now sweetie. Come here."
The little girl climbed into her mother's lap and the three generations talked about first grade.
Did that just happen, she thought.
The pile of clothes that once contained her daughter Lisa seemed to be mocking her.
"Now before Lisa comes back, you need to compose yourself. You can't act like this is weird or you will upset her," Grandma said.
Alice shook her head and blinked. "How did you two do that?" she asked her mother. "Mirrors? Did you use mirrors?"
She set her coffee down and ran her eyes over the entire room. "Strings? Did you use strings?" She cast her gaze downward. "Did you drug my coffee?"
"I didn't know how to tell y..."
"Where is my daughter? Where did she go?" Alice's voice cracked.
"She probably went to my bedroom. At least that's where I told her to go." Grandma set down a little cup full of rain water. "She's supposed to count to one hundred before she returns to the kitchen."
Alice gulped. "What just happened?"
Grandma shared this morning's events with her daughter. She told Alice how Lisa believed she was allergic to rain because of the "you're so sweet, you'd melt" adage, too."
"But," Alice paused, "she didn't melt. She ... teleported? ... Is this a hidden camera show?"
"She has a very active imagination."
"You used to tell me the I-was-made-of-sugar thing all of the time. And I never blinked from site and appeared across town!" Alice's voice was now on it's way to being hysterical.
Grandma forced eye contact. "And you also grew up to be an accountant. You weren't a very imaginative child."
Little Lisa skipped into the room wrapped in a towel. "Mommy! Want to see my magic again?"
Alice shot a horrified look at her own mommy. "Um, no, not right now sweetie. Come here."
The little girl climbed into her mother's lap and the three generations talked about first grade.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Pigeons play games with your car.
Attn: Pigeon Legions of the World
Subject: Drops Rules for May
As always, the goal is to bomb as many cars with shit as possible. Each day has a specific type of vehicle.
Each successful drop is worth one point. The drop must hit the car, stick and be irritatingly noticeable.
A successful drop on a bonus vehicle is worth five points. The vehicle must be the specified color for the day.
Any freshly-washed cars are two points regardless of color. A freshly-washed car of the day's specified color is three points.
Any successful drops made while in flight and vehicles are in motion are double the points.
The crows are keeping score.
Monday: Red vehicles
Bonus: Italian sports cars
Tuesday: Blue vehicles
Bonus: Two-door coupes
Wednesday: Yellow vehicles (excluding cabs and school busses)
Bonus: Convertibles (extra five points if you hit the driver)
Thursday: Black vehicles
Bonus: Trucks (bombs dropped in the beds of trucks award no points unless personal property is hit)
Friday: Silver or gray vehicles
Bonus: SUVs
Saturday: Custom-painted vehicles
Bonus: Vans
Subject: Drops Rules for May
As always, the goal is to bomb as many cars with shit as possible. Each day has a specific type of vehicle.
Each successful drop is worth one point. The drop must hit the car, stick and be irritatingly noticeable.
A successful drop on a bonus vehicle is worth five points. The vehicle must be the specified color for the day.
Any freshly-washed cars are two points regardless of color. A freshly-washed car of the day's specified color is three points.
Any successful drops made while in flight and vehicles are in motion are double the points.
The crows are keeping score.
Monday: Red vehicles
Bonus: Italian sports cars
Tuesday: Blue vehicles
Bonus: Two-door coupes
Wednesday: Yellow vehicles (excluding cabs and school busses)
Bonus: Convertibles (extra five points if you hit the driver)
Thursday: Black vehicles
Bonus: Trucks (bombs dropped in the beds of trucks award no points unless personal property is hit)
Friday: Silver or gray vehicles
Bonus: SUVs
Saturday: Custom-painted vehicles
Bonus: Vans
I have a love/hate relationship with physical therapy.
Physical therapy.
I hate it. But I need it. And for that reason, I love it.
Grow strong, knee. Grow strong.
I hate it. But I need it. And for that reason, I love it.
