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I think it's about time to move out of home
****. You really do have to grow a pair at a certain point in your life.
Cleaning up this little suburban hobble. I realize I'm the only one who knows how to keep things in order. The only one who desires to have things more or less sanitary & "clean". It's unreal how much thicker the mattes of dirt and fuzz appear if you wear your glasses around the house.
There's a little pink chair that sits idly in the corner of our living room, amongst 3 dozen other furnishing items which define a shared space of pure clutter. About the most retarded thing I've seen in my life, it serves no purpose other than "being that little pink chair" which further constricts an otherwise potential living space.
I imagine my Mother picked that adorable item up from her beloved Women in Need shelter. Neither having to be a 'Woman in Need', nor to fantasize of this horrific item as anything other than trash, my Mother is as peculiar as they come. No, Mom, it's not kitsch - it's not a Barbie like, identifiable symbol of pop art. No, no, no, it's not any way an 'antique'. A pink, semi sheen - piece of trash. I fantasize only of its buckling in the back of a dump truck, if it weren't for the bullied frown she'd then display. Those hydraulic pistons, engineered genius, heaving a *crrrrRUMNP* out of that piece of trash.
In tune with the season, Toblerone bars of varying type and size adorn every inch of table surface available. No longer with any identifiable ownership or home, they've rather left their sovereign stockings to inadvertantly become part of the 'collective'. Piece by piece, they should last in same spot(s) till mid January, or so. Their empty wrappings will persist till sometime early February.
Just pure hilarious, and decidedly illustrative of the 'loving yet somewhat zany' relationship our outer family shares - is gift from one mother to the next. A festive coloured accent pillow. Able for any use you can imagine; from "sitting under the tree with an utterly hilarious Christmas message" one week - to "sitting half under a creeky & soiled armchair" the next fifty-five. To further describe the hilariousness and loving acceptance passed on as gift with this pillow, is to describe message embroidered on its adorably festive face:
SANTA, THIS YEAR, JUST BRING ME ONE OF EVERYTHING!!
Simply hilarious. And how appropriate a gift for the described character of your daughter, Grandma! I got you a Burberry purse, yet I'm sure the family gathered about the tree remembers in more detail the unwrapping of the accent pillow. What an adventure!
Nah. Now that's just mean. They indeed know of the world I tried at least for a brief minute to bring into this house. And solemnly, maybe even of the importance that the alien known as James must have held in watching her unwrap it. That which shouldn't matter, in all tales of the immaterial before told - yet which seems to so dearly matter in my own eyes. Going down the wrong path, or should the trip at least be tried once? A happy medium between the baubles of wealth, and the neglected carpets of near welfare?
Is happiness a trite epiphany after journeying down one road, only after so predictable a turn to long for the familiar and family of the other?
Holy frazzled Cat****. I've been scooping screws and random bits into the poor little things litter box, amongst the half pound of urine glazed gravel that's laid scattered about our laundry room since October. "Does Daddy has to cleans up for the mess the little cat likes to maaaaaAAAaAAAke??". No, Dad. Whether you're so busy with indignance, or the source burden of caring for us all - I'm pretty sure you like living like that. I'll clean it up at my own schedule of laziness and irrepsonsibility, instead.
I really like that story where MtG is told "by my rules, or leave the house". So he leaves, and sleep in parks, until becoming his own, literally from the ground up.
Yet at the same time, it terrifies me. At a certain point, I guess we all do really learn that life isn't fair, don't we?
To be a spoiled little b*tch. At least spoiled, because the b*tch part is definitely stacked and sorted. You know. Have your tuition paid for. Sent off to some predictable school to study law, and given a mid-range Japanese sedan. A modest tool to assure functionality without hardship, in adhering to a 3.1, while bagging 7/10 freshman bunnies.
Ohhh, a destiny of mediocrity, or a destiny of whining. A destiny of family, or of rejection of what that's come to meant. Free will and moustaches, scholarly texts or cloudy syringes. What don't we all have to make our realities become, what they should become?
