there are innocent bystanders EVERYWHERE

So tomorrow I'm going to a convention. Like, an important one. Where people will probably show up in slacks. The last time I went to a con people showed up in their underwear and body paint and posed for pictures and I was kind of belligerent for, um, the entire thing. I sort of wanted to step it up for this one... you know, leave the rum at home and wear pants. Little things.

I was even going to wear slacks until I realized that I had to do laundry to do that, since I wear slacks for my something-like-work. I'd had a shit day that day, in the sense that in the middle of a lecture I was giving I started cramping up so hard if I were a lesser person (and I am NEVER a lesser person) I would have had to cry. So I figured I still had clean capris, and that meant I wouldn't be wandering around in my panties, and that's about as good as it's going to get for these people anyway.

But I knew I still had things to do, which involved shopping. My only painkiller available to me right now is a little prescription for 'Percocet,' a bottle of close to 200 pills that I got as a gifty when I had a sunburn so severe I kept throwing up and couldn't get up to do so into the toilet. I figured my cramps, while not on that level, were still pretty bad. Blinded by pain, I took two.

Vicodin is a painkiller that just sort of makes me sleepy and does nothing to actually kill the pain. Percocet, on the other hand, not only makes the pain STFU and GTFO but I then feel the urge to giggle for about two hours and feel the carpet.

I believe the kids nowadays are calling that 'blitzed out of their mind.'

Remember, I still had things to do. This involved driving approximately five minutes, pulling into a parking lot, and the full effect of the pills hitting me while pulling into a spot.

I started frantically IMing with my friend on my space phone, having a mild panic attack as I remembered how to blink. I knew I was there to buy a shirt for my Halloween costume but I wasn't quite sure how to go about doing that. I still have no idea how potheads function if this is their life:

Me: I think I can make it into Ross.
Her: Alright, be safe...
Me: Fuck. I'm here. There are so many goddamn shirts.
Her: Take it one step at a time.
Her: How high ARE you?
Me: I can talk with you. And I can recognize the color blue. That is the level of my functioning atm.
Her: ...this is so very entertaining.
Me: Shit, where am I? Please tell me you know. There are shoes everywhere. I don't think I wanted shoes.

I did manage to find shirts of a sort. I also found gloves, pillows, the roof, and random strangers who spoke French. I think. At one point I sat down on a pillow and just stared, hoping a kind stranger would help me out. No such luck, I mean, I was in a discount store.

I did make it home. Driving through a parking lot while high? Jesus H. Christ there are at least five times more people around when you're high. And also it was 'drive like an asshole' day. Nobody told me, and it really sucks to be confused and trippin' balls. But I'm alive.

And sometimes it's the little victories you have to focus on.

stop looking at me with that tone of voice!

Man, sometimes I hate the apartment complex I'm in. The individuals are predominantly older, with families, respectable jobs, things to get up for in the morning. AND THEY ALL JUDGE ME.

I mean, come on, group of Indian moms. A girl coming out of her car at 9 am with clubbing clothes on (this face, brought to you by yesterday's makeup!) might just be coming home after crashing at a friend's because the DD got 'slizzard,' as it were. No need to stand there with critical expressions. I thought women were supposed to just KNOW when a bitch got laid, which is NEVER my life.

This morning, when I was in my PJ's (a very large shirt, and if my roommate's lucky, panties), eating brownies straight out of the pan while waiting for my garlic noodles (thank you PF Changs!) to heat up, what do I see when I look up? A middle-aged man standing there, looking into the window.

JUDGING ME.

...or jerking it. I'm not entirely sure. The angle was a little off. Hey, that could be in SOMEONE'S bucket.

Later, when wearing PJ's again (plus bottoms, this time) and going to do my laundry with my hair messy and my shirt that used to fit me when I was in the 8th grade?

Old mother lady standing there, folding clothes.

JUDGED.

Seriously, guys. My life is not as exciting/lame as you think it is. Stop it with the eyes and the staring. Just live vicariously through what you think is going down and leave me out of it.

this entry has no value

I remember watching 'The Neverending Story' for the first time. I hadn't seen it before and was alone, and it was on TV, so whatever.

I actually found it boring, and wandered out of the room a few times--typically during commercials. Another couple of times it was a large-ish chunk.

What I'm pretty sure happened was that they were playing the movies back-to-back, all of them, in a marathon. So occasionally I would come back and the plot would be slightly different, but the same characters, and suddenly the action was building yet nothing from the previous plot had been resolved.

...this went on for 7 hours. Approximately.