Grow strong, knee. Grow strong.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
April showers bring may powers. Part 3
Lisa's grandma held the phone in her hand as she watched the naked child run through the the living room and into the entry way and out the front door.
"One, two, three ..." Grandma counted. By the time she counted to six, little Lisa came running from the back of the house, through the living room, into the entry way, and out the door into the rain. Grandma counted again. At six, Lisa came from the back of the house, ran through it, and disappeared out the door.
This strange phenomenon continued for ten minutes.
The child was having fun with her newfound teleporting abilities.
Grandma inhaled deeply, sighed heavily, and dialed her daughter's phone number. The phone rang three times.
"Hello, dear," Grandma said to little Lisa's mother. "Have you heard from Lisa's school today. ... No? Well, I wanted to tell you before they called. Lisa is at my house. ... No, she's fine. ... No, nothing particularly bad happened, although there was an incident. ... No, she's not a woman, yet. ... No, she didn't get sick. ... Why don't you come here for lunch; we need to have a chat. ... I can't really tell you over the phone ... "
The conversation was interupted by delighted squealing as Lisa materialized at the dining room table only to run through the house towards the front door.
"Yes, that was Lisa. ... Just come over. I'm your mother and you have to listen to me. ... See you at noon. Bye, dear." Grandma hung up the phone and waiting for the child to appear again. As soon as she did, she was wrapped in a towel and held fast in place.
"Let's hold off for a while, sugar. We don't want you to tire before your mom gets here. She surely wants to see your magic ability."
Lisa nodded her head and then asked."Grandma, can I have a piece of cake?"
She has no idea how unique she is, Grandma thought. "Sure thing."
And they ate cake and waited for the storm of Lisa's mother to start.
"One, two, three ..." Grandma counted. By the time she counted to six, little Lisa came running from the back of the house, through the living room, into the entry way, and out the door into the rain. Grandma counted again. At six, Lisa came from the back of the house, ran through it, and disappeared out the door.
This strange phenomenon continued for ten minutes.
The child was having fun with her newfound teleporting abilities.
Grandma inhaled deeply, sighed heavily, and dialed her daughter's phone number. The phone rang three times.
"Hello, dear," Grandma said to little Lisa's mother. "Have you heard from Lisa's school today. ... No? Well, I wanted to tell you before they called. Lisa is at my house. ... No, she's fine. ... No, nothing particularly bad happened, although there was an incident. ... No, she's not a woman, yet. ... No, she didn't get sick. ... Why don't you come here for lunch; we need to have a chat. ... I can't really tell you over the phone ... "
The conversation was interupted by delighted squealing as Lisa materialized at the dining room table only to run through the house towards the front door.
"Yes, that was Lisa. ... Just come over. I'm your mother and you have to listen to me. ... See you at noon. Bye, dear." Grandma hung up the phone and waiting for the child to appear again. As soon as she did, she was wrapped in a towel and held fast in place.
"Let's hold off for a while, sugar. We don't want you to tire before your mom gets here. She surely wants to see your magic ability."
Lisa nodded her head and then asked."Grandma, can I have a piece of cake?"
She has no idea how unique she is, Grandma thought. "Sure thing."
And they ate cake and waited for the storm of Lisa's mother to start.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Muse, did you have to show up now?
The writer wasn't having the best month of her life. She had suffered from a nasty bout of food poisoning. Some suit in city hall had decided to rip up the street in front of her apartment. Work was lame. The weather was nasty. Her hair was limp. Her shoes made her feet hurt. Her eyes were dry. The guy who lived above her had a max-volume Metallica night. Breakfast sucked. And now she was driving to some party that required she buy an expensive gift.
Oh, and she she hadn't written anything in over two weeks.
"All of the negatives just pile and press until you're full of lava," said a silky voice from the passenger seat.
The writer turned her head and viewed the Muse.
"You always just show up right when I'm at my most frustrated, don't you?" she asked her inspiration.
The Muse flipped down the visor and lazily admired her reflection in the tiny mirror. She ran a long finger over her delicate lips and cast her eyes over at the writer. That was her response - a gaze.
