I eat with these crooked teeth
Tomato soup and grilled cheese
But you already know that because you used to dine with me
Do you remember?
I listen to my same old cd's
New order & Morissey
But you already know that because you used to ride with me
I thought I'd be singing a different tune by now
But this song about you keeps coming out
I sleep in these dirty sheets
A blanket between my boney knees
But you already know that because you used to
Crawl in bed with me in the morning before work
Put your hands on my back
Kiss the back of my neck
I thought I'd be singing a different tune by now
But this song about you keeps coming out
I hoped to be singing to someone new by now
But the songs about you keep coming out
2/22/2007
In The Morning, Before Work
by Owen
2/14/2007
S.A.D.
Welcome to Singles Awareness Day. Allow me to rant, if I may…
I love orange marmalade. I do not know why. I don't particularly enjoy orange peelings, but when they're mashed up and mixed with a butt-load of sugar, I suddenly adore them. I relish putting marmalade jam/jelly on English muffins. Why must we capitalize the name of languages even if they are being used as a pseudo-adjective? Maybe we shouldn't. Maybe it should just be english muffins. Then again, who really gives a shit? I guess I don't.
Some people seem to think that cats are better pets than dogs. I think that this is definitely a matter of personal preference, but I will forever contend that cats are crappy pets and dogs are totally the best. First of all, cats are practically free while dogs cost a fortune. This is to say that people want dogs more than they desire cats. Secondly, cats are so freaking moody and independent. You have to win their affection but they will still only give you affection when you least desire it (when you are trying to sleep, e.g.). Dogs, on the other hand, are almost always willing to give you instant affection and they will remain loyal forever. Also, dogs are much better at sensing when you are emotionally down and they will console you, even though they haven't a clue what you are saying. Thirdly, cats, in general, have more hair than dogs (or at least the kind of dog that I want) and they shed WAY more. Plus, you always have to hold a cat so that they can feel loved and this always disperses nasty cat hairs all over your sweater/jacket/coat/shirt/face/legs/pants/shoes/hat/scarf/whatever! Lastly, dogs are much easier to train.
You know what really irks me? People who are very opinionated about everything, whether or not they actually know anything about it, and can't stand to be wrong. So much so that they will back up things that they don't have adequate knowledge on with faulty logic. And the thing that gets me the most: not being able to say that they are wrong. Even if they AREN'T. Just to end an argument or to let somebody else have their moment in the sun, they will NEVER back down from ANY argument nor will they EVER admit, accept, or agree to defeat. They may consider it perseverance, determination, and a never-say-die philosophy, but I would consider it complete egoism and utter arrogance.
To the one who thinks she doesn't matter:
Thank you for the 20 dollars in a time when I needed it most. I am ashamed to say that I spent it all in one place. Thank you for the card. I adore it. Thank you for the moments of understanding and the willingness to listen when understanding fails. Thank you for your honesty. Thank you for being the best I have ever had, and most likely the best I ever will have had. (I think that's a pluperfect subjunctive.) Thank you for not killing me…or yourself. Thank you for everything you've ever done for me and for loving me even though I hardly did anything for you. Thank you a million times, and a million times again.
I'm sorry.
I love orange marmalade. I do not know why. I don't particularly enjoy orange peelings, but when they're mashed up and mixed with a butt-load of sugar, I suddenly adore them. I relish putting marmalade jam/jelly on English muffins. Why must we capitalize the name of languages even if they are being used as a pseudo-adjective? Maybe we shouldn't. Maybe it should just be english muffins. Then again, who really gives a shit? I guess I don't.
