i'll count the stars tonight to be sure.
Me connaissez-vous? Non, non. Probablement pas. Having decided that, I am sad to say, "Sorry! Wrong number. I haven't called the local Starbucks myself, but certainly the number must be similar to mine." Voulez-vous me connaître? Ah, je ne veux pas dire intimement! Just one person aware of another, with his (hers? pardonnez-moi, mlle, est-ce que je peux examiner vos organes génitaux?) reality parallel to my own. They say parallel play is perfectly healthy, and I can't see why not.
Well, you won't hear a beep (Je ne suis aucun répondeur, silly! Devez-vous examiner mes organes génitaux?) but you can leave a message with your name and your personal argument for or against octopi, and one of mes secrétaires will contact you shortly.
♥
- Location:work
- Mood:
accomplished - Music:si*se - more shine
Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” He is believed to have called it his greatest literary work ever. Can you write a story in six words? Submitted By |
The sea has grown teeth. Run. / Air was free then, not canned. / He wore flesh like ours, once. / Gave the sheep a lighter. Oops? (Originally by ME. ^_^)
- Mood:
silly
Honestly... smoking, biting my nails, and pacing have replaced the multitude of weird nervous habits I once had. And I chew on the stems of flowers or my (command-issued) PDA's stylus in an attempt to quit smoking. I stand at the window and just stare at the trees for abnormally long periods of time if I'm really stressed out.
- Mood:
still thirsty
Is there a topic you can't stop writing about in your journal? Why do you write about it so much? Submitted By |
Since this journal was created specifically for recapitulation, it is just snips and chunks of my personal history told as objectively as I can manage. I write about these things--some boring, some awful, some funny--so I can eventually piece my entire past-thus-far together. Then I will be able to discover my own behavioral patterns and their roots, which helps me decide how to present myself in the most effective manner possible for what I'm trying to do. It also helps develop my personal integrity and continuity.
The MySpace blog is a different story. It's mainly flowery word vomit, usually about my current mental state. The blogs read about as pretty as razorblades tipped with pink glitter, but are fairly useless and masturbatory in my opinion.
Then there is my frequently neglected sketch journal, in which I'm keep telling myself I'm going to draw in every day but rarely do.
- Mood: thirsty
On a good day, I usually am.
- Mood:
bored
What would you consider to be the single greatest invention in the history of the world? Why? Submitted By |
Fire. Sure, nature invented it and man technically just invented at-demand ignition, but fire is still considered a caveman invention in the history books. It is the only one of the four elements that we have even capability of creating ourselves. We can't make earth or water or air. But we can make a fire, seemingly out of thin air. Society was born of fire and will eventually be obliterated by it.
A bittersweet utterly fantastic thing.
- Mood: bored
shining with all his might;
he did his very best to make
the billows smooth and bright,
and this was odd because it was
the middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily
because she thought the sun
had got no business to be there
after the day was done.
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"to come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be;
the sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud because
no cloud was in the sky.
No birds were flying overhead;
there were no birds to fly.
The walrus and the carpenter
were walking close at hand.
They wept like anything to see
such quantities of sand.
"If this were only cleared away,"
they said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
swept it for half a year,
do you suppose," the walrus said,
"that they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the carpenter,
and shed a bitter tear.
"O oysters, come and walk with us!"
the Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
along the briny beach;
we cannot do with more than four
to give a hand to each."
The eldest oyster looked at him,
but never a word he said.
The eldest oyster winked his eye
and shook his heavy head,
meaning to say he did not choose
to leave the oyster-bed.
But four young oysters hurried up,
all eager for the treat.
Their coats were brushed; their faces washed;
their shoes were clean and neat.
And this was odd because, you know,
they hadn't any feet.
Four other oysters followed them--
and yet another four--
and thick and fast they came at last,
and more, and more, and more,
all hopping through the frothy waves
and scrambling to the shore.
The walrus and the carpenter
walked on a mile or so,
and then they rested on a rock
conveniently low.
And all the little oysters stood
and waited in a row.
"The time has come," the walrus said,
"to talk of many things:
of shoes and ships and sealing-wax,
of cabbages and kings,
and why the sea is boiling hot,
and whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the oysters cried,
"before we have our chat,
for some of us are out of breath,
and all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the walrus said,
"is what we chiefly need.
Pepper and vinegar besides
are very good indeed.
Now if you're ready, oysters dear,
we can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the oysters cried,
turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
a dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?"
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf;
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"to play them such a trick,
after we've brought them out so far
and made them trot so quick!"
The carpenter said nothing but,
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the walrus said.
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears, he sorted out
those of the largest size,
holding his pocket-handkerchief
before his streaming eyes.
"O oysters," said the carpenter,
"you've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none,
and this was scarcely odd because
they'd eaten every one.
Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, Lewis Carroll
- Location:work
- Mood:
chipper
Profile
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
and_oh_mrs_o- mrs. o
Syndicate
