invasion of the kitty snatchers

while perusing some of my favorite blogs this morning, I stumbled upon this.

seriously???

is this real?

is there any way in hell that it could be?

I am at a complete loss for words, but you know I'm gonna try anyway.

If the text is too small for you read, let me assure you that an article like this defies the laws of nature, unless you happen to roughly be of the same stature as grape ape or the jolly green giant.

it essentially says that a fireman "accidentally" inhaled a kitten while trying to give it CPR.

what the FUCK.

now, this kitten is 6 oz.  

6 ounces!  

we have 3oz. lamb chops at the zu and I'm pretty sure you couldn't inhale one if you tried very very hard and wished with all your might. so, based on that information it's pretty safe to assume that the inhalation wasn't a draw in at all so much as a terribly gruesome carnivorous act.

this fireman is obviously a sick individual with a taste for raw (albeit slightly charred) flesh!

he saw his moment and he took it.

even more unbelievable?

animal rights activists plan to honor him.

no way!

peta would have your ass in a sling for calling a donkey an asshole, let alone swallowing a live kitten whole.

this is a lie.  an errant fraud,  much like bonsai kittens.

pied-à-terre

writing publicly is usually a bad idea when one has been partaking of the ol' drinky poo.

the lamenting usually discloses much more than the writer ever intended, and is sure to be the cause of more than one embarrassing moment on the event.

thank god for the delete option, because once you've re-read the entry in a sober state, you're sure to find that you are a complete idiot while intoxicated, and so fervently attempt to stop anyone from noticing this.

I personally could give a fuck less right now.

while I'm not a complete mess, nor even drunk per se, I am definitely impaired.  usually common sense would dictate that I should forgo the following ingression, but again, I don't particularly care much.

what I'd really like to talk about is this house I've been obsessing over.

those of you that have talked with me recently have probably heard speak of this, and are also probably likely as not tired of hearing about it.  If this is the case, please feel free to stop reading... 

now.

It has a ridiculous charm that I cannot evade.  I'm drawn to it in the way that a fat fuck might be drawn to a doughnut.  I cannot stop thinking about it until I have it or it becomes unavailable.

All night long at work, which was quite busy for me, I couldn't stop daydreaming about it, and would tell anyone who would listen about its wily allure.

the bizarre bit is that I haven't even seen the inside.  sure there are pictures, but nothing can substitute the tour.

it's quirky, there's no denying that, and while it seems to superficially match my particular personality, that's not the only reason why I want it so badly.

It's not in a good neighborhood.  not terrible, but not good.  It's on the corner of a main, busy street.  the kitchen, while always such an important feature to me is not as I would prefer it to be, and yet I am willing to ignore all of these flaws and move right in immediately.

It strikes me that this is a dangerous preoccupation.  a trap as it were.

I imagine demon-like creatures eating my soul like psychic vampires, never sated.  I envision naughty malevolent beings that like to throw my belongings across the room.  evil bastards that will never let me sleep or have peace.  a preconceived sanctuary that will prove to be a most frightening place.

still, I feel that I absolutely must have it.

I am attempting to make arrangements to see the property in question.  shawn, as always, is constantly accommodating and repeats for the millionth time over the course of our relationship that I may do as I please.

it's a good thing because I would do it anyway.

I desperately need to enter this space, and I'm not entirely sure why.  I may find after entering that the energy and layout inside is intolerable, but still, I sally forth.

by the by... this particular property has been sold and sold and sold again quite frequently over the last few years.  this strikes me as unusual and may be the source of my anxiety.

anxiety or not though... 

I am intrigued, engrossed, suspicious, absorbed, and in pursuit of chancy grounds.

and I remain hopeful, hopeful, hopeful

traits and observations

the intercom from the school across the street is loud enough for me to hear it, but not coherently.

my palms are sweaty.  I'm hot and cold together at once.

my house is quiet but for the percolating gurgle of the fish tank.  the fish are so fat they can't swim straight and I always wonder how they continue to live, but they do.

my coffee tastes burnt but I'm drinking it anyway.