Some people seem to think that cats are better pets than dogs. I think that this is definitely a matter of personal preference, but I will forever contend that cats are crappy pets and dogs are totally the best. First of all, cats are practically free while dogs cost a fortune. This is to say that people want dogs more than they desire cats. Secondly, cats are so freaking moody and independent. You have to win their affection but they will still only give you affection when you least desire it (when you are trying to sleep, e.g.). Dogs, on the other hand, are almost always willing to give you instant affection and they will remain loyal forever. Also, dogs are much better at sensing when you are emotionally down and they will console you, even though they haven't a clue what you are saying. Thirdly, cats, in general, have more hair than dogs (or at least the kind of dog that I want) and they shed WAY more. Plus, you always have to hold a cat so that they can feel loved and this always disperses nasty cat hairs all over your sweater/jacket/coat/shirt/face/legs/pants/shoes/hat/scarf/whatever! Lastly, dogs are much easier to train. You know what really irks me? People who are very opinionated about everything, whether or not they actually know anything about it, and can't stand to be wrong. So much so that they will back up things that they don't have adequate knowledge on with faulty logic. And the thing that gets me the most: not being able to say that they are wrong. Even if they AREN'T. Just to end an argument or to let somebody else have their moment in the sun, they will NEVER back down from ANY argument nor will they EVER admit, accept, or agree to defeat. They may consider it perseverance, determination, and a never-say-die philosophy, but I would consider it complete egoism and utter arrogance.
To the one who thinks she doesn't matter:
Thank you for the 20 dollars in a time when I needed it most. I am ashamed to say that I spent it all in one place. Thank you for the card. I adore it. Thank you for the moments of understanding and the willingness to listen when understanding fails. Thank you for your honesty. Thank you for being the best I have ever had, and most likely the best I ever will have had. (I think that's a pluperfect subjunctive.) Thank you for not killing me…or yourself. Thank you for everything you've ever done for me and for loving me even though I hardly did anything for you. Thank you a million times, and a million times again.
I'm sorry.
2/07/2007
I can see right over the tops of the houses…
There we were. Ike, Mike, and Mustard—or at least Crazy, Cool, and Nervous-As-All-Hell. Our car enveloped in thick fog as the night indifferently rolled on. No moon to guide us, but for now that was no problem. Ten minutes outside of town, Crazy slows down, turns off the headlights, and pulls into a gravel road as The Beatles tell us how far their troubles seemed to be yesterday. Parking behind a large grain elevator in between two homes, she tells us to very quietly exit the vehicle. We do so, taking extra care to lightly close our car doors and then bump them fully shut with our torsos. That's the most action I've gotten in months; side-humping the left, rear door of Crazy's sedan.
Crazy leads the way. She's done this before. And not just at this location. She's moving like a skilled professional. "It's a bit muddy here," she whispers back at us in a motherly tone. We sidestep onto a slab of cement. A gently curving yet rocky path veers off to our left guiding us to our point of ascension betwixt the silo and the elevator. Icicles dangle from the bottom rung of a frigid metal ladder. "Come on. Now all we have to do is climb," she instructs. With a fluid, effortless movement that would make a river jealous, she reaches up and grabs the first rung, which is a good six feet above the ground, swings over to one side, throws a leg up onto some sort of electrical switch box, and shimmies herself half-way up the ladder. Cool steps up next.
"I can't reach," she says, more out-loud than I would prefer.
"Just grab it and then use the box to push yourself up," retorts Crazy.
I give her a boost, still wondering why I agreed to climb up such a monstrosity in the first place. As I stare towards the summit, trying to catch a glimpse at the goal, my fear of heights begins to wonder even more.
"Are you coming?" Cool asks without really waiting for an answer.
"Uhm…Yeah, just give me a minute," I stammer, and, after a quick breather, I grab that icy bottom rung, throw my leg up onto the box, and push myself up onto the ladder. Hand over hand, rung after frozen rung, I pull myself up the 20 feet of ladder to the first rooftop. Leaving the ladder behind me, I step towards the second ladder. My foot gives slightly on the icy rooftop and small chunks of my life flash before my eyes. They're all boring. Watching TV, learning code, sleeping in, eating junk food…is this all my life amounts to? New courage whelms up inside me. I begin the ascent up the second, frozen ladder.
About a quarter of the way up, and after already stopping twice to re-warm my hands, I pause once more to let the blood flow back into my fingers. In an attempt to keep my fingers warm, I pull the sleeves of my jacket over my hands and continue the climb. Eventually I realize that this is not helping as much as I'd hoped, so I devise a brilliant strategy of keeping my right hand covered with the sleeve of my jacket while my left hand remains exposed. Rather than climbing normally, hand over hand, I wrap my left arm around the side of the ladder and tuck it over the rung so as to gain a secondary "grip" on the ladder while freeing up my left jacket sleeve so that my right one could be pulled even farther to keep the hand actually gripping the rungs much warmer. With this new method, I climb the remaining 100-150 feet of ladder at double speed.
