Bird Unit's cage is clean, the boys're fed, the fishies' tank is good for another week (might do a teensy H2O chg) and I actually cleaned my pad, so it looks less like a teenage tornado explodified innit.
* Watch Hesher, goddammit, it's been sitting in the DVD player for weeks.
* Grow some balls and watch WΔZ.
* Make some kind of coherent list of WIPshit so I might actually start writing as opposed to creating WIPshit.
* Hang a poster or two
* Draw something
* Wash car on Monday OMG
* Watch a movie with the boys
|01. My sexual orientation.|
02. What I'm really bad at.
03. The one person whose arms I'd like to be in.
04. My best first date.
05. A description of my self-esteem.
06. Who my best friends are.
07. My favorite book.
08. Biggest turn-offs.
09. A description of my best friend.
10. My favorite animal.
11. Someone I miss.
12. The reason behind my last break-up.
13. What I did yesterday.
14. My greatest achievements.
15. My favorite songs right now.
16. A description of my last kiss.
17. What I find attractive.
18. All of the pets I've ever owned.
19. My favorite ice cream flavor.
20. The one place I wish I was right now.
21. The most cruel thing anyone has ever said to me.
22. All of the places I've lived.
23. Qualities that make me more likely to love a person.
|24. My future plans.|
25. One of my internal conflicts.
26. What I'm doing tomorrow.
27. My life's aspirations.
28. My most embarrassing moment.
29. Two of my insecurities.
30. What I would do if I won the lottery.
31. What I love most about myself.
32. My biggest pet peeves.
33. What musical artists I've seen live.
34. How many kids I would like to have.
35. My idea of a perfect date.
36. What I'm really excellent at.
37. My most traumatic experience.
38. Where I would like to live.
39. The nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.
40. Whether I like where I live now.
41. What I can hear right now.
42. My relationship with my siblings.
43. What's currently worrying me the most.
44. Something I've repeatedly wished for.
45. My relationship with my parents.
46. What I dislike most about myself.
Code swiped from here.
I already did some kind of pseudo-coming out thing on Facebook to the surprise of no one, though the familial journey has been harder to deal with and isn't what one would call entirely complete or open. That said, it's long past time to be fully honest with myself (and what better way to do that than through journal fap, I ask??).
( *fapfapfap* )
because who does that?
if I am not electrocuted by the end of this post, well, yay for me, but also I will have hopefully gotten a few things out.
one, I'm an idiot, but I'm recognizing that so that's cool.
two, I have accepted, nay, embraced that my job is eating my soul and destroying me both physically and mentally. I can't jump ship quite yet, but I am jobhunting like a jobhunting thing.
the hunt means I cannot sport my customary mohawk, which gives me great grief.
I wish to be more active in both writing and art, though the art is my eyes only because a) it sucks and b) it is just to get back into things, stress relief, and maayyybe to improve.
I wish to be more open with the world at large with my identity rather than my assignment, but that's kinda a work in progress.
I fucking love trains.
Posted via LiveJournal app for Android.
which is just silly, because if I ever learn how to use an LJ cut, it'll be the normal brightass screen anyhow....bleh.
This journal is excessively fappy. I feel the need to go back and clean up or otherwise
nuke silly old emoposts from when I was but a child.
I am yet a child and will continue to fap within this journal, because that is who I am, but hey, good intentions, right?
Posted via LiveJournal app for Android.
No. 1 Scene, Swan Lake, Nutcracker: Tchaikov--he's been done and done again and will be played probably centuries hence. He's been done well, amazingly, mediocre, and, of course, epically shitty. One thing I hate to lose in the various interpretations of my favorite Nut tune is the drama. It drips with it, when done right, and comes off as an emo two-year-old when massacred by overeager conductors. The orchestra is not meant to be sped headlong into mangling the heavy, climactic crescendo. Sounds like a carriage wreck with horselimbs flying everywhere.
Dignity. Deliberation. Discipline. The London Festival Orchestra nailed it, and I've yet to hear a better interpretation live or otherwise (the Bolshoi notwithstanding). Of course, it is the LFO, but if you want good fettuccine you don't go to a fast-food place, right? Not that they serve that there but I'm sure there's one somewhere.
Sometimes slow and heavy is the key. Not ponderous or uncoordinated, but patient, careful, sneaking up and whammo-ing the listener for maximum effect, and stretching it out. The big bang of No. 1 Scene is all about that, and the LFO takes the setup and paints the color, delineates the field, and builds the army. It's like an assault destined for defeat, some kind of sad, beautiful charge before a fall. And equating this piece of music to any kind of battle is really, really corny and I think ol' Pete would smack me for it, and right he'd be.
Guess what I'm listening to right now? The muse spoke up, I guess, and it's been pretty quiet lately, so silly post or not, s'what was on my mind.
Rating: NC-17 (Eventually. For this part, dirty shopping, f-bombs, and a mankiss.)
