Have you ever had a chunky girlfriend (or significant other) that lost a significant amount of weight, and when you look at the before and after pictures you wonder - why?
Leave me be a pig tonight. I've earned it damnit. I need a break from being a gentleman. Women hate those - REMEMBER!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Cute-Toed-Girl
Soundtrack: Local H - Twelve Angry Months
Cute-Toed-Girl - - well, she's more than a girl. She is an intelligent young woman with the social happenings of a radical girl. I met her earlier this summer during the first summer session at the university. We were instantly comfortable around one another, sitting side by side, absorbing information, trading study tactics, and growing annoyed simultaneously with the other classmates.
People could say her face was plain, but I called it beautiful all the same. It was the mind behind the face with the dark soul-panes that I liked. She was sharp, ruthless for a good grade; I couldn't help but at the very least be slightly smitten. On this particular day of discovery, she was wearing a lime green vest over a brighter, similar colored tank top with a skirt that had a matching grass pattern with speckles of lavender colored flowers all around. Her legs showed that she tried to stay fit; her small size makes her easily susceptible to weight gain. Her footwear were plain colored fashion sandals that exposed those adorable feet-digits. They were the cutest toes I had ever seen. Most women in my area have outstretched, battered toes inherited from their mothers and grandmothers who typically work eight to sixteen hours a day all on their feet, walking everywhere they went, but her toes were short and perfectly round like a blossoming spring-time bud, making her much more unique considering it was summer.
We maintained a steady friendship, never venturing beyond our cordial boundaries. She told me about her life, her troubles with men. I told her things about me that kept her telling me more about herself.
On that last day, that lingering spark of attraction escaped the shadow of idea and fleshed itself out into reality. She wore pink and white converse shoes. We were sitting outside the classroom awaiting for the previous class to leave; I told her how cute I thought her toes were. Her 'thank you' was strong and undoubtedly appreciative. She mentioned that she is very self-conscious about her feet, she went on, and had she known I was looking she would have pulled them away from my eyes. I told her I figured she would, so I never said anything until then.
The day of our class final I kept my headphones wrapped around my ears, losing myself in Nada Surf's Lucky album. She studied, but awkwardly she wouldn't stop looking at me. I wanted to give her all the possible to peruse her notes. She gained control of herself and did, but occasionally she still glanced in my direction. I desperately wanted to acknowledge her, but couldn't. Our hearts were right, our minds were close, but our social worlds were so different - she still enjoyed the outings that a young person should; the night clubs and the parties. I didn't; I never had. Plus, she still had ties to an on-off-again boyfriend, which I wanted no part of. As much as we knew about one another, it wasn't enough. Maybe she was the type of woman who needed drama in her life. I'm too easygoing and focused to be trifled with that unnecessary headache.
And yet....maybe I could have used a little drama.
We took our exams. Our last class day, we compared grade; I beat her by four points. We said bye, and we hugged. It was a hug that never wanted to end. We pulled apart, and for a brief moment the silence was begging to be filled. We looked in each others' eyes, both begging for the other to say something, and all I came up with was "bye."
I have yet to see her again. I hope she's well. I hope she's happy. Her toes are still the cutest ones I have ever seen.
Somehow, I find myself having to move on from her at least once a year. She just pops into my head; I'm not sure what the subconscious trigger is, but annually I keep moving on. It's all we've ever done, all we can ever do.
Cute-Toed-Girl - - well, she's more than a girl. She is an intelligent young woman with the social happenings of a radical girl. I met her earlier this summer during the first summer session at the university. We were instantly comfortable around one another, sitting side by side, absorbing information, trading study tactics, and growing annoyed simultaneously with the other classmates.
