I leaned in close to his face. "Com'on" I breathed "Why don't you act like ya love me?"
He smiled like a sweet little boy "I can't let anyone know!"
I laughed and smushed my face on him, kissing his cheek. His face was warm. I wanted to hug it- hug his whole head nice and hard.
I kissed his mouth and then felt the urge, the hugging urge, again. "Gimmie another" I said childishly.
"Owch! It burns!"he squirmed from my kisses, which were all over his face.
"Just one." I pleaded. "No way!" He said

I stomped "I never liked you anyway." and turned to leave.
He sat up quickly, sweet blue eyes filled with hope.
"Give us a kiss?"

Aguilara get the flu

We sat by the windows, reading the newspaper. The radio blared in the background. “Last night Christina Aguilara cancelled her Wellington concert a mere 2 hours before kickoff. Many fans were infuriated”. The station cut to a medley of interviews with the fans who hadn’t known of the cancellation and had turned up ready to rock.

”I can’t bloody believe this! We’ve been drinking all day to prepare!”

"I'll never buy another of her albums, that's for sure"

"If she's a genie in a bottle then that starlet is not doing her job very well"

"She can make it up to everyone by saying sorry to New Zealand at the next Grammy Awards ... Otherwise she can get stuffed and no one should ever buy another one of her albums."

“Look at this, it’s all over the newspaper as well” he pointed to a large article with the head line “Christina @#!!#*@ Aguilera!”. It was placed directly to the left of a photo of an enraged middle aged woman in leopard print lycra.

“People weren’t this upset when Mob Deep cancelled!”

Now in the West the slender moon lies low,
And now Orion glimmers through the trees,
Clearing the earth with even pace and slow,
And now the stately-moving Pleiades,
In that soft infinite darkness overhead
Hang jewel-wise upon a silver thread.

And all the lonelier stars that have their place,
Calm lamps within the distant southern sky,
And planet-dust upon the edge of space,
Look down upon the fretful world, and I
Look up to outer vastness unafraid
And see the stars which sang when earth was made.

Marjorie Pickthall

LambMan

It was nearing the end of work today and everyone was busy at a task. Dylan was cutting pieces of lamb from a roast for sandwich meat, Wren was cleaning the floor and I was scraping the burnt, baked on shit from a huge stack of baking trays. Dylan turned to wash his hands and felt something gross and smelly being placed on his shoulder. He looked over and saw Wren, grinning as she moved her hand quickly away from the huge piece of lambskin that was now on his shoulder. "Oh yuck!" He exclaimed "I thought I felt something disgusting on me!".
"Hey" I interrupted "people pay a lot of money for lambskin. You should be thinking about what you'll do with it." I paused with my work "and maybe thank Wren, while you're at it." I went back to scraping a tray, "Ungrateful!"

He laughed, holding up the skin "Maybe I could make a suit."

"I think you'll only get a thong out of that"

He shrugged, "I'll collect so much that I'll have a whole outfit. I could be LambMan" He skewered a piece of meat and held it up to me
"forgo your vegetarian ways, they are useless against the LambMan!"

"Will you make a mask as well?" I asked, swatting away the meat.

"I'm not Hannibol Lector" He frowned

I was in the ladies room of a music venue, waiting for a stall to open. A dark haired woman of about 22 was washing her hands. I was very tired from staying out late the night before and then walking all over the city and it’s suburbs for most of the day. Before we came to the show it’d seemed like every bar and pub was standing room only. It made sense though, the All Blacks had just finished winning against the Aussies and after the game the people poured out of the pub and into the street, crowding into the bars to induce a celebratory hang over for the next morning. When we arrived at 10:00 for the show meant to start at 9:30, we stood again in a crowd with no where to lean or place one’s bum. All this meant that my legs ached and I was looking forward to being able to have a nice sit-down when my chance for a toilet came. The dark-haired woman turned to me suddenly and stood close. I managed a vague smile.

“Do you remember The Exponents?” she said strongly.

“Er, yep.” I flustered, confused by the unexpected twist the trip to the toilet had taken.

“Name some of their songs then” She demanded, crossing her arms.

Was this a test? What was going on? What are some Exponents songs?!

“Victoriaaa, what do you want from him, waaant from him” I sang.

“Yeah ok, and what else?” she said, her intensity bizarrely out of place. I trucked on, not wanted to fail, not when it came to music quizzes.

“What Ever Happened to Tracy?”

“Yeah, yeah” Unimpressed, she moved her hands in the international “move it along” rotation.

“Fly awayyy into the blue skies.” I sang again, privately thanking my father for a singing voice.

“And?”

“Um, yeah I can’t think of anything else.”

