Something worthy of note.

Today is a day set apart from other days. Today I received my very first fake credit card magnet, which is, of course, too weak to hold anything up except itself, being useless in the extreme. I have, for a couple of years now, collected fake credit cards. I would actually waste time by noticing that 10 of my cards are identical, except the 1-800 number changed. Why would a company change their 1-800 number so frequently? It's competely ridiculous..not only that it occurs, but that I have wasted time thinking about it. But now my truly sick hobby can develop in a new direction. I can collect fake credit card magnets. I'm open to handouts.

The time came. And went.

So, there are many things I grew up believing. I was sure that my dad was the tallest guy in the world. (No way.) I thought that moving was the worst thing ever, what with all the difficulty in physically picking up a house and transporting it. I thought that being fired was cruel and unnecessary, and who would ever burn their employee? I thought that islands were floating piles of dirt. I thought that if I ate a watermelon seed a watermelon tree would grow in my stomach. (This is aside from the fact that watermelon grows on bushes, and that having a single watermelon growing in my stomach would be bad enough--no, it had to be a tree.)

I forgot how to spell my own last name once. But nobody believed me. The only time I ever cheated..was in kindergarten. It was a spelling test. The word.."of." Amazingly enough, I thought it was spelled "ov."

But the really irritating thing is that I'll never know what my sisters were always whispering about when they felt the proper reply to my questioning was: "We'll tell you when you're older." Yeah, right.

another ode.

Ode to Reija (a poem of two)

...a light shone brightly in the dusk
from whence it came none knew
except for me and you.

Mwa ha ha! We laughed, reprehensibly,
we saw it too, but none would flee
except for you and me.

The mischievous gleam was from your eye
it sought, it grew
but that was you

and what was I?
Behold, my eyes are wicked too.

--written for a beloved friend.

Latest Attempt

So, in a moment of great abstraction, I wrote the following poem, dedicated to a good friend of mine. Not that he embodies the poem.

Ode to Shwam.

The Shwam comes up the road
and grins unabashed
the rain gets him wet
and the grin slides to smirk
since he is wearing a slicker
and he dumps it on a passerby.

The end.

Happiness

Hmm..today is lovely. I want to dance. I want to sing, and jump up and down and clap. (This is not to infer I clap at my singing..) Why do I want to celebrate? Because I am silly, and feel renewed, even though its late and I've got school tomorrow. I am turning into one of those people with post-it notes all over. (Previous statement is not necessarily related to any other statement.)

Hope for a lost mind.

First of all, I'd like to say something about the "Magic Bullet Blender" that is supposedly miraculous and gets aired on TV all the time. My roommate has one, and I must point out that it is a completely miserable appliance.

I have discovered a new facet of my book obsession. I find myself wasting time looking for books on Amazon. I look up a book, follow a link to another booklist, look at books on that list, follow subsequent links, and before you know it I've been online an hour. I get lost in listmania. However, there are worse things.

I remain stoic in my wanderings, laughing infrequently at premeditated jokes..some people are just not funny.

Insight into my soul: I've had my current copy of the BOM for...at least 8 years now. It is one of those smallish versions, a quad with a snap. Well, it comes with two ribbons in the spine to be used as bookmarks. And this is the really ridiculous part: I didn't want to use them. I kept picturing them wrinkled and frayed so I left them folded up in the pages--in their original position. They've been getting an 8-year old crease. Meanwhile, I've been using this "1983" book mark that has random facts from that year. But the main reason I used it is because its got green lettering. So it matches my scripture color. Also kept inside them is a green felt-tip pen that is impossible to write with (the ink is practically gone and you have to write with the pen positioned perpendicular to the page). It came from addressing my brother's wedding invitations many years ago. If it weren't green, I would have thrown it out long ago. Finally I realized last night, that it is much more convenient to just use one of the ribbons to keep my place. And so I put the 1983 bookmark away. Is that not ridiculous? I know. Completely silly. Maybe someday I'll throw away the pen.

The Spew Forth Nasty Author test.

I have developed a new test. I call it the "Spew Forth Nasty Author" test. As was to be expected, I spent my entire Christmas break reading. 25 books, to be precise. Embarrassing? Yes. I tend to rush into a book with break-neck speed, finding myself in a puddle of drivel after about 3 hours, yet I am too stubborn to not finish the book. And so I finish it. Then I decide if I like the book. If I think the book is crap, then I never read that author again. If it is ok, or if I really like it, I leave it on my list of "Somewhat Tolerable Books to Read in a Long Evening." There are those however that leave deep impressions, whether it is praise or hatred, but are few. Anyway. Back to the spew test. Well, I have come to the conclusion that the majority of all contemporary fiction can be described in the following way: If you've read one, you've read them all (on a per author basis). And it is so pathetic. After reading 2 books by an author I have a suspicion that they are in the "spew forth" category. So I read a third book. And it is the exact same. If I think about it long enough, I am impressed at how an author can re-write the same story over and over and yet remain on the best-seller list, where the characters are no more unique than they are unpredictable. The only talent I can attribute to authors such as these is the ability to skew circumstances so as to give the impression that the new story really is new. The characters are really the same, from book to book. And so, as per habit, in reading an obscene amount of fiction, I somewhat unconsciously practice the "Spew Forth Nasty Author" test. In that nasty authors spew forth generic crap in excessive amounts, and I recognize them for what they are, and demote them. I must figure out how to get paid for reading too much.