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Posts Tagged ‘people’

Friends don’t let friends

July 25, 2010 1 comment

get away with saying “Friends don’t let friends…” as a way of discouraging friends from doing things that are inadvisable.

John:  “I’m hungry.  I think I’ll eat a rock.”
Jane:  “Friends don’t let friends eat rocks.”
John:  *eats rock* 
John:  *dies*
Jane:  *shakes head with a smirk of self-righteousness*

Where is this coming from? I’m seeing it a lot on Facebook and not only is it ridiculous, it makes me feel really old. And friendless, because nobody has said it to me.

Not really, I’d probably throw a stapler at your face if you said it to me.

Note:  The above hypothetical conversation between John and Jane may well have been my most uninspired ever in the history of everything and probably didn’t get my point across at all but it was amusing to me.

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Oh hey, you’re okay.

July 12, 2010 1 comment

I’ve been checking out some blogs here on WordPress and aside from the hate mongering that seems to be prevalent (woo, Freedom of Speech!), there are some pretty impressive bloggers out there.  I would link but I’ve only really been peeking so I’ve no real right in linking at this point.  There are so many categories and sub-categories that people tag their posts in so I’m going to be completely general and list the ones I have seen frequently.

It’s good to see that the bleeding hearts-type blogs are still around.  Make-ups, break-ups, malicious intent and sobbing into the keyboard surrounded by the what-if crap of dreams gone bad.  Girlfriends cheating on boyfriends who are cheating on their wives who are paying personal investigators who post the clips on YouTube without the clients knowing.  You know I’ve been there, done that.  Well not to that extent, but you know, the over-personal dash.  Sometimes I wonder why I bothered at all as it’s largely served to bolster my ever-increasing anxiety and insecurity about my writing.  I don’t really know where this blog is going to go these days so I’ll settle for idle musing for now.  And observation.  I like to watch.  I like to watch you bleed, mwuahahaha!

There are those who write about my third or fourth love, food.  Few have been exceptional where either their cooking skills, photography skills or a clever combination of both have rivalled those in popular cookbooks.  Some have been flat-out catastrophic but hilarious, photos of goals and photos of actual “finished” dishes resembling more of a Pro Hart vomitus than anything intended.  Most would put Cake Wrecks to shame.  I’m secretly envious of their courage to post such horrible foodstuffs online and put their name to it, a part of me secretly wants to try their food, and a larger part of me wants them to try again and get it right for the glory of faceless textual applause.

There’s plenty of the self-righteous religious right which seems to ignore the separation of Church and State and ties in fluidly with the aforementioned racist blogs, thinly veiled as disgust at the current Obama administration.  It’s not worth mentioning really, as it only gives credence to unfunny irrational thought.

There are those who seem to have a special interest topic and brood disturbingly over them.   Murderers, knitting and pets seem to be popular subjects here.  Commenting feels intrusive.  So does heavy mouth breathing.  I limit both whilst reading these types of blogs.

Finally, there are the people who love to rant.  I miss ranting, but I feel I don’t have the energy for a flat-out ragefest anymore.  Is that sad?  A part of me misses hating everything but there’s a nicer new part that enjoys the little things.  Having said that, there are a lot of jerks out there.  Some of them are funny and share their fury online in blog form.  Some of them are the ones who have breathless, veiny, high blood-pressure-y nonsensical diatribes about them. 

Keep writing, guys.  I’ll try to, too.  Your vitriol and enthusiasm make my day.

On Solitude

July 5, 2010 2 comments

I remember my blood congealing underneath my skin as my phone went off, a dumb buzz in my clammy hands.  I looked up at the rotund window-washer swinging gloriously back and forth atop the domed gravel bank, an engorged horsefly drunk on a dumpy grey horse’s arse. 

Late, you know how it is, I’m sorry and blah…

No worries, I said, because there’s a guy washing windows up high and I want to see him fall off or at least lose his bucket.

You wore chinos because your grandmother said that’s what gentlemen wore.  I asked you how she was and you said she was long dead.  We talked about doggybag alfoil swans and then you said you needed a fellow idiot to deconstruct Kant.  We laughed heartily and became fast friends.   

I hear you occasionally when boughs break in the valley and wonder what you read these days.

Egg cartons lined your walls when you had vague dreams of being successful, a beaten up Korg stunning against the mural of a blurry Macleay Street outside, decades of vomit and faded glitter streaking bins and parking spots that cost hundreds of thousands.  I hate the city because the hum becomes a din becomes something bigger that eats you alive. 

I swung myself back in from your balcony ledge, a lame horsefly drowsy on nicotine.  Ash blew back into your lounge and I covered it with De Montaigne as you played back a mis-dialled answering machine message from three weeks prior where an Indian woman crooned for eight minutes straight in a dialect that we both knew then was going to outlive us.