Until much, much later I was convinced it really WAS a Neverending Story and I'm still a little scared to rewatch any of the movies in fear that I'll be trapped watching it forever.

Aaaand I'm pretty sure here's where I admit I had no point to this.

Large, vibrating, between my legs.

If you guess 'motorcycle' you win one point!*

So last weekend I went behind a parent's back to ride a motorcycle, or take a class as the first step in getting my license and starting a riding gang named 'Los Conejos Peludos.' Random motorcycle God's way of punishing me for my impertinence was to both give me my Lady Time while on a motorcycle and make me sick. Like, sick enough to skip all kinds of school.

People don't know how to comfort me when I become sick. They think they can do it by comforting body rubs, giving me medication, and giving me good food. I don't know if I'm weird or anything, but:

1. I get super sensitive EVERYWHERE. Like, full body sunburn bad. It hurts to wear clothes, PLEASE DON'T TOUCH ME. 'sides, I'm sick, I'll give you the plague.

2. I like sleep, I know it's good for me when I'm sick, but if I get on medication it has the tendency to not put me directly to sleep. Then I get some very fun fever nightmares and can never sleep again.

3. Food. It tastes like shit. What I'm looking for is: bland. Easy to swallow. Doesn't put up a fuss. OH I JUST DESCRIBED YOUR MOTHER, WHAT UP. No but really, sushi is wasted on me. I appreciate the effort but it tastes like ass.

So anyway, I'm sick and hopped up on medication. I doubt I'll remember this post.

I did name the motorcycle Mori. At first she was Maury after the show cuz I thought she'd give me unnecessary drama in my life. It evolved to Mori when she was only occasionally a bitch. I always name things once they've vibrated between my legs. Just seems like common courtesy.

In case you were wondering, my current dildo's name is Neil Patrick Harris. Suck it, monkeys.


*redeem at later time for cash prize!**

**now 100% dolphin free***

***not a 100% guarantee

I have a lot of things to do tomorrow, so I'm distracting myself from thinking about it at the moment through this entry

I write, on occasion. I do not write well or anything, as my posts show. But I love writing, love stories... I love it even more when I can share them with other people, when I write stories with another person. It gives me the sense of a deadline.

There is a sort of a theme throughout my work, actually several small themes, and I do not know what they say about me. Here are some of my preferred topics:

-bisexual boys
-girls with short hair
-redheads
-piercings
-scars
-dyed hair
-foreign languages
-drugs
-life/relationship-related emotional/physical damage
-commitment issues
-people living very close to the poverty line
-girls with the name Amber
-love/hate relationships
-preschool teachers
-sarcastic characters with snippy wit
-ridiculously laid-back characters who are impossible to insult and by that nature, infuriating
-strippers
-a physical handicap of some kind, possibly caused by an accident: amputee, eye missing, blindness, deafness--all examples of stuff I've written about
-straight boys finding their 'exception'
-...sex while drunk

On a deeper level, I absolutely adore seeing the whole 'humanity in depravity' concept. Or that people can't always be judged by their actions, and even if they take it up the ass for money they might still be good people. Or thinking you are a good person and yet almost able to sit back and watch as you make bad decisions and betray the people you care about. Set your story in a ghetto, make times hard, and see how that changes preconceptions about morals and values. You can do unto others, or you can starve.

Character flaws are awesome. They give you so much to work with. You can make a character better, or you can make them fall deeper. You can't do anything with a perfect character. You might not make your readers sympathetic with this person, but you certainly aren't going to bore them. Maybe on some level they can relate. Nobody's perfect, which is why I love people. Even if the readers are not coke whores crying in an alley, maybe they can find a shred of empathy for the creature experiencing a more intense version of the same self-loathing they might encounter every day. They might not have alcoholism, but the character is so very real that they worry for their addiction, like one might worry for a friend.

In addition, nothing gives me a writing boner more than overcoming all odds with the minimum resources. I was playing a fantasy roleplay, where my character was a human in a strange land. The other person wanted to give me powers so my character wouldn't be so lost and confused. I replied, are you kidding? That sounds intensely interesting. Figuring out how she copes, how her wits keep her world together--that is what keeps this story intriguing.

A romance based on something other than looks? Sign me up. My kink is two people overcoming rivalry. I want people who hated each other to slowly fall in love. I want loud fights devolving into mutual understandings. I want drunken hate kisses, I want angry confessions, I want thrown punches and grown-man pouting sessions and make-up sex and covert glances and insecure musing. Hate to dislike to grudging respect to mutual affection, oof, I just got tingles up my spine.