People could say her face was plain, but I called it beautiful all the same. It was the mind behind the face with the dark soul-panes that I liked. She was sharp, ruthless for a good grade; I couldn't help but at the very least be slightly smitten. On this particular day of discovery, she was wearing a lime green vest over a brighter, similar colored tank top with a skirt that had a matching grass pattern with speckles of lavender colored flowers all around. Her legs showed that she tried to stay fit; her small size makes her easily susceptible to weight gain. Her footwear were plain colored fashion sandals that exposed those adorable feet-digits. They were the cutest toes I had ever seen. Most women in my area have outstretched, battered toes inherited from their mothers and grandmothers who typically work eight to sixteen hours a day all on their feet, walking everywhere they went, but her toes were short and perfectly round like a blossoming spring-time bud, making her much more unique considering it was summer.
We maintained a steady friendship, never venturing beyond our cordial boundaries. She told me about her life, her troubles with men. I told her things about me that kept her telling me more about herself.
On that last day, that lingering spark of attraction escaped the shadow of idea and fleshed itself out into reality. She wore pink and white converse shoes. We were sitting outside the classroom awaiting for the previous class to leave; I told her how cute I thought her toes were. Her 'thank you' was strong and undoubtedly appreciative. She mentioned that she is very self-conscious about her feet, she went on, and had she known I was looking she would have pulled them away from my eyes. I told her I figured she would, so I never said anything until then.
The day of our class final I kept my headphones wrapped around my ears, losing myself in Nada Surf's Lucky album. She studied, but awkwardly she wouldn't stop looking at me. I wanted to give her all the possible to peruse her notes. She gained control of herself and did, but occasionally she still glanced in my direction. I desperately wanted to acknowledge her, but couldn't. Our hearts were right, our minds were close, but our social worlds were so different - she still enjoyed the outings that a young person should; the night clubs and the parties. I didn't; I never had. Plus, she still had ties to an on-off-again boyfriend, which I wanted no part of. As much as we knew about one another, it wasn't enough. Maybe she was the type of woman who needed drama in her life. I'm too easygoing and focused to be trifled with that unnecessary headache.
And yet....maybe I could have used a little drama.
We took our exams. Our last class day, we compared grade; I beat her by four points. We said bye, and we hugged. It was a hug that never wanted to end. We pulled apart, and for a brief moment the silence was begging to be filled. We looked in each others' eyes, both begging for the other to say something, and all I came up with was "bye."
I have yet to see her again. I hope she's well. I hope she's happy. Her toes are still the cutest ones I have ever seen.
Somehow, I find myself having to move on from her at least once a year. She just pops into my head; I'm not sure what the subconscious trigger is, but annually I keep moving on. It's all we've ever done, all we can ever do.
Explosions
Explosions occur every day all around the planet. Most of them are underground as the Earth slowly regenerates itself, like scab forming on a wound, eventually becoming new flesh. Sometimes these explosions spread their actions to the surface. Volcanoes all around the globe have been acting up lately, some of them even having been dormant for as long as over 9000 years.
Man creates explosions, with some even mastering the art of combustion. They can make a large object explode or implode. They can decide how long the explosion will last, and even what color the explosion will be.
Within our minds, man explodes every day. We lose our job. Someone dies. Our love leaves us. Some people explode largely, unleashing all their frustrations out at once. Sometimes its harmless, other times blood is spilled; maybe theirs, maybe someone elses.
Some people explode lightly; one tiny burst at a time until the big one happens. Those usually involve bloodshed. And some people control their explosions, waiting to discharge on the right person(s).
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Man creates explosions, with some even mastering the art of combustion. They can make a large object explode or implode. They can decide how long the explosion will last, and even what color the explosion will be.
Within our minds, man explodes every day. We lose our job. Someone dies. Our love leaves us. Some people explode largely, unleashing all their frustrations out at once. Sometimes its harmless, other times blood is spilled; maybe theirs, maybe someone elses.
Some people explode lightly; one tiny burst at a time until the big one happens. Those usually involve bloodshed. And some people control their explosions, waiting to discharge on the right person(s).
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
The Lost Channel
I've been reduced to threatening my television. The Tri-Nations rugby season has begun and it seems my cable provider no longer carries the station showing it. I'm yelling at the ugly transmissions box, demanding it show a channel that is all likely not there.
