The Assessment That Counts.

Someone put up this meme type of thing, and it made me think, “Wow. I would have said totally different things.” So, here is mine, done the way I wanted to see it.


– I am more comfortable in my own skin, every day. I consider people who aren’t, to be “behind” me or “lame” or both.

– Speaking of lame, I also think less of people who believe in a higher power just because they decide they are going to. Those who are too loose to abide by the rules enough to not be called “spiritual” are patchwork dipshits, to me.

– If I say I have things on disc that I want to send to you, I send you some discs.

– If I have no room to speak, I don’t. Not only do I say so, but I remind others when they don’t have any room, either.

– I understand that people are different, dynamic, and beautiful in their own ways. I am not looking for someone else when I look for you. I have a surplus of love and will die with it.

– I refuse to pay 400% mall markup prices for some roasted pecans because I know they smell better than they taste.

– My sleeping habits are sound.

– I like microwave dinners mostly because I like to eat more than I like to cook. I am also not picky about it.

– I have a driving urge to put a racing stripe on my family’s astro van.

– I will never leave it to you to determine, precisely, what I mean by anything.

– I don’t enjoy company for very long, but I still need some.

– Sometimes I scorn and jeer when it’s just me and one of my best friends.

– Strippers, Be Ambitious.

– If my dad makes an inappropriate remark about a race or gender, unless it’s something that is usually true, I snap at him immediately. But if it’s usually true, we laugh together. Hard.

– Sometimes I’m social and sometimes I hide in my room. Sometimes I’m shy and sometimes I’m just being quiet.

– Some things are simply the best. And those are my favorites.

– I don’t enjoy the things that I used to, cause I grew up and moved on to better things.

– Sometimes shit happens. No one’s perfect and it’s not like I’ll run out of decisions to make before I’m dead.

– A small fraction of my friends are only internet pals, and that’s totally cool. I adore them.

– I don’t get into car accidents.

– Sometimes, my stories are awesome and deserve to be heard multiple times.

– My toes cramp when I stretch my legs and I whine, grabbing at my feet.

– I can never stop learning.

– I shave lots of things.

– I admire Judge Judy and the way she dismisses all horeshit that doesn’t pertain to cases, and deals solely with the situation itself.

– I can’t think of anything I’m hypocritical about, but I bet there are some things.

– I think that my postal worker is an ass for saying things like “you’re looking good, you must be doing well” to the customers in line. You can’t tell how a person is doing by looking at them. And he’s lying. That bastard.

– I don’t get jealous because I am familiar with the concept of brother and sisterhood, but I still believe in pulling your someome closer to you when you’re dealing with friends of the desired sex.

– People who still think that gays are hell-bound wrongdoers who have no right to marry, are easy for me to write off.

– I get pissy if I can’t find one of my 1000 cds or books, and throw a tizzy.

– My favorite anime is spoken in Japanese and includes a little skin and profanity. I don’t think either is very mature, but both are pretty fun and we are talking toons, here.

– I like feta cheese, but it is smelly.

– I am bad at pre-algebra, but can probably sing better than the lot of you. And I’d rather do that, anyway.

– Beavis and Butthead was never funny to me. It always seemed like old humor.

– When one of my frogs died last night, I cried.

– Cities make me nervous.

– I’ll sleep as much as I need to, whenever I can, and not feel guilty.


Midnight Ramble

There’s a kind of place you see, when you’re sitting passenger, looking out of the window or through the windshield. And after so many times, I’ve come to realize that it’s the same mental state no matter what kind of materials I’ve furnished mine with, previously. And you can tell when someone is standing in the dark, sulking over the disappearance of their velvet drapes and kitchen sink. It’s scary, because I’ve been a victim of my own depths before and I can only imagine just how long a person can live their loss.

You’re pissed about the sunlight streaming in, so you board up the windows. You start to take in water from the flood, and you won’t let it go to save your life so you start to drown. You pace back and forth on the ocean floor, from your sunken treasure to the coral reef and back again, because that’s as far as you can go, not that it matters. You’ve mutated and you breathe your own heartache, in and out. People have to really call, in order for you to hear them. You’ve gone.

Did I leave something out? I can’t remember it as well as if I could still relate. The memory of that impact, though, is strong. This year has been good to me, and I suppose I could construct a figurative mansion complete with an underground pool out back. But to be honest, I’d be too concerned about my own wiring to dive in, for fear of some kind of self-induced relapse.

“Egyptian cotton,” I thought, resting between sheets of it, “I never write about any of this. I should think about trying to.”

My past is full of periods in time that got intense and ended abruptly, like waking up in the middle of a movie your brain’s playing out. There are never goodbyes or much reason to my admittance, which has never bothered me so much, before. For some time now, I’ve been lying awake at night and getting up to recollections that crawled long distances to the forefront. All I ever dare to derive is that it all kind of overwhelms because I know they weren’t dreams.

Characters I capture in writing and then withdraw from seemed to end with my words. They never get any fatter or go back on their pinky swear. Even the brick road that has been in town for forever was restored last year, taking thousands of dollars in order to make the road red like they’ve known it to be. I’ve pointlessly wracked my brain over it, trying to figure out what we managed to preserve.

What you keep, what you fight for. When you give up, when you look back. Who’s here, who isn’t. What you can do. What you can’t do. What it means, what now.

My mother’s dad passed away and her place for escape currently has the look of slow recovery. Farm equipment is disappearing, personal items are strewn about and there’s a gaping hole on the grounds where someone used to be. I spent a lot of time in Alma with an aunt and grandparents that worked together to create the perfect reality until one day… it just wasn’t like that, anymore. And before it can be something else, there’s a transitional period where you see the ruins and mourn the loss…

Are your memories something that you have, or reminders of something you miss?