I want to go to the ruins on soda canyon road but don't know how to get there.  I've tried to find them twice now.  luck is not a lady.

there's nothing good on t.v.  I recorded a program on pompeii but when I tried to watch it the entire show was in spanish and I could only understand half of it.  they said it was narrated by leonard nemoy but they lied.  leonard nemoy doesn't speak spanish.

I feel slightly nauseated and then fine in intervals.  it strikes me that this is probably what's implied by the phrase, "waves of nausea".

the bamboo plant on the speaker has had one burnt leaf on it for years now.  I put a candle too close to it once.  

my sister bought a new puzzle.  it's mine now.

dozens of birds were ceaselessly screaming and congregating in the old tree behind my house. upon investigating, I found a large raccoon winding through the branches, alone, in the middle of a sunny day.

I want an adventure.  I will have one soon.

my pictures of tikal are impatiently waiting for me to pay attention to them.

I want to buy a new house.  not in this town. 

I hate it when people repeat themselves.  it's annoying.  when people make me repeat myself I want to flay them and hang their bodies from the rafters.  this reaction looks like a red thought.

I'm extraordinarily insecure and cover it up with a feigned air of indifference.

my favorite socks have a hole in the heel.  I knew I wouldn't have them forever but I'm not ready to say goodbye.

I complain that I "have to do everything" but won't allow others to do anything because I feel like they'll fuck it up.

I'm obsessed with stories of the dead.  ghosts.  murders.  mysteries.  deserted towns that echo. I'm frightened and hopeful that the feeling of being watched is not imagined.

I want to be alone most of the time.  I am as often as possible.

sometimes I say "die" instead of "bye" to customers when they leave the restaurant.  If they're mean I give them regular when they ask for decaf.

I make myself laugh and like it when I make you laugh too.

now.  please.  add yours to my list.

around the bend

I had an appointment with my shrink today.  I think most of you know by now that I'm certifiably crazy, and those of you that don't could've probably guessed it.

anyway, while he was making notes in my little folder that is reserved for writing down observations about my mental state, I peeked at his handwriting.

an indecipherable scrawl, he is a doctor after all.  

this indicates that he is secretive, closed-up and likes to keep his thoughts to himself and this is precisely how I perceive him to be.

aside from this, why can no doctor on the face of the planet write legibly?!  additionally they all seem to write identically, like old people.  I feel that in the case of geriatrics it is more a product of their education during a specific era, and less about being a complete jerk on purpose.  

It is possibly the most annoying thing about these bones and it makes me wonder if they practice the doctor chirography while in med school, like professional athletes fashion their autographs before going pro.  do they do this to hide their real notes from us in the event that we get our hands on these precious documents?  in all actuality do they say things like "this guy is a drug seeker" or "hypochondriac".  or worse, like "this lady is a complete cunt, give her whatever she wants and get her out quick!"  

The second quality I noticed was that his cuneiform slanted to the right.  allegedly this announces that he is outgoing, friendly, impulsive and emotionally open.  

My doc doesn't strike me as the enthusiastic party guy that this interpretation implies, but who knows what he does in his free time.
maybe he's a swinger.  maybe he goes to nightclubs and brings lesbians home to his wife so they can participate in bizarro sex rituals somehow involving safety words like "banana".

who knows... 

honestly I couldn't care less whether or not he is a sexual deviant.  I find him interesting, and somewhat unusual. 

I actually didn't like him at all when I first started seeing him.  he bugged me out and gave me the heebies.  his office is too bright and stark and there is an audible hum of light fixtures.  the ambiance messes with my eyes, giving me a mild case of tunnel vision and serious anxiety.

I squirm uncomfortably in the too-big armchair, avoiding eye contact, fidgeting and picking at my nails.

I hated my visits, but one day that changed.

