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I'll spare you the usual whining about how iffy the world and my life is. Still single. Still unfondled for--crap, is that how long a year is?!? But I found my groove once more for horror films, thanks to "Tombs Of The Blind Dead" (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0067500/). Watching the butchered American version back-to-back with the uncut European version was a hoot.
Instead, I'll present a couple of uplifting images I yanked from sites that seem to be deserted. I find them oddly compelling.
This little guy was just minding his own business on a shipwrecked site. The caption read "This is who I hope to be when I grow up." I think I want to agree.
Did I ever mention that I have the ability to chat with squirrels? Seriously. They will skitter down the side of a tree and chatter away at me, then I talk back, then they chatter back. This goes on until both of us feel better, and then we go back to our own little worlds. This is one HAPPY squirrel.
Well, I'll leave it at this for the evening. Enjoy the visuals.
Okay, I know it's that time of the year. Trust me, I'm not prone to act like this. I tend to think that maybe I've had my fill for the year, but it's just so damned unfair.I don't feel like watching horror movies for Halloween.There. I've said it. I feel it. I just can't quite believe it, though. You know? Kinda like when your friend tells you she's decided that THAT was her last trip to the tanning booth for the summer (okay, it's fall but it's been really warm here until the last couple of weeks or so), and she sounds so sincere, but you know she's gonna sneak in just a couple more and claim that she can really hold a tan. She's Irish by nature, so it's all bullshit. And I can't quite believe that I'm not in the mood for horror films.I love them. Seriously. Another reason geeky guys think I'm cool, but they still don't ask me out. Assholes. Anyway, I've been watching a few, thanks to Wal-Mart (yes, I support the great evil--I'm cheap) and their $4.88 crapfest films. Well, they aren't true crapfest films. The worst of the bunch would be My Bloody Valentine, which is from Canada, and you can really tell. But I've yet to find that one that kindles that sick little flame in my soul. Hell, I even watched Grave Of The Vampire, and all I could think about was how sexy William Smith would be if he could just act, just a teeny bit.If ANYONE reading this can suggest something to get me in the mood, please, post a comment. Something fast, savage and unnerving. But, please, don't recommend anything that is churning out the sequels faster than I can buzzsaw through a bag of peanuts.
Chick crushes can be fun. Especially if they are returned. These days, with Millie Of The Million Miles an email and a long-ass flight away, I find myself falling for whatever strikes my fancy, be it books, blogs, scratch-and-sniff stickers or Miss Val.Miss Val is a lady three years older than me who has worked at my current place of employment since she graduated high school. No college (so she isn't in debt up to her butt), but smarter than I hope to be. Pagan by way of religion, though I think she is more Wiccan-oriented than she cares to admit. And she looks like a cross between Scarlett Johansson and Marcia Brady. Frankly, I'd kill for her wardrobe (and her hair) because she looks so great in all those weird retro outfits. I'd look gangly, but Val is so perfect that I feel like her fantastic looks rub off on me like the colors from a butterfly's wings.I grab my crappy little Wal-Mart Tupperware knockoff container of leftovers and rush down every day for lunch. It's the same way I used to feel when Wonderfalls used to be on TV -- all giddy and more than ready to go. And we sit down in the lunch area, eating with the endless supply of sporks she has at her disposal. We chat and giggle and hoot. The other day we spent the entire lunch rewriting movie titles with "woodchuck" replacing main words, like A Woodchuck On Elm Street, Desperately Seeking Woodchuck, The Woodchuck Club, or Better Off Woodchuck. I love sporking with Miss Val. I'm going to have serious suggest going to dinner at a cool restaurant and have her bring sporks to use instead of the good flatware provided by the restaurant.
My goal with this post is to slowly alter your visual perception of my postings. The intent is to cause you blindness and macular degeneration. When you get old and can't see shit, you can point to the heavens and declare, "It was that bitch Rowena and her evil little blog that caused all of this. Damn her to a life of gumming overcooked breaded chicken strips...that are three days old...and reheated, uncovered, in a microwave." See, it is working already. Your world is closing in on you. Quick, watch all of your DVDs of Friends before total blindness sinks in, and you forget Chandler's different hairstyles.You are sinking quickly. BWAH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Just look at me. (Okay, you can't, and don't go looking for pictures because, honestly, this is the Internet, folks. It is the age of not believing what you see. Reality is fluid. So pictures of me? Feh. It could be of me or of some chick with measurements that sound like my high school locker combonation (Locker 48C: 38-22-34. in case you're ever in my old high school). You would never know, and who really cares?)I'm 5'8". I have drab, dizzling-shit brown hair. Glasses. (Would it have hurt my mom to eat some fucking carrots every now and then while I was in the womb?) I'm thin enough that older ladies look at me and say, "You should eat," but girls my age tell me, "Being thin is wasted on you, bitch." (Honest to God quote there. Yeah, like I enjoy freezing when the temps hit 65 outside.) My skin is moderately clear until I get close to my period, then it looks like a Parkinson's victim attacked my face with a knitting needle. I do concede to loving my eyes, which are a pearly green. Not that they are noticed by many because of the glasses. And, sadly, I am a C-cup, which makes me come across like a carrot stick with two olives glued to it. They get stared at more than my eyes, but ...ah, well, fuck it.People notice the wrong things. They don't notice when I fix posters on display on the street that are falling down or straighten up a mess someone leaves behind. And they never notice when I navigate the curb without tripping. But they notice when I trip or walk into things like trash cans because I'm distracted by a passer-by who is oblivious to my presense less than two feet away. And they notice when I read. They've been noticing since I was five. I was the kid the librarian would hide from because I wanted a stack of the little storybooks back when I was barely able to manipulate the things without dropping them (still do that). Aunts would quiz my mother with "Is it healthy for her to be reading that much?" Other kids used to ask me to play dolls, and I was happy to do so, but I didn't want to just pretend to go shopping. No. My doll wanted to fly and smash rocks and dig for relics and act out silly shows. Apparently, that wasn't the right way to play dolls. Boys wouldn't let me play because they said I'd get hurt, and that I should just go read my stupid books.So, I played on the swings with Bettie O., who thought I was funny and liked to pretend we were flying when we went high on the swings. She was the best friend I had until she left the summer between fourth and fifth grade. After that, I'd just hide in a classroom during recess and read. That was around the time kids started taking some sort of offense to my reading, and would throw my books around the schoolyard. It was safer inside. And Mrs. Terryson would sometimes come in atalk to me about my books. She loved kids books, and had read almost every one of the books in our school library. She had even read Have Spacesuit, Will Travel by Robert Heinlein, which is still one of my favorites.Brainiac. Sounds like a cliche, something from a stupid 80's teen sex comedy. And it is. But they still used it. I let them. I didn't fight. Hell, I'd usually offer one of my books to read, and I did so without even the slightest hint of sarcasm. I never offered my good books, the ones I loved. And there were times I was taken up on the offer. A couple of times they said they threw the books away. Often it would be returned to me by way of another student or a teacher. Now and then, the borrower would return the book and say things like, "Why do you spent your time reading this crap?" Twice, from different girls, the book was returned with the admission they actually read the book. Once, the girl asked if I would suggest another. That was Millie, now Millie of the Million Miles, because that is how far away she seems. She became my single greatest friend and still is.
