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hoserthehoserian
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Name: Living La Vida Brokaw
Country: United States
State: Missouri
Metro: Springfield
Birthday: 7/31/1981
Interests: Lounging, sitting, being at my ease. Staring at cleavage. Getting sweaty in my butt crack. Rocking out. Saying "No, thank you" to drugs. Not really rocking out. Not brushing my teeth in the morning. Thinking big, wistful thoughts. Peeing standing up. Saying the wrong thing. Trying to shoot bandits in banner ads.
Expertise: Master of Magic, reading, making jokes about your mom (sexual jokes).
Occupation: Consulting
Industry: Construction
Message: message me
Member Since:
10/4/2004
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| Tom willed it better with a telling vehemence. He had no understudies or lieutenants left. All he could do was outlive his detractors. Broken panties, busted engines, tear tracks, deer hair, sore throats, white lights, red hands.
I can't shave my moustache until Brian's project is done. Briian! :(
(i kind of like it, tho)
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| There was just a bird in my kitchen. I don't know how -- the door was locked. I was occupied in the bathroom and heard sounds consistent with an intrusion: the rustling of small cardboard boxes being jostled by small things, tapping against windows, etc. So I peeked my head out and saw a little bird in the window:
(dramatic reenactment; pretend the dragon is a little bird)
"No!" I said, hoping to scare it out the window. I thought the screen had fallen off and the bird was on the threshhold of freedom. But it was a cruel illusion: the screen was there and the bird was trapped. So I sat back down and thought, I hope that bird doesn't shit everywhere. Ironic, eh? I finished up and grabbed a jacket (no shirt) and my slippers. Walked out the front door and around to the back. I opened the door and saw the bird run, for maybe the twentieth time, into a windowpane. It fell back to a perch on my Ritz crackers on top of the fridge. Then it retreated to a cabinet door. I thought about grabbing my broom like a woman on TV. Instead I ducked my head down into my jacked and crouch-walked over to where the bird was. I didn't hear anything, so I pointed the collared cave-hole of my jacket up where I'd last seen the bird. I knew it would swoop in and scratch the edges of my nostrils and stick its wings in my mouth and peck my eyelids. But I didn't even see the bird. I looked around the kitchen and all I saw was a magnet from the fridge on the floor and more ants than before by the sink.
I'd listened to the bird chirp from the bathroom. If I didn't know it was trapped, would it sound so distressed? It was a low warbly chirp at erratic intervals. When I first opened the door and saw it fly to the top of my fridge, its mouth was open and I wondered if it had sprained its beak or if it was just out of breath.
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| Don't worry, I'm still truckin. I still like to party. Last night I was at Food4Less and picked up a bottle of diet V8 Splash. When I put it down the edge of the label gashed my right middle finger, near the mysterious scab under the nail. I put some pressure on that thing, but some blood had already leaked out. I finished my shopping like a trooper and started putting my groceries on the belt. I better get a bandaid, I thought, so I asked the checkout girl if she had any. Until then I hadn't looked at her. The bones of her face were a bit unusual, like in Mask. She yelled at the guy back in the glass cage, and he brought one out to me. As soon as I took my thumb off the wound, blood started to bead up. I bloodied the outside of the bandaid, too, which was a nice cloth one. "I'm sorry, man, I thought you wanted to know if we sold em," the guy said. So I put the rest of the groceries up on the belt and mumbled one and a half times about the bottle of diet V8 Splash to the checkout girl. I felt vaguely guilty. I didn't want her to think I carried this bloody finger into her store and expected her to fix it, but I also didn't want to sound accusatory. And I didn't want to look too much or too little at her face.
The cut healed mysteriously fast. That dot under the nail, however, has been there for weeks, maybe.
I've had a headache all day. I feel a little funny. I just played racquetball for the first time and biffed it a lot. This guy hit the ball directly into my right eye. It didn't really hurt, but I may look battered tomorrow. But I feel funny besides those developments. Spring is a time when a lot of things end, and I've never really recognized that. Cue the usual blather that gets reeled in whenever I cast into the past or the future. Wist and pessimism. I should go
hose this grit off my body.
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| I sure enjoy a good bran muffin. They earthy. I've been reading these things my students wrote when I asked them to tell me something about themselves. Most of it's general small talk stuff, but I find myself writing little (inappropriately) wise comments at the bottom like, "Enjoying English is better than being good at it; you'll get more out of it in the long run." That's the most apropos thing I wrote. Even "I like tennis and running" pushes my Sage button. I've been insightful and helpful (preachy) in class, too. Maybe it's because I've started another beard. Or maybe it's because I've felt kind of emotionally unmoored lately. I spend a lot of time thinking circular thoughts about space and death, and I'm afraid it doesn't help me establish moral guideposts. There's space and there's death, and we're all in the tiny place between. With this idea as context, I sort of look down on decisiveness. Why scurry for the sake of scurrying? Why convict if conviction is so suspect? If everything we do or could do were a handrail on a shuttle, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, most of us would grab on and use that stretch of rail under our fingers to hold steady. That stretch of rail is the range of your potential for action, morality, whatever. If you're internally consistent -- if you're true to yourself -- then there are limits to what you will do, borders to your soul. You hold onto your section of rail and it keeps you upright and helps define you. But if you spend a lot of time looking at the floor and the ceiling, you start to think of the pole as a whole, and you see that one section of pole is essentially the same as another. If the shuttle ride is smooth, you can slide your hand along the rail to wherever it's comfortable, to whatever gives you the easiest balance during bumps and turns. You can extend the metaphor to talk about jolts and lurches if you want, but it's already as apt as it's going to get for my situation. I feel like I've been deeming too many things arbitrary. I HAVE principles, prejudices, but I've been squinting at them and pretending nonchalance. Whenever I look inward I'm myopic, and I act like my moral plot were open and fertile, instead of sown and already half occupied. In other words, there's me, and there's the me I supspect I really am. I might as well be thirteen again. | | |
| I want to wear a bobby pin. To keep my bangs to the side. Can I DO that? | | |
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