Naturally, Crazy and Cool had been at the top for quite some time periodically looking over the edge and calling down to me: "Hurry up!", "You're almost there!", "Are you doing alright?", "It's so great up here!", and so on. The top of the elevator wasn't the coolest thing in the world, but it certainly gave a feeling of accomplishment. Abysmal fog blocked the incandescence of the city from leaking into our eyes, but the view was not completely void of interest. After about 5 minutes of walking around to all sides and forcing myself to peer over the edges, we began the descent.
Once back on the ground (Oh, sweet ground!), we all scamper off to the car, climb inside—this time not caring how much noise we make—turn up the heat and let our chilled fingers pulsate. The Beatles croon about life in a Yellow Submarine as we vanish back into the forgetful night.
Crazy leads the way. She's done this before. And not just at this location. She's moving like a skilled professional. "It's a bit muddy here," she whispers back at us in a motherly tone. We sidestep onto a slab of cement. A gently curving yet rocky path veers off to our left guiding us to our point of ascension betwixt the silo and the elevator. Icicles dangle from the bottom rung of a frigid metal ladder. "Come on. Now all we have to do is climb," she instructs. With a fluid, effortless movement that would make a river jealous, she reaches up and grabs the first rung, which is a good six feet above the ground, swings over to one side, throws a leg up onto some sort of electrical switch box, and shimmies herself half-way up the ladder. Cool steps up next.
"I can't reach," she says, more out-loud than I would prefer.
"Just grab it and then use the box to push yourself up," retorts Crazy.
I give her a boost, still wondering why I agreed to climb up such a monstrosity in the first place. As I stare towards the summit, trying to catch a glimpse at the goal, my fear of heights begins to wonder even more.
"Are you coming?" Cool asks without really waiting for an answer.
"Uhm…Yeah, just give me a minute," I stammer, and, after a quick breather, I grab that icy bottom rung, throw my leg up onto the box, and push myself up onto the ladder. Hand over hand, rung after frozen rung, I pull myself up the 20 feet of ladder to the first rooftop. Leaving the ladder behind me, I step towards the second ladder. My foot gives slightly on the icy rooftop and small chunks of my life flash before my eyes. They're all boring. Watching TV, learning code, sleeping in, eating junk food…is this all my life amounts to? New courage whelms up inside me. I begin the ascent up the second, frozen ladder.
About a quarter of the way up, and after already stopping twice to re-warm my hands, I pause once more to let the blood flow back into my fingers. In an attempt to keep my fingers warm, I pull the sleeves of my jacket over my hands and continue the climb. Eventually I realize that this is not helping as much as I'd hoped, so I devise a brilliant strategy of keeping my right hand covered with the sleeve of my jacket while my left hand remains exposed. Rather than climbing normally, hand over hand, I wrap my left arm around the side of the ladder and tuck it over the rung so as to gain a secondary "grip" on the ladder while freeing up my left jacket sleeve so that my right one could be pulled even farther to keep the hand actually gripping the rungs much warmer. With this new method, I climb the remaining 100-150 feet of ladder at double speed.
Naturally, Crazy and Cool had been at the top for quite some time periodically looking over the edge and calling down to me: "Hurry up!", "You're almost there!", "Are you doing alright?", "It's so great up here!", and so on. The top of the elevator wasn't the coolest thing in the world, but it certainly gave a feeling of accomplishment. Abysmal fog blocked the incandescence of the city from leaking into our eyes, but the view was not completely void of interest. After about 5 minutes of walking around to all sides and forcing myself to peer over the edges, we began the descent.
Once back on the ground (Oh, sweet ground!), we all scamper off to the car, climb inside—this time not caring how much noise we make—turn up the heat and let our chilled fingers pulsate. The Beatles croon about life in a Yellow Submarine as we vanish back into the forgetful night.
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