“Ok.” She nodded, as if committing my answers to memory. Then she left.

I stood there for a moment. I still couldn’t think of any other Exponents songs.

A stall opened and I looked at the eyes of the girl who came out, to see if she’d over heard. She looked back impassively, then washed her hands. She hadn’t.

“huh” I Thought as I went into the stall “I’m definitely telling the guys about this.”

Words that mean the same thing

• Vomit
• Barf
• Puke
• Regurgitate
• Reverse
• Toss your cookies
• Purge
• Hurl
• Sick
• Throw up
• Upchuck
• Use the big white telephone
• Worship the porcelain God
• Check on lunch
  

Ugh. Hungover at work. Peeling the ride from 35 lemons, squeezing out the juices. Repetitive. My hands hurt. The little cuts from the little knives, my hands are cracked and dry from over-washing. Workers hands. hmph. Thinking and over thinking everything-king.King. Ugh. So repetitive this work, this life. No it isn't. Yes it is. Cyclical, typical, is that what you want to be? Iis that what you want? Melt into boredom and just give up on anything? Is that what you're doing? Boss says that my saying that giving up (temporarily) my education isn't very feminist is a strong statement. I suppose to some the word feminist is a strong statement. These people are nice and sometimes hilarious, but far too straight for my liking. They still think interracial relationships are "wow" worthy. They still mull over the "how" and"why" someone "chooses" to be gay. I keep my mouth closed at these mullings because it seems possible that where I am is not where they are and that maybe where I am is "far out". I am "hung over" good Gooood. Lemons. Lemon cakes need lemon juice needs sugar. Needs...760 grams? I don't want to ask again, she'll know I've forgotten and possibly, therefore, don't care how many grams of sugar this juice needs, even though I've done it every day for 2 weeks. Who cares? Do I really want to be good at baking anyway? Some people aren't good at some things. Then again...if I were crap at something I'd gotten into, like sword fighting, even if I didn't really like it I'd do everything to not be the worst and possibly be the best. And if I were shit I'd crack jokes to distract from my shitty sword work.
People who are into swords are often weird. I don't know anyone that does, anymore. Greg is getting married. He's the first ex of mine to get married, weird. No, that's not true, Jed is getting married and I knew that over a month ago. I guess I'm truly over Jed but not enough over Greg to not be affected by his getting married. It's not like I want to marry him though. I guess I'm less connected with his life. It's more of a suprise. Marriage. How do people decide when it's right? To me traditional marriage feels like a sham. I couldn't do it without feeling like a liar. I'm more freaked out by the idea that I'm of an age where it's normal for people to get married. It's so far and away. I get the idea of a long-term relationship. I don't get the idea of monogamy for years and years. I get trust, I don't get suffocating. Ungh, why so many wines with the girls, the night before work? I can't get out of my head and...eh fuckit.

Mary Oliver

A Visitor by Mary Oliver

My father, for example,
who was young once
and blue-eyed,
returns
on the darkest of nights
to the porch and knocks
wildly at the door,
and if I answer
I must be prepared
for his waxy face,
for his lower lip
swollen with bitterness.
And so, for a long time,
I did not answer,
but slept fitfully
between his hours of rapping.
But finally there came the night
when I rose out of my sheets
and stumbled down the hall.
The door fell open

and I knew I was saved
and could bear him,
pathetic and hollow,
with even the least of his dreams
frozen inside him,
and the meanness gone.
And I greeted him and asked him
into the house,
and lit the lamp,
and looked into his blank eyes
in which at last
I saw what a child must love,
I saw what love might have done
had we loved in time.

In Malcolm Gladwell's book "The Tipping Point" he talks about the roles people play socially. One of these roles is as a connector-someone who introduces people to each other as well as to new situations, new music, new places. They are the information bringers, the social butterflies. They know everyone and your social circle is actually their social circle, you just happen to be in it.
He said one way of figuring out who the connector in your life is, is to write down the names of all the people in your social circle, and how you came to know each one. I did this and had a somewhat disappointing/curious result. Most of the people I've known in my life, I met myself either through work or school. I'm not a connector though, I don't think, and it didn't seem like I fit into the other 2 categories either. My theory for this is that, because I move around so much I don't truly have a social circle anymore. The people I know best right now are scattered all over the world and the friends I have in this city are scattered as well- I've met them either at parties or from work. When I first got to Wellington I went to every party I was invited to and picked up other people for friendship the way people go about finding a date. That worked out alright and I'm cultivating small friendships everywhere so maybe in a year I'll have a connector to pin point. Actually, I think my friend, Lee is one, but we haven't known each other long enough for me to be really certain. In any case, it's an interesting project to try, watching your life's direction unfold through the help of a friend.