I think I'll go outside, where it's been raining for nearly a week (and I can't tell you how much that pleases me, especially when living on the third bump of hell's right testicle); but I think I'll go outside and find some stray cats to yell at, even though all they do is look at me like I'm a retarded gorilla that ate their fish. Then, I feel guilty and get them some fish.
I think I'll stick with yelling at people and telelvisions that won't give me rugby.
I think I'll go outside, where it's been raining for nearly a week (and I can't tell you how much that pleases me, especially when living on the third bump of hell's right testicle); but I think I'll go outside and find some stray cats to yell at, even though all they do is look at me like I'm a retarded gorilla that ate their fish. Then, I feel guilty and get them some fish.
I think I'll stick with yelling at people and telelvisions that won't give me rugby.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Alone, Not Lonely
Alright, bastards. I had to go to summer sessions, meaning I couldn't concentrate on my prose work; so I was forced back into poetry. Blame yourselves; it's easier for all of us.
Alone, Not Lonely
Laughing atop a cloud;
A cloud shrouding the mind,
Blinding eyes to problems defined.
Life has been good, but nowehere near great.
Nothing of passing relevance that others would consider
Exquisite, lavish, or radiant.
To an outsider, the littlest of little things need be large indeed
For them to comprehend the sense of happiness
Within the circle where all but one, the most loving one,
Never seems to unerstand, recognize, or about them implore
A person that loves their people,
But loves being alone slightly more.
Alone, Not Lonely
Laughing atop a cloud;
A cloud shrouding the mind,
Blinding eyes to problems defined.
Life has been good, but nowehere near great.
Nothing of passing relevance that others would consider
Exquisite, lavish, or radiant.
To an outsider, the littlest of little things need be large indeed
For them to comprehend the sense of happiness
Within the circle where all but one, the most loving one,
Never seems to unerstand, recognize, or about them implore
A person that loves their people,
But loves being alone slightly more.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Judgemental and Violated
Sitting at the library pub, which isn't a dyslexic term for public library. That shit went out the wayside when the cold fronts began and coats with bottle-portable pockets became an every day necessity.
Studying as I was, a young woman walked my way. To my right were some vacant computer terminals. I dressed in my long-sleeved grey sweatshirt and exercise pants had my nose buried in my testing notes, though I'd be lying if I said she didnt strike my fancy. She herself was decked out in running garments; a bit tight, I might say.
I suppose disgusted her a bit. She made a quick b-line to the vacant terminals on the other side of the room. I wasn't offended; I'm used to disgusting the general public. They disgust me more times in a day than a gonzo porno playing in a catholic convent. I don't think "love thy neighbor" meant sticking dildo drills and analbeads into frumpy, nerve damaged orifices of women that look like your niece.
Soon though, a slender, uptight, well dressed man found his way to the same station as the lady runner, occupying the vacant terminal next to her. It got me to thinking - - hope she doesn't mind passing up the scruffy looking gentleman who would have left her alone for the suit and tie, serial killer the media has dubbed The Wound Fucker. He slices his victims; bores holes in them, and then molests the wounds.
Either that, or they're going gonzo right now.
Studying as I was, a young woman walked my way. To my right were some vacant computer terminals. I dressed in my long-sleeved grey sweatshirt and exercise pants had my nose buried in my testing notes, though I'd be lying if I said she didnt strike my fancy. She herself was decked out in running garments; a bit tight, I might say.
I suppose disgusted her a bit. She made a quick b-line to the vacant terminals on the other side of the room. I wasn't offended; I'm used to disgusting the general public. They disgust me more times in a day than a gonzo porno playing in a catholic convent. I don't think "love thy neighbor" meant sticking dildo drills and analbeads into frumpy, nerve damaged orifices of women that look like your niece.
Soon though, a slender, uptight, well dressed man found his way to the same station as the lady runner, occupying the vacant terminal next to her. It got me to thinking - - hope she doesn't mind passing up the scruffy looking gentleman who would have left her alone for the suit and tie, serial killer the media has dubbed The Wound Fucker. He slices his victims; bores holes in them, and then molests the wounds.
Either that, or they're going gonzo right now.
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