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| A list of random thoughts:
1. I think the Earth is really a yo-yo; earthquakes are when some toddler angel messes up.
2. Whoever is controlling the traffic lights really doesn't like me.
3. If you pick a ringtone because you think it's really cool, it's probably the one everyone else will hate.
4. Flamingos must have a hard time blending into their surroundings, unless they're surrounded by other flamingos.
5. People need shock collars more than dogs -- dogs are easier to train.
6. A fruit hat is the most practical hat.
7. Hemingway is not romantic: he is unrealistic and incredibly horny, but he can write really well.
8. Bamboo is the easiest houseplant to keep alive (aside from plastic ones).
9. Doing absolutely nothing is as hard as doing absolutely everything.
10. A lawsuit has not brought down the grocery store's label of "wieners" above the hot dogs and sausages.
11. Even if we could photosynthesize for food, people would still eat McDonald's.
12. Empty luggage is intimidating. Full luggage is heavy.
13. I dread to see what they put on Chuck Norris's tombstone.
14. Garlic is a cure for bad breath, but most people don't like the smell of garlic, so it's really not.
15. Yetti women must spend a ton on hair supplies. | | |
| I don't exactly consider xanga a blog. I used to, but I don't anymore -- which I'm sure is obvious by the way I treat it as more of a creative outlet, if you will. (I refuse to think my boredom is creative, but I find there are no other words right now.)
The point is that I'm creating a real blog. This is merely because I'm leaving the country on January 13th to study in England for a semester. I've had lots of people asking me to send postcards, keep them updated with what I'm doing, etc. And really, that's a lot of work to do if I personally email every single person. It's not that I don't love you; it's that I love myself more, hahaha. No, I just don't want to spend hours every weekend emailing. I also don't like the idea of sending out an impersonal mass email to people who will probably start getting bored with my stories and feel that they're clogging inboxes; thus, the blog. You can venture to it, if you actually care. I promise you that I will try to make my humdrum life as interesting as possible.
Enough chatter. This is the place to go:
http://glovebox42.blogspot.com/ | | |
| Today I met a woman who has read far too many mystery novels. She was retired, white-haired and wrinkled, looking for a mystery of her own. What was her mystery?
She pushed a couple of novels toward me. "Returning?" I asked. She nodded, yet proceeded to lean forward with one book still in her hand.
"You must look at this, you must!" she cried, opening a florescent-coloured book. "This is the sixth book I've checked out by this author and every one I've read -- every one -- has had the corner of its pages ripped."
I couldn't dispute that the pages weren't in pristine condition, but the thing wasn't all that badly damaged in comparison to most books that are returned. A few torn corners of pages is nothing next to a book that reeks of cat urine, or one that is covered in some unknown sticky substance. If the book isn't falling apart, if it's still readable, if it's not contaminated, then it's going back on the shelf. I wasn't about to call the library police to investigate who had torn the corners of a certain author's books. But this woman wouldn't hear of it.
"Couldn't you mark the books that haven't been torn and track them so that when they go out, you can check them when they come back and see if the corners have been torn?" she asked me. "It's a mystery, and I want to solve it."
"Look," I told her, "you're in a library filled with more books than I can count. It's not easy to track one book to see who checks it out and then take note of any damages done to it during the loan period." I didn't feel the need to add that the novel wasn't in a terrible condition. And if we did catch this corner-tearing perpetrator, what were we going to do? Revoke library privileges? Make that person pay for a book that we probably wouldn't be replacing? Or perhaps that criminal should face formal charges for ripping a few pieces of paper. "We don't really have the time to do something like that."
She backed away from the desk and scowled at me. "You don't understand what I'm talking about," she said in a tone only a curmudgeon could manage.
"No. Actually, I do know what you're saying. It's not practical."