Your Net Work

In Malcolm Gladwell's book "The Tipping Point" he talks about the roles people play socially. One of these roles is as a connector-someone who introduces people to each other as well as to new situations, new music, new places. They are the information bringers, the social butterflies. They know everyone and your social circle is actually their social circle, you just happen to be in it.
He said one way of figuring out who the connector in your life is, is to write down the names of all the people in your social circle, and how you came to know each one. I did this and had a somewhat disappointing/curious result. Most of the people I've known in my life, I met through introducing myself, first contact being either through work, a party or school. But I'm not a connector, I don't think, and it didn't seem like I fit into the other 2 categories either. My theory for this is that, because I move around so much I don't truly have a social circle anymore. The people I know best right now are scattered all over the world and the friends I have in this city are scattered as well- I've met them either at parties or from work. When I first got to Wellington I went to every party I was invited to and picked up other people for friendship the way people go about finding a date. That worked out alright and I'm cultivating small friendships everywhere so maybe in a year I'll have a connector to pin point. Actually, I think my friend Lydia is one, but we haven't known each other long enough for me to be really certain. In any case, it's an interesting project to try, watching your life's direction unfold through the help of a friend.

my shitty exflatmate broke into the house (aka, let himself in since he refuses to give back the key...) while I was home alone. I heard foot steps creaking quietly in the next room. In the middle of the day the chances of them belonging to any of the guys(flatmates) is pretty slim so I decided to check, to be sure. Sure, it wasn't them at all, it was fucking Matthew J. Goggin, standing in the effing kitchen. I ahemed. He ignored me and rifled through the mail. I stood by the door as he walked toward and then by me. I asked him what he was doing. "What are you doing" I said. He smiled smugly, thin hair trailing behind his ugly head .
"I'm getting my mail. Until you give me my deposit I have right of entry." smug smug smug bug. I laughed, disbelieving. "What a crock of fucking shit! what a bunch of made up shit! What shit! " I thought and should have said. Then he left.
We kicked him out over a month ago! He keeps emailing Dan condescening emails and setting deadlines for us he can't back up! He's threatened to take us to small claims tribunal over 80 dollars! He broke the oven door then refused to pick up the glass! He eats babies!
I wish the property managment company would give us an estimate already, so he'd fuck off.
I hope his stringy hair catches fire from a shitty oregano-filled blunt.

Some kind of guy

Cam was about a year older than me and my height, which is 5'4 most of the time, 5'5 on a tall day.Within the first few minutes I met him I wondered if he was the sort of guy who'd lie about his height. Would he meet my gaze, eyes level to each other, and declare himself 5'8? No matter how short a guy was, there was a certain kind of guy who'd lie so obviously. They dare you to challenge them. They defy height charts and doctor's exam reports. Because 5'8 is the minimum height men are allowed to be if they are truely men and if God did not touch upon your legs and make them grow then the best you can do is lie about it. I'd met guys like that before.
Was he one of the over-compensators? I was to be his trainee for the day at my new baking job. If ever there were a time to assert his smidgen power, this would be it. "Hey! You must be Madge" he smiled openly, I found myself smiling back, bathing in his cheer "just throw your stuff over there" he pointed to an open locker "and let skip on down to the chiller so I can show you where we keep everything." I did as I was told, then followed behind him as he skipped to the chiller.
He was some kind of man, but he was definitely not that kind of man.

Google Image Search: Mother

Happy Mothers Day!

I was watching a recording of Nirvanas rehearsal for Saturday Night Live when I noticed the drummer. "Jesus, Dave Grohl looks completely different in this video. And he's really throwing his head into the drums." This made me want to look at other pictures of Dave Grohl, to see the progression from a skinny long-haired lad playing drums to a dude with a stylish haircut and permanent goatee, fronting his own band. This led me to a website about one woman and her secret love with Dave Grohl. Enjoy Dave Grohl's best-kept secret

Work solutions

“God, I hate work. I just want to leave.” Sighed the dishwasher.

“Do you think if I shat my pants I would be able to go home?”

I looked up at him skeptically.

“I wonder if you shat your pants, would you be allowed back? Or” I said laughing,

“if you did come back, would anyone be able to look you in the eye?”

Pointing towards trouble

It was around 6 AM, I was alone at work, chopping spring onions hastily and obviously not paying much attention. I glanced down just as the knife nicked my finger. I was using a new, sharper knife that day and had underestimated it's finer points.
"Ah, shit." I said, unworried. Then I actually looked at my finger and noticed a sizeable piece missing.
I wheezed in surprise, a few thoughts went through my head in rapid succession as I tried to figure out what I should do:

• Oh shit, I've never cut my finger, this is the first real cut I've ever had.
• It's not bad enough to warrant a freaking out or calling anyone.
• It is bleeding rather profusely though, more than a bandaid could handle
• It really fucking stings!
• I should do something and not just stand here.
• I'll hold it over my head and get a napkin to stop it from running everywhere.
• and cut off the circulation.