"I can't write now! I'm driving!"
The visor was flipped up and the Muse grinned.
And then the writer's mind was racing. She had more ideas than she'd had in the last month. Beautiful combinations of words swarmed her thoughts. Stories started and ended seamlessly in a matter of moments.
"I'm going to forget half of this stuff," the writer groaned in frustration. "Can't you ever show up when I'm sitting at my desk?"
The Muse reached over and tucked a lock of the writer's hair behind her ear. Then she adjusted the air vents and turned away to watch the houses roll by.
Meanwhile, the writer was desperately trying to remember everything that she was coming up with. She even pulled out her cell phone to leave herself a voicemail full of ideas.
Feeling slightly accomplished, she ended the call and parked her car in front of her destination. She turned to thank her Muse.
The seat only held a wrapped package.
The writer collected the present and her purse and left the car wishing that her Muse had stayed just a moment longer.
Oh, and she she hadn't written anything in over two weeks.
"All of the negatives just pile and press until you're full of lava," said a silky voice from the passenger seat.
The writer turned her head and viewed the Muse.
"You always just show up right when I'm at my most frustrated, don't you?" she asked her inspiration.
The Muse flipped down the visor and lazily admired her reflection in the tiny mirror. She ran a long finger over her delicate lips and cast her eyes over at the writer. That was her response - a gaze.
"I can't write now! I'm driving!"
The visor was flipped up and the Muse grinned.
And then the writer's mind was racing. She had more ideas than she'd had in the last month. Beautiful combinations of words swarmed her thoughts. Stories started and ended seamlessly in a matter of moments.
"I'm going to forget half of this stuff," the writer groaned in frustration. "Can't you ever show up when I'm sitting at my desk?"
The Muse reached over and tucked a lock of the writer's hair behind her ear. Then she adjusted the air vents and turned away to watch the houses roll by.
Meanwhile, the writer was desperately trying to remember everything that she was coming up with. She even pulled out her cell phone to leave herself a voicemail full of ideas.
Feeling slightly accomplished, she ended the call and parked her car in front of her destination. She turned to thank her Muse.
The seat only held a wrapped package.
The writer collected the present and her purse and left the car wishing that her Muse had stayed just a moment longer.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
I need an accent.
I probably have the flattest, non-regional American/United States accent possible.
I've got that kind of accent-less way of speaking that only newscasters possess.
And it's about time to shake up the status quo. So I've decided to weigh the pros and cons of various twangs that I can affix to my English.
English
Pro: It's always cool to be the token Brit.
Con: It's not always cool to be the token douche.
Pro: I'd sound smarter.
Con: I wouldn't be smarter.
Pro: Everything coming from my mouth would be beautiful.
Con: My teeth would instantly become crooked and rot.
French
Pro: I sound sexy.
Con: I sound evil.
Pro: People would think I'm exotic.
Con: People would think I'm French.
Pro: I would be viewed as more attractive.
Con: I'd have to stop shaving my arm pits.
Northern North America
Pro: My accent would be subtle and go unnoticed at first.
Con: Until I say, "Eh?"
Pro: I could increase my accent when I get drunk.
Con: I would accidentally decrease it when sober.
Pro: People would always ask, "Where are you from?"
Con: I'd have to reply, "Canada."
Australian
Oh, hell no.
Southern
Pro: "Are you Sue Ellen Ewing?"
Con: "Are you retarded?"
Pro: Men would think it's cute.
Con: Men would think it's cute.
Pro: People in my field of study wouldn't take me seriously.
Con: I'd have to get a job in oil.
I've got that kind of accent-less way of speaking that only newscasters possess.
And it's about time to shake up the status quo. So I've decided to weigh the pros and cons of various twangs that I can affix to my English.
English
Pro: It's always cool to be the token Brit.
Con: It's not always cool to be the token douche.
Pro: I'd sound smarter.
Con: I wouldn't be smarter.
Pro: Everything coming from my mouth would be beautiful.