Disclaimer: Don't own the concert/band I went to, which this is loosely based off of. Sort of. Not really. And I do not speak either German or Russian (or good English for that matter), so the
Summary: An American meets a Russian while in Berlin to see a concert, aaaand that's about all this has going for it at the moment.
Author's Notes: Ur, lessee, I have no real idea how to sell this here fic. Ficlet. WIP ficcy thing. Oddly enough, the main characters are based off of an old WIP that'll never see the light of day, which will be cannibalized for parts for this one. The impetus for this was: aforementioned WIP born of living in my roach-infested slumlord aunt's apartment complex, trufax; a Rammstein concert in Berlin (and largely my newfound and impossibly deep love for said city); and The Sims 3.
( "Yeah, but I was looking for some plot with my porn, you know?" )
This would be a teeny snippet of a conversation between myself and some nut at the job:
Me: Hello. What can I do for you?
Some New Kid: Where do I sell books back?
Me: Here works.
SNK: But, like, does it matter?
Me: Excuse me?
SNK: Like, I mean, where do I sell them?
Me: ...Here works.
SNK: Kay. So I talk to you?
SNK: Kay. (starts taking books out of bag)
Me: First and last name?
SNK: Maira Lopez. M-A-I-R-A.
Me: (scans books)
M-A-I-R-A Lopez: So, like, it doesn't matter where I go?
Me: Depends on who's buying back. We buy all year round.
Lopez: Wait, there's different stores?
Me: We're not affiliated with the University.
Lopez: SHUT UP! Really?
Me: (blinking) Uh...yeah.
Lopez: Wow. Like, wow. So you offer more money than the main place?
Me: We try to. That'd be fifty-six bucks.
Lopez: Like, cool.
We never climbed it's slippery slopes, crawled through the mud to the path of enlightenment.
All we are: poorly formed creatures with the illusion of complexity floating about in the ether, lucky to snag a passing glimpse of what it means to be real.
It's what I call myself. It's the name my first real character ever took, before I even had the inkling to swipe it. It's what I use in gaming and anything online.
What the hell does it mean?
You got me. Somebody asked me at a party "Why Zero?" Since I was too embarrassed to say 'well, it's the name (first, last, and only) of one of my biggest, most developed characters in an out-of-character drama novella thing that I started writing when I was fifteen and sucks, I thought it was cool, and I totally stole it because I secretly wish I could be him.' Sounds rather lame put that way, as well.
So I made up some bullshit that I don't even remember, which sounded rather lame too.
Point is, I like it. No other reason than that. I like it, and somehow, it's me.
I say that, and immediately images and concepts zap along little neuron pathways in your brain. You know what one is.
Okay, then--howzabout a buttprint?
I mean, handprints are rather similar to fingerprints as they have ridges which can identify an individual, but most other parts of the body excluding the hands and feet to not possess such unique and accessible characteristics.
Well, I took a potty break, entered a stall, and today my world changed.
I was beholding an honest-to-God buttprint. As in a perfectly formed residual image of someone's bootie on porcelain--or whatever imitation plastic shit institutions use. The print was perfectly preserved, heart-shaped, and I bet law enforcement could use it to identify the individual.
A fucking assprint.
(Noooo, you say.)
Bullshit is prevalent in our culture, as befits our most habitual predeliction. In short, this installment of the On Bullshit series focuses on absorbative reading. Or readers.
Ah, hell. It's one of my rants.
When did people stop reading for fun?
I mean, I had a class, based on the creation of original ideas in story structure or some approximation thereof, in which the grading and critical practices were, sadly, very...
Well, fucked up.
An example--I start a story thus: "A man was walking down a dusty road."
Immediately, my instructor or several 'readers--'I use the term rather loosely--would break in with various objections.
"Who is this man? Where does he come from? What is/are his motivation(s) for walking this particular road? What are his eye color, hair color, height, weight, ethnic persuasion and star sign? Why is he walking this road now? I need more information. Why, why, why?"
To which I reply: BECAUSE HE FUCKING WANTS TO, YOU GODDAMN MORONS!
Jesus Christ. Seriously. Learning what made someone tick used to be the fun of the thing. Finding out why and when and who was what you read further in the damned story. You don't demand this person's blood type right off the damn bat, you sit back and enjoy the fucking movie and find out. It's much cooler to find out after a steamy love scene which way he tucks it than on a goddam dossier.
This insane whorish demand for information prior to immersment (?) in a story defeats the purpose, the mystery, the fun. I counter these questions: Why the fuck are YOU reading it? Get the hell away from my book!
It's a dishonor to the material and the author. Constant justification is the slutful demand for authors to give it up on the first page.
Kiss my ass.
On another note, I find the manner in which poetry, be it good or bad, accessible or obscure, is read to be asinine. Nobody wants to hear a great poet butchered by 'Dick and Jane.'