But she wasn't listening to me. Clearly, someone who looks rather young wouldn't be able to comprehend her brilliant plan, which I have now decided was a result of lunacy from too many bad mystery novels. She walked over to a librarian closer to her age and gave the 'mysterious' story all over again. Lo and behold, she was told of the impracticality of tracking one or two books out of millions for absolutely no reason. And, of course, this answer was sufficient because it came from another woman who had white hair. White-haired women only trust other women with white hair, and anyone with fewer wrinkles just doesn't have the intelligence to understand anything. | | |
| After years of depression, Apostrophe no longer possesses life
Apostrophe, precise age unknown, died today after a long battle with depression and anxiety.
Born and raised in Greece, Apostrophe was adopted into the English language in the 16th century. With a name that translates to "turning away", Apostrophe was destined to have a hard time finding his place in the linguistic community. In his early years, he flaunted his ability to take the place of omitted letters in words. He was content with this simple yet pleasurable occupation until, in the 17th century, printers offered him the position of denoting singular possessives. Slightly greedy, Apostrophe felt that he simply must own this job. A century later, he held the power to denote plural possessives as well. But this was not enough for Apostrophe – he felt he had far more talents to provide to language.
Apostrophe ventured into publications to indicate non-standard English, such as unusual dialects. And to put one more job on his resume, he took to indicating the plurals of letters and words. With his earnings, he moved to Ireland where the locals became so fond of Apostrophe that they placed him in their names.
While Apostrophe was well aware of his functions in language and was praised for his usefulness, most of his employers failed to keep his jobs straight. They knew he had a long list of occupations, but often found they would forget one or use him where his help only created confusion. On the signs in supermarkets, the green grocers overworked Apostrophe as they desired to give him the job of pluralizing. Faced with serious anxiety, Apostrophe soon encountered an identity crisis.
After holidaying in Tahiti to restore his health, Apostrophe returned to society to find Comma occasionally draped where he used to gracefully float or, sometimes, he was completely forgotten. Feeling that the community had lost use for him, he sunk into a deep depression. He sought comfort from Semicolon, the illegitimate child of Comma and Period, who understood what it was like to be misused and forgotten. But Semicolon could not help him answer the questions troubling his mind: Should he show plurals? Was he required to show the possessive of "it"? He knew what his resume read, but his employers seemed to be convinced his jobs were far different. Semicolon, without much advice, merely linked together the related thoughts of Apostrophe, making his situation even more exasperated.
Certain that his days as a punctuation mark were over, he joined the musical group N*Sync, only to be replaced by an asterisk when Apostrophe proved to actually have some musical abilities.
The only true defender of Apostrophe was John Richards, founder of the Apostrophe Protection Society. Founded in 2001, APS was too late to save Apostrophe. The messages they sent to businesses failing to properly use Apostrophe failed to aid the ailing punctuation mark.
In the past decade, Apostrophe has wandered listlessly from job to job, unsure of what he was doing. His confidence was shattered and he died of anguish, possessing nothing.
Surviving him are his asexual offspring twins: Quotation and Mark. The twins were eager to quote others, but offered no comments of their own.
Now we find ourselves in a new era: an era without Apostrophe. An era where Semicolon remains a hermit, where Comma runs rampant, and where Period is the only consistency in punctuation. | | |
| [I'm writing poetry now. God help us all.]
Waldo
My eyes are searching a picture
of a facsimile scene in ancient Egypt.
There's a man walking a poodle
on a path around the pyramids,
wearing a parka in the desert.
There's a child whose ice cream
has fallen to the ground
melting into a scented bath for ants.
There's a man with a red
shirt; a woman with a white
skirt; someone’s in stripes
but lacking the hat and spectacles.
My eyes are searching the page
for a familiar friend who will not
be revealed. Every face, every figure
is pulling me in, letting my mind
stray from its search.
There's a boy skating past
a group of scantily-clad girls
Perfecting their skin tones with sunshine.
There's a stockbroker whose pocket watch
swings – left, right, left, right –
as he checks the time. | | |
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