two turn-tables and a microphone

one: i have just completed an eight day stretch of work that has made me cross. and happy. and so goddamned splake-y all at once. i imagine that it will be thanksgiving before the smell of fish leaves my hair and my hands and my skin completely.

two: today i kissed a splake head that weighed three pounds. then i vacuum-packed it to save for a table centerpiece or maybe a godfather-esque moment of slipping it into bed with one of my accquaintances.

three: snakes on a plane = hahahahahahahahahahhahaHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA. yes. worth every motherfucking penny my friends. every penny. oh samuel l. totally my snakes-on-a-plane boyfriend. enough is enough.

four: aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! *flails*

through hands of steel and heart of stone

when my brother play nintendo [or any variation/generation descended thereof] they both sit leaning forward with their mouths hanging open, a focussed yet strangely vacant gleam in their eyes.

i'm counting the days.

in other random news, i still haven't seen the motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane. however, i have planned [yes, that's right, me. i PLANNED something] a staff and friend outing that involves dinner, cocktails and a remedy to the lack of motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane.

yessssss!

also, there will be presents.

double yesssssss!

and this is what they represent

it's not all about you, you know.

no car, and no warning

seven boxes of wine are sitting on my dining room floor.

i'm certain i had somewhere to go from there, but mostly my mind is thinking "DANGER! DANGER!" concerning all that merlot.

tomorrow, marmee and i are going to go to the national gallery to see the emily carr exhibit, and then we're going to clean my house [because it looks like hoodlums and vandals and possibly gremlins have taken up residence], and then maybe a trip to ikea, and finally, hopefully- indian food! [so many 'and then,' i know].

if i can manage to wake up from my dream puff bed. god i fucking missed it.

when i first met you girl you had fire in your soul

kevin's car smells of a mixture between new car smell, old paper products, and something like fresh fruit in the summer sun. as we race along the darkened road, the wind whipping my hair and the scent of my brother's cologne through the car, i find myself at a loss for words.

the taste of wine fresh on my lips and the rustle of formal clothes all seem terribly important for some inexplicable reason.

it's on nights like this that i most especially wish that there was someone ready to listen to my secrets in the dark.

[ps- i realize how emo this is. quick, get me some plum sauce and throw on nickleback- that's sure to break the mood].

too old to just break free and run

were i able to, i would definately marry mr. rochester.

crazy wife in the attic and moody temper aside, i'm pretty sure that he would look smashing in a frilly apron cooking eggs.

and really, what more do you need?

too young to hold on

so, i'm an uber geek. and this is an uber geek post. i apologize in advance.

i watched the x files for every single one of its nine years. up until season eight, i have to admit, you couldn't convince me that it was a bad show. sure, it had it's cheesy moments, but, it was the nineties. i was in grade eight. i liked cheese. and when, in the last two years, things went to shit and duchovny left and you had freakin' john doggett and monica reyes running around trying to be mulder and scully BUT NOT, well, i kept watching because i'd seen every damned episode.

except maybe three. but i knew what happened in them anyways. [krycek loses his arm because the russians think he's part of the experiment, a naked woman jumps on mulder and bites him, the cigarette smoking man is agent spender's father. blah blah blah].

like everyone else, i wasn't surpirsed when scully and mulder eventually had an alien love child. [alien in the sense that when and if the take over of the world happened by the aliens, said love child would be immune to the ever morphing and slightly freakish alien virus that looks like thick molasses, despite being labelled 'black oil']

what i missed to an extent [i'm guessing because i was thirteen], and am enjoying terribly watching the second time around, is the RIDICULOUS amount of unresolved sexual tension between mulder and scully. seriously. it makes me uncomfortable.

no wonder all those other, older uber geeks spent hours and hours on the internet arguing over the pros and cons of spooky and the enigmatic doctor scully finally doing the deed.

not that i know anything about these arguments.

ahem.

come and get it, for cryin' out loud

kevin forces me to get out of bed at half eleven, telling me that coffee will ease all of my hangover pains. although my head disagreed with him, i slowly crawled from my nest, cursing the massive amounts of whiskey that magically entered my body last night.

oh last night. where to begin?

i seem to remember drinking in the kitchen with bad scottish accents, weed and beer on the road, ben telling veronica and i he felt "pimping" on the ferris wheel, laughing manically, old people shaking their heads, having too many drinks at the pacific, singing beyond the sea, nickelback and ooooh tom petty with just about everyone at the bar. and then- then we had a party in the fish shop that included led zeppelin, naked-in-an-apron-veronica, sauza, whiskey, more pot and the single biggest fucking water fight i have ever been involved in. we should have brought along soap. afterwards, there was a drunken clean up that found kevin and i mopping the ceiling and squeegee-ing the floor while veronica and ben systematically removed all signs of liquor and system of a down from our workplace.

i think last night might have to be classified as best night of the summer.

and had i been allowed to sleep in for another thirty minutes and had access to a greasy spoon diner breakfast, my hangover would have been thouroughly enjoyed andf probably classified as best hangover of the summer. as it was, breakfast was a chocolate pop tart with mot in the fish shop at around half two.

in retrospect, i think that poptart might have saved my life.

kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight

i was just told to "eat a bag of dicks."

although the situation in itself is serious to me, and i suddenly have no interest in coffee or toast, i can't decide whether to laugh or cry at this particular insult.

i think i'm forced to pick the former. it's the only way to keep on going after starting my day off like this.

touch and taste

morning coffee + egg and cheese + cherries + purring ponycat = majesty.

[added to said majesty is the fact that it is not eighty billion degrees before nine am AND that i have vitamin B. tastes so gross but makes me feel so good. the minor detracting factor is that i need to be at work in fifteen minutes. damn].

oh how you laughed at my complete lack of grace

the heat makes thinking nearly impossible.

i found myself at half eleven last night diving into waves with large whitecaps underneath an orange moon and a sky painted with stars. when i came up for air, my eye blinking and still seeing nothing, i could smell the garlic and pesto and ginger that kevin had used in creating a veritable feast for all of us drifting up from my hands.

tonight, my fingers smell faintly of antiseptic and cheese. the first scent lingering from the old age home where my grandfather is- as jim morrison so rightly put it- breaking on through to the other side.

the cheese smell is from the crazy amounts of cheese i've consumed since getting home. [i swear i'm going to die before i'm thirty from massive cheese overload].

in other random news- my bed is full of sand.