I told him something or other, I don't remember what, and he simply replied that, "life can be perverse".

this struck me as one of the most brilliant things I've ever heard.  the morbid girl in me adhered to this statement with utter delight, and just like that, I found that I was beginning to like him on some strange level and could now tell him things that he would understand in a way that no one else could.  

I know this is his job, but I was impressed.  

secret robots govern thoughts

it has been raining a lot lately.

positively pouring.

torrential monsoons.

I love it.

in fact, I cannot get enough.  it is soooo soothing to me.  

the annoyance that this rain is causing most individuals only adds to my enjoyment.

the plink plink of the drops on rooftops, agitations of wind chimes, singing winds and hot coffee are absolutely delicious.

*swoon* 

on a totally separate note I feel I should mention my obsession with capitalizing the "I" in my writing.

as per my fainéant habits I long for the nonchalance of "i".

but I read somewhere that people who don't capitalize the "I" when referring to oneself, subconsciously do not respect themselves.

since this is most certainly not the case (at least I'd prefer it not to be) I will not allow myself to be lazy in this department.

so now you all know.

on another separate note, I am fascinated by the art of handwriting interpretation.  If you don't know what this is, let me enlighten you.

supposedly, there are psychological  markers secretly embedded in your handwriting that tell little stories about you. 

for example,

If your letters are straight up and down, it's a sign of someone who's ruled by the head, not the heart.

If your writing shows heavy pressure (like you can feel the rib made on the back of the paper), you are an agitated person that is prone to stress.

and if your letters tend to be close together, you are a closed off, secretive person that doesn't like to let people in.

I'm not sure how accurate these particular notes are, but once someone interpreted my handwriting.

he said he was just learning, that a woman was teaching him,

but his decoding was unquestionably fucking freaky.

he was so accurate.

he told me very specific things about myself that were so deep seated it was disturbing.

I began to panic a little.  There was no way I wanted this person to know these things about me and now there was no turning back.  it was too late.  he now knew personal things that no one else could possibly know but me, and I have to admit that it frightened me a little.

while I know little about this subtle art, I endeavor to one day pick it up as a new hobby.  it will be one of the many that I have delved into with gusto, only to abandon a week later after my interest has faded. but in that week I will read as many secret thoughts as I can in my friend's penmanship and use it against them if I ever need to manipulate them into doing something I want.  

I'll be able warp their brains into doing my bidding and then I will create an army of automatons to carry out ridiculous, menial tasks, such as bringing me a beer or doing my laundry.

I know this sounds ridiculous and totally unfair, 

but frankly scarlet, 

I don't give a damn.

of impossible feats by tricks

The last week or so has got to be one of the most interesting time blocks for me in recent years.

It seems that while I was cleaning the garage I ripped a hole in the space-time continuum. apparently when you find a shoebox filled  with very old pictures you should never open it lest a gateway open to the other side.  

no one told me this though so almost immediately after looking through all of them I started getting messages from people I either...

(*digression* I found these pictures and sat down on the ground, garage door open, laughing my ass off at each picture, gleefully, joyfully, in my fucking pajamas while school children, plodding through the rain, looked on, making odd corner faces and vowing to never end up like me, laughing like a loon at nothing)

a) had forgotten

b) tried to forget

c) killed and stuffed into the crawl space

d) never knew to begin with

or

e) missed terribly but lost contact with

It's a little scary and exhilarating and annoying all at the same time.

facebook is partially to blame.  I only opened the account about a week ago and murders of individuals have descended upon me, demanding my undying friendship.  It's weird, I mean, I'm not even a nice person, let alone a good friend.

but while I blame online networking, it's not entirely at fault.

social gatherings, parties, etc. have played their part as well, and one friend even went so far as to look me up the old fashioned way, and by old fashioned I mean scouring the internet for information about myself and my family until he not only had my phone number but my whereabouts and job locations for the last 10+ years.  

talk about dedicated.  

I've clearly been outdone.  