And okay I've been writing a LOT of homosexual erotica. Um suck it, I like guy romances better than heterosexual ones. Just because of male dynamics, really, and yeah, maybe I write gay romances with like... MEN instead of boys. Maybe a few of my main characters would call stuff 'gay' because they have to prove to the world they have a penis. Guys who are hilariously emotionally retarded at times make me all warm on the inside.

Lastly, I would like to say that while many of the things I've listed here sound slightly morbid and angry, well. I love humor. I like laughing, and making other people laugh, if this was not made obvious by this blog.

I would say I like my humor like I like my coffee, or chocolate, and follow that up with a deep voiced "dark" and follow THAT up with a drawn-out "lllllladies"; but I take my coffee with cream and my chocolate with milk. SO. Unbeknownst to you, that would have been lying. You're welcome. Apparently 'unbeknownst' is not a word. Well it's my word now.

What I do hate about writing? Conclusions. Suck it.

It has judging eyes. Minus one star.

I was going to write something about my voice and how I sound like a squeaky Death, but then my mom came out of nowhere and said, "I got you a present!" I like presents, so I held out my hands and closed my eyes. A box was pressed into my grabby hands.

I got this.

What.

In looking for the link to show people my "what" I also noticed reviews and wanted to write my own. This is what I put up:

My mom saw me recently and gave me this. I don't know why. I graduated college with a BS in Biology. Maybe she thinks I'm a stoner? Or mentally impaired/easily amused? Either way, I feel compelled to rate it, so maybe she wasn't too far off on any count.

At first glance it weirds me out. Dude, the remote has EYES. Maybe if I were under the recommended maximum age of three this wouldn't be so bad, but since I'm 22 I feel the thing is judging me. "Put me down and go get a real job!" Shut up, giggle remote. I HAVE a real job. You don't even KNOW me.

The pictures on the buttons are cash, though. There's my fav, the cookie monster, or whatever they've done with my furry fatty recently (probably went vegan at this point). It turns out when you press the buttons, you can alternate between Elmo saying the numbers and whatever sound the picture would make. For the characters, it changes quite a bit, which is nice. I was wondering what a soccer ball would say. Apparently soccer balls are cartoon springs now. It's not what they sounded like when I played soccer back in the day. Whatever, I learned the number eight. Score! (Other criticisms: The yellow dude of the Bert and Ernie duo only gets one phrase, which is a ripoff. The cookie monster says something I can't make out, but it could be cursing. Good things: the number zero is ALL ELMO. Enjoy.)

I thought the volume and channel buttons wouldn't do anything interesting. THEY ACTUALLY CONTROL THE VOLUME AND CHANNEL. Please tell me you also think this is cool. I guess a parent could turn the volume of the toy down before handing it to a kid, but it kind of defeats the purpose when you put the volume control right back into the kid's hands. I would recommend just taking the batteries out. Or turning it to 'off' but again, totally not the point. If you don't want your children's toys making noises, buy them Play-Doh. (Hint: make it non-toxic. THEY EAT EVERYTHING AT THAT STAGE.)

So this kept me distracted for very nearly 2 minutes, but my attention span is much shorter than that of your average 3 year old. I'm trying to find a way to close the eyes forever. The toy did freak out the cat a little but it's a small price to pay for quality entertainment.

Guess this will teach me to visit home anytime soon.

I doubt that will even make it to the page.

I was adorable. Promise.

I've noticed 'bad day' is one of my most used tags, so I'm adding something to balance it out:

My childhood.

I was an adorable child. I have a journal from when I was in the fourth grade, thereabouts, that has the direct quote "If I were a giant, I would step on people. I would love to hear them scream!" With a drawing to match my statement.

Lately, Mom dug up a picture I had drawn of two cats, a mom cat and a baby cat, looking at a nice picture of a flower with a moth on it, next to a hummingbird. On the back of this picture is a story. I will recreate it exactly (I've double checked, and all the typos are intentional). Italics are where it's also underlined.


The whole story

Hello, I'm Nate Stasi. I'm a strreet cat.

Today I'm going on my first hunting trip.

All I could do is catch moths. It's really hard. First you creep up on your victim, then you pounce.

The first thing I saw on my hunting trip is a humming bird. My mom said I should pounce on the humming bird, but I saw a moth on the flower, and I pounced on it. But, the humming bird was right next to the flower, so I smushed his wings. He couldn't fly. My mom picked up the humming and killed it. We had humming bird stew.

By [ K ]. Illastrated by [ K ].



...apparently this was a Mother's day gift. She loves it. (Name edited out to protect what was once my innocence.)