These ideas and images were coming to me on my way through town as I watched an abandoned complex being demolished. I eyed the yellow machines suspiciously. They had toothed parts and were coming down from high up, like monsters eating through a page in my story.

All of these construction sites.

I had started to forget that this place isn’t a world in my head that never changes.

Murky Sugar Water Vol. II, Sail On.

You would think that if someone had browsed my lists and found items they wanted enough to risk sending me music for, that they would at least send decent CDs. Like perhaps, “Gee. I really hope they pull through. I’d better make a nice impression so they can see how much I’m looking forward to those titles.”

Or, how about, “Man, my KB 2 was fucked up from the first track. I’d better cross that selection off my trade list. I mean, sheesh! Wouldn’t I BE A TOTAL ASSHOLE FOR SENDING THAT OUT!”

My eyes did not widen when I highlighted “shit” and copied it; I specifically pasted “Kill Bill Vol. II” into my e-mail. The second request for the selection from someone and there are repeat tracks hiding holes, and glitches. “Goodnight Moon” is some kind of bad temp data, occasionally playing chunks of Johnny Cash throughout. And this was the first of six offerings I got from them.

Not that it was it the “Mp3 trading game”, mind you, which also pissed me off. As much time and as many clicks as that still saves me, I asked if the material had been ripped from the source. What a waste of name brand blanks, too…they had pretty little blue swirlies.

This has upset me, but also driven me to grab the handfull of things I needed for a proper patch. I’m currently hanging around for songs that were featured in the film but left off the soundtrack (Amazon reviewers report the coolest things). In short, I’m making a better burn than I could have if I’d dropped a twenty on the counter and bought the fucker.

I hate that person from the bottom of my heart. Forever.

No snail mail for them. Request to unzip my cd cases, denied.

Murky Sugar Water

*Written up for people who have posted their own miserable experiences with message boards and the like. You’re not alone.

I’m always hearing about everyone else’s cyber dramas, to which the easiest reply is, “It’s just the internet. Don’t let it bother you.” Of course, I know better, being someone who is active at places where some of the most asinine people reside: Britney Spears sites.

One place was a bitch at first because I lurked in the comments and stood up for a few members who would post something legit and get insulted as though the most sarcastic attack won rights to the subject.

“Thank you for saying something on my behalf. It means a lot to me.”
“But great_dame is right.”
“HEY! If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your fucking trap shut.”

For some reason, I had pictured fellow Britney fans… somewhat differently. No longer would I wonder why entries from new posters started off with apologies and requests for mercy.

What should have been an easy in-and-out job would not be so convenient; in order to download from the media threads at the largest Brit board out there, one has to register and post 200 times before receiving access. Rather than move on, I sucked it up and participated in current topics like “the clothes Britney buys for her Chihuahua, Bit-Bit” and “your thoughts on the 100th dance club mix of Slave”. There is a team constantly looking to report anyone whose answers seem too spontaneous or short, and anyone caught “spamming” with replies shorter than essay length are banned.

I bombed them, anyway.

Q:What Should Britney Name Her Next Album?
A: Sexy Sex. Submit reply. Next.

And with 199 more replies like that in a matter of hours, I had received the beginner’s one week suspension. It actually saved me a lot of time. Besides. Sexy Sex would bank on its title alone. If I screwed up again, they told me, I wouldn’t be allowed back. My login working again, I ran over to a cable connection and burned off the dozens of performances I’d sniffed out the week before. “Mother load”, I’d suspected. I’d been correct.

Now, I watch the different media threads (requests, administrator submissions, fan posts) and snag anything I don’t already have. If I come across something to share at the boards or LJ community, I upload it in hopes that others will continue to do the same. If a topic’s hot, I’ll throw in my thoughts, and this has become a daily stop on my internet route. Fun enough, right? Not always.

Unbelievable rumors get discussed on valley girl levels that are hard to leave alone. My inbox fills with dead beats who claim to have bootleg material, but refuse to send first despite my proof of over 100 positive feedbacks. Today I posted a mashup that went over well at britney_fans, to see some kid claiming to have made it, who didn’t, somewhere else. One little girl filtered a few-second sample file of a quality acapella track but refused to post the full because her number of views didn’t match the number of replies pleading for the whole track.

After thoroughly exposing these people as moronic (resulting in one absolute retreat, the fucking scammer), I sat back this evening and thought, “I should have distanced myself from the pink layout, gotten what I wanted and ignored all comments. They’re young people who don’t mean anything to me, joined together by their interest in a pop star, for Christ’s sake. I need to chill.”

I’ve told myself, next time.

Main Course of action

The other night, I found myself 30 minutes away at an ungodly hour, sitting down to eat at a place that never closes. When the waiter asked what I was doing, awake and all, I promptly informed him, “Haunted by my past. Couldn’t sleep.”

Thoughts have been bubbling. Rather than ignore them, I’ve been letting them play out. An old friend has been a large part of it. And that’s all there is to it.

A group of us were sitting out by the fire last night. My brother said, “Where’s Mandi?” as though she hadn’t been gone, years, for reasons well understood.

“She should be here,” he told me.

For the first time in forever, she appeared online and left traces of herself at a blog. The coincidence is just enough to remind me of the kind of reality I sleep off.

“It seems as though the battle of life has just begun. Some believe it starts at birth but I know for a fact the battle starts as soon as you hit rock bottom for the umteenth million time…”

So what do I do, so low on sleep? Throw an oversized hoodie over my pajama pants and hit another cafe. I’ll act brainless over a plate of sausage gravy and biscuits.

Sounds like a plan.