I only half-ass entered his name into a myspace search and then muttered, "oh well", while I nodded to some trendy indie music, courtesy of the ever growing myspace conglomerate.

out of all this, I'm especially happy to have reconnected with two of these individuals.  I'm fairly certain they would know who I meant if they happened to catch this post.  they live far away, ironically closer to each other than they are to me.

this chain of events doesn't seem to be done unraveling, and while I'm happy to hear from most of these people again, it certainly rabble-rouses old thoughts, emotions, etc.  

it hugs back and pokes bruises and makes fun of you for not fitting into your old size 2 jeans.

we're all "growed up", faded xeroxes of our vibrant youth.  our hearts have been broken and glued back together so many times that we can't effectively hold the "happy" in anymore.

but when we talk, we remember what we used to feel like, and that is an incredible feat.  

that is mental and emotional crack and I'm pretty sure I want more.

hm.  can you smoke nostalgia?

sneaky soggy

I'll try to make this short but I felt I had to relate this because it's just one of those things.

I simply cannot let it go or that goddamn rock will think it's won and I can assure you that it has not.  I'm onto it and it's mischievous ways, and I feel it's my duty to expose it for the hoodwink it is.  I will not allow it to parade around, fraudulently posing as a solid individual.  

So here I am, innocently traipsing along a beautiful trail tucked back into the moss laden forest near the old mill.  one trail seems particularly inviting so my cohort and myself engage.

Along the way we are chatting and laughing.  the trail is a bit soggy and sometimes muddy from the recent rains.  

I quip about how terrible stepping into a puddle can be.  how there's that moment of realization directly after and precisely before the water begins to fill your shoe and in due course saturate your sock with cold liquid, beginning it's work on prunifying, it's a word look it up (don't), your feet.

"yea", my companion replies.  "that sucks".

so eventually we come to a stream.  

"should we cross it?".  "well of course we should".

she crosses the river daintily, hopping from rock to rock lithely, gracefully, toes touching down lightly on the dry earth beyond.

Now it's my turn.  

I consider myself to be a sure-footed individual and have crossed enough streams in my day that one might revere me as a bit of an expert in that particular field.

so, like a professional, I test the rocks first, checking for slickery (also a real word) or loose rocks before I trust them with my well-being. 

all's well.

so off I go, confident that my reconnaissance mission has been successful, and that bastard, that rotten little fuck of a stone (if you can even call him that), decides to feign right, effectively throwing me off balance and causing my left foot to fall to it's icy, watery demise.

you ass clown.

you sneaky fuck.

I bet you think you're pretty slick.  I bet as soon as I walk around the bend you're going to start laughing with your little rock friends about your shoestring prank.  I bet you think you're something of a cool dude, a rebel...

well your not.

I am not impressed, rock.

not. at. all.

works twice as hard...

um.

what the shit?

my notebooks are gone.

both of them.

I looked under the desk, behind it, next to all the bookshelves (kitchen, office, dining room, living room) and even in the piles of hubris that surround my desk and my display cabinet that houses halo figurines and star wars legos.

they're gone!

since I don't have the memory space in my head, once I've written it I tend to forget it, so even though I had planned to continue my narrative of belize and all therein, alas...

I cannot.

so instead you get to listen to me ramble about infomercials.

now they've always been around, and they all basically follow the same template (it slices! it dices! no more mess!  but wait! there's more!!! etc...)

it seems that for an unspecified number of payments in installations of $29.99 one can procure nearly anything.

they are always really cool things too.  stuff that you swear is a miracle breakthrough, and if you don't buy it now while supplies last you will never own the chopper or picture hanging set of your dreams because they simply will not be available in stores.  ever.

you always think, wow, that is really smart and efficient and even fits easily into your purse in the rare event that you would like to pack along a blanket with sleeves.  these products are simply amazing and you're left wondering, "why didn't I think of that?  why hasn't someone thought of this before?"  come on people, we're supposed to be civilized and advanced, and all while the makers of the tater mitt and the shamwow are knocking our socks off.

there are other commercials that come on fairly late, they're not quite informercials, but they're definitely close so they deserve an honorable mention.

first and foremost is this erectile dysfunction commercial.  I don't know if you've seen this one but it's simply hilarious, chock full of innuendo, and makes me chuckle every time. it's one of those commercials that they show at every single break too, so you'd think it'd get old, but no, it never does.