Con: My teeth would instantly become crooked and rot.
French
Pro: I sound sexy.
Con: I sound evil.
Pro: People would think I'm exotic.
Con: People would think I'm French.
Pro: I would be viewed as more attractive.
Con: I'd have to stop shaving my arm pits.
Northern North America
Pro: My accent would be subtle and go unnoticed at first.
Con: Until I say, "Eh?"
Pro: I could increase my accent when I get drunk.
Con: I would accidentally decrease it when sober.
Pro: People would always ask, "Where are you from?"
Con: I'd have to reply, "Canada."
Australian
Oh, hell no.
Southern
Pro: "Are you Sue Ellen Ewing?"
Con: "Are you retarded?"
Pro: Men would think it's cute.
Con: Men would think it's cute.
Pro: People in my field of study wouldn't take me seriously.
Con: I'd have to get a job in oil.
For a young person, I'm really old.
Went to a rock show last night. (The fact that I just typed "rock show" reveals my geriatric tendencies.)
The headliners(who was awesome, by the way)played for three hours straight. They screamed for three hours straight. They climbed speakers and jumped off of other things for three hours straight.
It was their energy that kept me alive.
Five years ago, hell even three years ago, I could've gone to this show and jumped and screamed. Then I would have gone to a bar afterwards for a few. Then the night would've been topped off with some other physically demanding, extra curricular activity. But not now.
Oh, no. Not now.
Now I just pray for the last song. "Please end," I think. Although I'm having fun, my achy body is protesting the simple act of standing.
Because my poor, young body is finally old. Or so it feels old.
I blame having a desk job. I sit on my ass all day. I'm not as fit as I used to be.
So that means being responsible has made me old, not the other way around like so many think.
And I feel I'm just too young for this.
The headliners(who was awesome, by the way)played for three hours straight. They screamed for three hours straight. They climbed speakers and jumped off of other things for three hours straight.
It was their energy that kept me alive.
Five years ago, hell even three years ago, I could've gone to this show and jumped and screamed. Then I would have gone to a bar afterwards for a few. Then the night would've been topped off with some other physically demanding, extra curricular activity. But not now.
Oh, no. Not now.
Now I just pray for the last song. "Please end," I think. Although I'm having fun, my achy body is protesting the simple act of standing.
Because my poor, young body is finally old. Or so it feels old.
I blame having a desk job. I sit on my ass all day. I'm not as fit as I used to be.
So that means being responsible has made me old, not the other way around like so many think.
And I feel I'm just too young for this.
Monday, April 7, 2008
If you think I'm going to work 12 hours a day every day, you can take my job and shove it up your ass.
Too many of my friends work too hard.
They arrive at their jobs early, they stay late, they never sleep or see their friends.
They are controlled by people in suits who could care less about the well being of other beings. In fact, most of their superiors have no idea how hard the underlings are working. And when they find out, they quickly forget.
And it's total bullshit.
So many of my friends have forfeited their social lives to serve The Man and his Machine. A tidbit of info for those friends: the Machine doesn't have enough consideration for your existence to even hate you.
Before my grandmother died, she told me that her greatest accomplishment was creating people. Some would think that a woman's devoting her life to raising children is old fashioned and insulting.
I feel my grandmother had a great point. When I'm 80 years old, no one is going to remember that radio spot I wrote when I was 23. They're not going to raise a statue to me because I won some award. They aren't going to give a hoot about my twenty-something years at some tiny company.
Nope. A very small percentage of people are known by the masses for one singular thing.
What people will notice and what I will be proud of on my deathbed are the lives I created and touched.
And I can't create those lives while I'm filling out spread sheets or carrying decimals in the wee hours of the morning.
In all fairness, some people are out curing cancer. Their life is their work and their work is saving lives. And those people shall be saluted.
On the other hand, my job and most of the jobs that my friends have aren't saving lives. They just aren't. Perhaps through the grapevine, some extra dollar earned through the purchase of some packaged good that was bought because of a poster that was created in a Sunday afternoon brainstorm because someone else felt it would be a good idea to throw in just one more idea ... ... So that dollar gets donated to a church and they get to buy an extra two packages of ramen noodles some some hobo gets to eat on Christmas morning.