So I did. It took a while and I ended up taping a fat napkin over my finger while it insistantly bled. Later, though, I realized that was a bad idea. The napkin had dried to my wound and peeling it off felt like a slow, zinging burn. "AHHHH" I said.

Later my flatmates and I sat around in the kitchen and shared stories of people we knew losing pieces of fingers.

Wooing

It was shortly after midnight and already the street was littered with drunk people who were just getting started. I was sober as a new born babe and walking home from a late movie. I’d just reached the homestretch, just a few more flights of stairs and I would be home.

“Oi, girly what’s your star sign?” Shouted a drunk scottishman behind me. I didn’t bother to turn around, just a few more flights to go.

“Baby, don’t ignore meeee” he whined.

I considered throwing my water bottle at him, or perhaps telling him to piss off, but nothing you do to a drunk person ever has good results.

“White shirt! Oi, white shirt don’t walk away! Come here!”

And then, when nothing came of that:

“Stupid whore!”

I laughed loudly, surprised and yet quite unsurprised. What a sweetheart.

If he hadn't been here I would have put the container on the floor and poured the water in safely, making sure it only splashed on things that would dry easily, not be damaged. But he was there, and I set the container on an uneven surface of a folder containing his notes for class, next to his digital camera. He watched me as I began to pour. The room was dim and I guess I was feeling reckless. He cautioned me to be careful with the water. I continued to pour, sure that it would be fine. He grabbed the camera just before I splashed an unhealthy amount of liquid. He got upset, I felt indifferent. Anything is fixable, I figure. He accused me of being irresponsible with his things. He's somewhat right. I suppose there are a few reasons why:

1) I can be fairly irresponsible with many "things". I treat them as replaceable. Mostly my things and I guess Dans things are now under the veil of my things, since we share them so often.
2)I must like to rile him up. Not consciously, since I don't like being yelled at, especially if I know I'm mostly wrong and don't have a solid, winning comeback. But we have a pretty calm relationship, and this is something we've talked about before and, aside from not leaving his laptop on the floor(something HE does sometimes, ahem) I haven't tried to make a conscious change.

In conclusion, we fight because he's right. This time.

How to eat

"Where's the can opener" he asked
I popped a piece of pinapple into my mouth "I think it's by the sink."
The pineapple fell out of my mouth. "Oh, oops" I laughed
He made a disgusted face "Jesus, don't eat with your mouth full!"
"Don't eat with my mouth full?" I said, humored "how the hell else am I supposed to eat?"
He stared for a moment "Oh, I...shut up!"

Immigration Complication

Life as of the last 7 months has been webbed back and forth and around from happy to sad to muddled. From positive to confused to definitely not sure. I go from solution to solution and then back to the real problem. Any solution I have ends up sounding vastly complicated.
When I try to peice it out, break it down, keep it simple.It ends up clumped and unlikely.
Should I admit defeat, admit that that isn't a winning solution? It's either break up and go home or stay together and miss school for the next several years?
There are so many variables in the whole dilemma.

Staying here means putting myself at risk insofar as, what if we break up? I don't want to find myself in the same place a year from now, without the relationship and all the promises it holds. Sent packing, back home. At the least, though, if it'd been a year or more, I'd have residency in NZ when I wanted it.

Going home means letting go of a desireable relationship with an actual future and all it's accessories, his family that I've come to love, him, and his big head, the friends I have here, as well as letting go of living abroad.But it also means being in Austin, with the great music and the great friends and the great family and that's great. But a future in the US really sounds shitty. Shootings, no public health care, a general feeling of distrust when it comes to the government...

Whatever decision I make, I have to know I won't regret it. For the last 7 months I haven't been able to picture an outcome I won't regret. And yet I can't stay the way I am, stagnant with a side of restless.
Dan's no help either, god love ya. He can't come up with anything so he always says "we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." When I remind him that the bridge is now he replies, sheepishly, "I'd hoped you hadn't noticed that." And then we both ignore it for a few more days.

Normally, when I get these feelings, the indecisive feelings, these mushed up shitty feelings, I look at the scource. Then I look at my options. Then I think about it a hell of a lot, then I make a desicion, then I cut and run. Then I feel better, no regrets. I've thought about it and I made a choice and now I don't have to wonder about it any more.

Comon brain, come up with something good.