It's a man dressed as santa, and there's a firm male narrative voice in the background.

he says that santa can give ladies what they really want for christmas.  the gift that keeps on giving now that he's got a sac full of confidence and some other hilarious garbage I wish I could remember.  there's even a new one that I caught last night featuring a penis pump with real life testimonials.  I thought they'd retired the penis pump in the 80's but I guess I was wrong.  or maybe it's making a comeback.  it figures it's okay because ugly clothes, hair, shoes, sunglasses and ridiculous music are also back in style.  

I find it amusing that these always come on late at night, as if women never stay up late...  the only informercials we get are bare minerals and diet pills.  it hardly seems fair.

I have a couple of friends that are mesmerized by some of these products.

One of them is obsessed with the cricut.  she simply must have it, even though she has no idea what the hell she'd do with it.  she dreams about owning one, the deluxe package so she can etch into glass, although she recently confessed to me that she thinks she enjoys wanting it more than she'd actually like to have it.

another called me and asked me if I'd seen these amazing clothing hangers, she was so excited about them that she shushed her neighbor in mid sentence to watch the rest of the commercial in rapt silence and then immediately called me to announce the marvelous treasure that she would soon be ordering.  "it's amazing", she told me.

my sister even bought a bender ball so she could do crunches without hurting her back.

the infomercial is an art form in itself, and there are too many incredible points to discuss but I do have to ask...

who the hell is this guy and how did he become the national spokesperson for all things fantastic?

The Parliament of Fowls

valentines day is upon us once again.

every store has had hearts vomited into it like some foul red and pink affection for regurgitation.

in the asking of friends family, etc. you will likely encounter 5 separate stand points or a combination thereof...

(in order of popularity)

1) I fucking hate valentines day, it's a commercial holiday instilled with the sole purpose of shoving more useless crap upon our loved ones in an effort to validate one's love for another.  we should be showing them we love them everyday instead of saving it up for this charade.

2) that bastard better not forget/fail to get me something good this year.  I deserve the world for dealing with his shit all year long.  he better not come lean, I don't want fucking chocolates, flowers or teddy bears...

3) *sigh* I'm tired of being alone.  god hates me.  I think I'll choke myself to masturbatory material and hope for death.

4) fuck that bitch, who needs her...  

5) who gives a good goddamn?  it's just another day.

this fascinates me for the simple reason that most people do not truly feel they way they front about this confusing, heart breaking and ambivalent day.

just like the people who claim they hate christmas.  while they may hate aspects of the holiday, they would be hurt and disappointed if no one bought them presents and coal mysteriously appeared in their oversized sock.

I think the sad reality is much more mundane.

people want to feel loved.

even when they know that they truly are, they need/want/crave validation of that affection. 

we are creatures who feel alone even with company.

we are insecure, unstable, misunderstood, hopeless, foolish romantics.  despite that fact that we feign indifference in a pathetic attempt to shield ourselves.

stop being dicks and love each other this year.

send stupid 2nd grade valentines with trains on the front that say I choo choo choose you.

order custom, shitty tasting, chalky candy hearts that sport proverbs of your choosing.

slip love notes into cereal boxes.

give hugs.

open doors.

pay the bridge toll for the car behind you even though you don't know who he is and probably never will.

make mix tapes and put them in random mailboxes.

cook a nice meal for someone.

just for one day, one day...

think about someone other than yourself and do something nice just because.

you selfish fucks

2nd day vacay, san pedro

we woke up fairly early. we then packed our meager belongings and checked out of our little room in belize city, taking care to close the door behind us, which incidently, had no doorknob at all, just a master lock and a slide bolt.