Call me evil, but that moment isn't worth the divorces and the drug use and the depression caused by people over working themselves.
So my advice to this generation, my generation, do the nine to five. Get your work done and be proud of it. But don't let it rule you. It's just not worth it in the end.
They arrive at their jobs early, they stay late, they never sleep or see their friends.
They are controlled by people in suits who could care less about the well being of other beings. In fact, most of their superiors have no idea how hard the underlings are working. And when they find out, they quickly forget.
And it's total bullshit.
So many of my friends have forfeited their social lives to serve The Man and his Machine. A tidbit of info for those friends: the Machine doesn't have enough consideration for your existence to even hate you.
Before my grandmother died, she told me that her greatest accomplishment was creating people. Some would think that a woman's devoting her life to raising children is old fashioned and insulting.
I feel my grandmother had a great point. When I'm 80 years old, no one is going to remember that radio spot I wrote when I was 23. They're not going to raise a statue to me because I won some award. They aren't going to give a hoot about my twenty-something years at some tiny company.
Nope. A very small percentage of people are known by the masses for one singular thing.
What people will notice and what I will be proud of on my deathbed are the lives I created and touched.
And I can't create those lives while I'm filling out spread sheets or carrying decimals in the wee hours of the morning.
In all fairness, some people are out curing cancer. Their life is their work and their work is saving lives. And those people shall be saluted.
On the other hand, my job and most of the jobs that my friends have aren't saving lives. They just aren't. Perhaps through the grapevine, some extra dollar earned through the purchase of some packaged good that was bought because of a poster that was created in a Sunday afternoon brainstorm because someone else felt it would be a good idea to throw in just one more idea ... ... So that dollar gets donated to a church and they get to buy an extra two packages of ramen noodles some some hobo gets to eat on Christmas morning.
Call me evil, but that moment isn't worth the divorces and the drug use and the depression caused by people over working themselves.
So my advice to this generation, my generation, do the nine to five. Get your work done and be proud of it. But don't let it rule you. It's just not worth it in the end.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
April showers bring may powers. Part 2
A pile of wet clothes lay at the feet of Mrs. Truman's class.
No one said a word. Everyone just stared at the spot where Lisa had stood only moments before.
Moments before she vanished into thin air. Before she dissolved into the ether. Moments before she ceased to exist.
Or at least that's what everyone thought. Their interpretations of this event were only half correct.
Yes, Lisa had disappeared from site, but she hadn't disappeared. She had teleported. The reaction of rainwater on her sugar skin had caused her to dissolve and travel across the city to her grandmother's couch.
"Sugar, what are you doing here?" little Lisa's grandmother asked as she entered the living room with her morning cup of coffee. "And why are you stark naked?"
"Rain touched me, Gramma," Lisa said. "And the next thing I knew, I was here."
Gramma fetched a soft robe and a glass of juice for her granddaughter who graciously thanked her.
"This is a predicament," Gramma muttered. "You're too sweet for your own good."
Lisa drank her juice and listened as her grandmother reasoned over the situation. Obviously, drinking juice didn't cause Lisa to spontaneously travel. And bath water was always safe. Lisa had no problems in swimming pools. Even snow was safe.
But rain water, for some odd reason, caused the child to teleport? This was very odd.
"Gramma, you always told me that I was so sweet, that I'd melt in the rain."
"But I didn't mean it. I was being silly. What I said wasn't real."
Lisa tilted her head and looked out the window. "I thought it was real."
Ah, and there was the reason little Lisa would teleport. Because she didn't know that it was impossible. Her literal little mind was so powerful, that it made her freakishly allergic to rain water.
"Lisa, dear, were you thinking about what I said right before you ended up on my couch?" Gramma asked.
Lisa told her yes.