CUURRANT MOOD: Semi chapped, penis head crimson
Cleaning up this little suburban hobble. I realize I'm the only one who knows how to keep things in order. The only one who desires to have things more or less sanitary & "clean". It's unreal how much thicker the mattes of dirt and fuzz appear if you wear your glasses around the house.
There's a little pink chair that sits idly in the corner of our living room, amongst 3 dozen other furnishing items which define a shared space of pure clutter. About the most retarded thing I've seen in my life, it serves no purpose other than "being that little pink chair" which further constricts an otherwise potential living space.
I imagine my Mother picked that adorable item up from her beloved Women in Need shelter. Neither having to be a 'Woman in Need', nor to fantasize of this horrific item as anything other than trash, my Mother is as peculiar as they come. No, Mom, it's not kitsch - it's not a Barbie like, identifiable symbol of pop art. No, no, no, it's not any way an 'antique'. A pink, semi sheen - piece of trash. I fantasize only of its buckling in the back of a dump truck, if it weren't for the bullied frown she'd then display. Those hydraulic pistons, engineered genius, heaving a *crrrrRUMNP* out of that piece of trash.
In tune with the season, Toblerone bars of varying type and size adorn every inch of table surface available. No longer with any identifiable ownership or home, they've rather left their sovereign stockings to inadvertantly become part of the 'collective'. Piece by piece, they should last in same spot(s) till mid January, or so. Their empty wrappings will persist till sometime early February.
Just pure hilarious, and decidedly illustrative of the 'loving yet somewhat zany' relationship our outer family shares - is gift from one mother to the next. A festive coloured accent pillow. Able for any use you can imagine; from "sitting under the tree with an utterly hilarious Christmas message" one week - to "sitting half under a creeky & soiled armchair" the next fifty-five. To further describe the hilariousness and loving acceptance passed on as gift with this pillow, is to describe message embroidered on its adorably festive face:
SANTA, THIS YEAR, JUST BRING ME ONE OF EVERYTHING!!
Simply hilarious. And how appropriate a gift for the described character of your daughter, Grandma! I got you a Burberry purse, yet I'm sure the family gathered about the tree remembers in more detail the unwrapping of the accent pillow. What an adventure!
Nah. Now that's just mean. They indeed know of the world I tried at least for a brief minute to bring into this house. And solemnly, maybe even of the importance that the alien known as James must have held in watching her unwrap it. That which shouldn't matter, in all tales of the immaterial before told - yet which seems to so dearly matter in my own eyes. Going down the wrong path, or should the trip at least be tried once? A happy medium between the baubles of wealth, and the neglected carpets of near welfare?
Is happiness a trite epiphany after journeying down one road, only after so predictable a turn to long for the familiar and family of the other?
Holy frazzled Cat****. I've been scooping screws and random bits into the poor little things litter box, amongst the half pound of urine glazed gravel that's laid scattered about our laundry room since October. "Does Daddy has to cleans up for the mess the little cat likes to maaaaaAAAaAAAke??". No, Dad. Whether you're so busy with indignance, or the source burden of caring for us all - I'm pretty sure you like living like that. I'll clean it up at my own schedule of laziness and irrepsonsibility, instead.
I really like that story where MtG is told "by my rules, or leave the house". So he leaves, and sleep in parks, until becoming his own, literally from the ground up.
Yet at the same time, it terrifies me. At a certain point, I guess we all do really learn that life isn't fair, don't we?
To be a spoiled little b*tch. At least spoiled, because the b*tch part is definitely stacked and sorted. You know. Have your tuition paid for. Sent off to some predictable school to study law, and given a mid-range Japanese sedan. A modest tool to assure functionality without hardship, in adhering to a 3.1, while bagging 7/10 freshman bunnies.
Ohhh, a destiny of mediocrity, or a destiny of whining. A destiny of family, or of rejection of what that's come to meant. Free will and moustaches, scholarly texts or cloudy syringes. What don't we all have to make our realities become, what they should become?
CUURRANT MOOD: Semi chapped, penis head crimson
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