we were told we could catch a bus at the end of the block, but after waiting on the soggy sidelines, getting eaten by ginormous ants, being passed by two buses and being told they weren't going to our destination by an additional, we decided to take a cab.

we took a water taxi to ambergris caye.  we met a local on the way over that shawn mistook for a prostitute and she gave us the skinny on the island we were about to reach.

we were told that the hostel we were planning on staying at was within walking distance so we lugged our baggage all the way to the wrong side of the island before we found our way, which was, of course, on the opposite end.  By this point a mixture of pride, annoyance and confusion kept us from getting a taxi.  (I can do it myself thank you very much...) when we finally found our way we had to wade through a sludge mine, nearly losing my shoes, luggage and sanity in the campaign.  

finally we dropped anchor.  there were a couple guys hanging out by the pool, no visible office. we tell them we're looking for a room and they yell out an unintelligible barrage of creole/spanish/english/god-knows patois.  after a few moments a very dozy looking dude with long black dreads lopes out of the shadows.  I chat with him about his rooms.  do we want a private room?  a hostel room?  he says he'll check to see if the private room is available...

after a few minutes shawn is visibly and audibly irritated and wants to know what's going on as if I somehow have a better grasp on what that may be.

walter (yup, walter) wanders back out...

"um, so is it available?"

"huh?  oh!  you want me to check?  hold on..."

okay, so walter is something of a THC connoisseur, but despite his lack of focus and general confusion I find myself warming up to him.  he's kind of funny.

we end up getting the private room.  he drops the key down to me from the top balcony and we make ourselves cozy.

so here's the thing with lodging in this country... no one has you sign anything, there's no particular checkout time, and it doesn't really matter when you pay them.  it was interesting, and I also found it a little liberating.  these people are so laid back that it forces you to 

re-evaluate how you interact with your own surroundings and how you approach situations. 

like they say, when in rome...

we were both starving by this point and decided to amble into the heart of san pedro.  while the island is pretty small by our standards it's actually large for belize, and walking from one end of town to the other can take quite a long time.  there are very few cars here, almost everyone drives golf carts, and so we decided to rent one for ourselves, especially since our room lay beyond the quagmire.  

we decided on fido's for lunch (fee-doze).  conch fritters and fresh local snapper.  it was toothsome and tasty.  we ended up coming back here a couple more times during our trip because we liked it so much.  we drank belekins (the local brew) and laughed and ate and chatted with the beach vendors that were hanging out near our patio table.

by this time shawn was ready to explore and so he decided that he wanted to drive to the other side of the island.  you can actually only drive a little past the bridge because everything gets flooded and the roads aren't exactly what you'd call roads.  

we ended up at a bar called palapas.  as soon as we ordered our drinks it started raining, sideways into the bar, defying the thatch roof.  we met people from colorado, berkeley, and a few american locals.

while it was fun we decided to wander on...

on the drive back we passed a bar called the road kill.  it was empty, with a little costa rican woman waving her arms trying to get people to stop, so we did.

the bartenders name was elizabeth.  she was awesome.  we had a ton of fun with her and it was also at this point that I brought an entire day of drinking to it's zenith after a shot of rum and some batty concoction she made for me.  she told us what was going on in town, entertainment-wise and then...

the night was a deadpan blur from this point forth.  

there was dancing... to a band called the punta boys.  we met some canadians, hung out with a hooker named melissa... ran into walter, enjoyed illicit drugs and ultimately left our new canadian friend with the hooker at her house.  it was strange... we dropped them off at her house, we met her small daughter and then she dropped the kid off with the neighbor so she could make a few bucks.  

the night ended with me somehow punching myself in the face with a slender object, resulting in a tiny and bizarre looking black eye of sorts and me rummaging through my bags in the dark while shawn yelled at me to go to sleep and demanding to know what could have possibly happened to my eye in the few minutes that he was in the shower, until 5am when I finally passed the fuck out.