Gramma ran outside and came back in, her hand wet from the rain. "Child," she spoke softly, "I'm going to touch your forehead, but before I do, I need you to think about the guest room here, okay?"
Lisa agreed. She squeezed her eyes closed and hummed with concentration. The old woman touched her rain-soaked hand to her granddaughters forehead.
Lisa faded from view and the empty robe sank to the couch.
"Sugar, you in the guest room?" Gramma called.
"Sure am!" came the reply. "You know what, Gramma, this is fun!"
Little Lisa's grandmother plopped down into her favorite chair and wondered how she was going to tell her daughter about her kid's newfound ability.
To be continued.
No one said a word. Everyone just stared at the spot where Lisa had stood only moments before.
Moments before she vanished into thin air. Before she dissolved into the ether. Moments before she ceased to exist.
Or at least that's what everyone thought. Their interpretations of this event were only half correct.
Yes, Lisa had disappeared from site, but she hadn't disappeared. She had teleported. The reaction of rainwater on her sugar skin had caused her to dissolve and travel across the city to her grandmother's couch.
"Sugar, what are you doing here?" little Lisa's grandmother asked as she entered the living room with her morning cup of coffee. "And why are you stark naked?"
"Rain touched me, Gramma," Lisa said. "And the next thing I knew, I was here."
Gramma fetched a soft robe and a glass of juice for her granddaughter who graciously thanked her.
"This is a predicament," Gramma muttered. "You're too sweet for your own good."
Lisa drank her juice and listened as her grandmother reasoned over the situation. Obviously, drinking juice didn't cause Lisa to spontaneously travel. And bath water was always safe. Lisa had no problems in swimming pools. Even snow was safe.
But rain water, for some odd reason, caused the child to teleport? This was very odd.
"Gramma, you always told me that I was so sweet, that I'd melt in the rain."
"But I didn't mean it. I was being silly. What I said wasn't real."
Lisa tilted her head and looked out the window. "I thought it was real."
Ah, and there was the reason little Lisa would teleport. Because she didn't know that it was impossible. Her literal little mind was so powerful, that it made her freakishly allergic to rain water.
"Lisa, dear, were you thinking about what I said right before you ended up on my couch?" Gramma asked.
Lisa told her yes.
Gramma ran outside and came back in, her hand wet from the rain. "Child," she spoke softly, "I'm going to touch your forehead, but before I do, I need you to think about the guest room here, okay?"
Lisa agreed. She squeezed her eyes closed and hummed with concentration. The old woman touched her rain-soaked hand to her granddaughters forehead.
Lisa faded from view and the empty robe sank to the couch.
"Sugar, you in the guest room?" Gramma called.
"Sure am!" came the reply. "You know what, Gramma, this is fun!"
Little Lisa's grandmother plopped down into her favorite chair and wondered how she was going to tell her daughter about her kid's newfound ability.
To be continued.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Here are some limericks that are in no way based on fact.
You hear that, readers? Not based on fact. I can't stress that enough.
I fell in love with a beefcake.
It happened by sheer mistake.
His chest has lots of hair.
As for his bits down there?
Well, let's just say that he needs a rake.*
You! Make me some dinner of fish.
Make me a flavorful dish.
I want salmon and eggs
And toss in tuna legs
So in my tummy the tails won't swish.
It was ten years ago today
Sgt. Pepper said, "Band, play."
Out of style they soon went.
By the end, they were spent.
"Sir, it was twenty years ago today!"
Do not use forks to pick your nose.
Don't use knives to scratch your toes.
Use spoons just for eating
And not pimple beating.
Or else, you'll be tied up with a a hose.
Alaska, you're so far away.
But that is the price you pay
For being so damn cold
And infested with mold.
Besides, you're huge! How much do you weigh?
*This isn't based on a fact.
I fell in love with a beefcake.
It happened by sheer mistake.
His chest has lots of hair.
As for his bits down there?
Well, let's just say that he needs a rake.*
You! Make me some dinner of fish.
Make me a flavorful dish.
I want salmon and eggs
And toss in tuna legs
So in my tummy the tails won't swish.
It was ten years ago today
Sgt. Pepper said, "Band, play."
Out of style they soon went.
By the end, they were spent.
"Sir, it was twenty years ago today!"
Do not use forks to pick your nose.
Don't use knives to scratch your toes.
Use spoons just for eating
And not pimple beating.
Or else, you'll be tied up with a a hose.
Alaska, you're so far away.
But that is the price you pay
For being so damn cold
And infested with mold.
Besides, you're huge! How much do you weigh?
*This isn't based on a fact.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
April showers bring may powers.
"Don't go out into the rain, Sugar," little Lisa's grandma told her. "Because you're so sweet, you'd just melt away."
So come the rainy season, little Lisa was terrified to go outside. Her literal mind honestly thought that rain water would cause her to dissolve and race away down the rain ducts.
If she was forced to be outside in the rain, she would wear a raincoat under her plastic parka. She's put a plastic cap atop her head and covered that with a hood. She kept her hands safe with oversized, latex gloves. And she's put her little feet inside of bright yellow galoshes.
Little Lisa did everything in her tiny powers to keep rain drops from falling on her head.
And the rest of her, of course.
One day, little Lisa was waiting for the school bus when a car drove through a puddle. A large wave of water splashed the other three children at the stop. They squealed with delight and splashed in the pools of water. Lisa, though, would turn her back and reluctantly let the water splash upon her protective gear.
She cringed at the thought of dirty rain water touching her sugary skin.
At school, as the other children shook off their umbrellas and rain coats, little Lisa would stand across the room and delicately slide her rainwear from her shoulders and head and feet. She'd then remove the extra layer of clothes that she wore just-in-case water creeped through.
This particular day, though, Johnny ran in late. Literally. His clothes were soaked through to his skin.
As he sped through the doorway, he didn't notice little Lisa, bent over and removing her galoshes.
Johnny ran into Lisa and the both of them went toppling over. And Johnny's wet clothing touched little Lisa's exposed skin.
And she freaked. Her skin immediately became less opaque. The transparency quickly spread across her entire body. Lisa noticed everything in the room became taller.
Truth was that she was becoming shorter.
Mrs. Truman, the teacher, stared in horror. The other children could only point with their mouths agape.
And little Lisa, made of sugar Lisa, dissolved before their very eyes.
To be continued.
So come the rainy season, little Lisa was terrified to go outside. Her literal mind honestly thought that rain water would cause her to dissolve and race away down the rain ducts.
If she was forced to be outside in the rain, she would wear a raincoat under her plastic parka. She's put a plastic cap atop her head and covered that with a hood. She kept her hands safe with oversized, latex gloves. And she's put her little feet inside of bright yellow galoshes.
Little Lisa did everything in her tiny powers to keep rain drops from falling on her head.
And the rest of her, of course.
One day, little Lisa was waiting for the school bus when a car drove through a puddle. A large wave of water splashed the other three children at the stop. They squealed with delight and splashed in the pools of water. Lisa, though, would turn her back and reluctantly let the water splash upon her protective gear.
She cringed at the thought of dirty rain water touching her sugary skin.
At school, as the other children shook off their umbrellas and rain coats, little Lisa would stand across the room and delicately slide her rainwear from her shoulders and head and feet. She'd then remove the extra layer of clothes that she wore just-in-case water creeped through.
This particular day, though, Johnny ran in late. Literally. His clothes were soaked through to his skin.
As he sped through the doorway, he didn't notice little Lisa, bent over and removing her galoshes.
Johnny ran into Lisa and the both of them went toppling over. And Johnny's wet clothing touched little Lisa's exposed skin.
And she freaked. Her skin immediately became less opaque. The transparency quickly spread across her entire body. Lisa noticed everything in the room became taller.
Truth was that she was becoming shorter.
Mrs. Truman, the teacher, stared in horror. The other children could only point with their mouths agape.
And little Lisa, made of sugar Lisa, dissolved before their very eyes.
To be continued.
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