i see, i like.

things i see. things i like. maybe even things i make.
I heard the rumors going around our little circle. Andrew’s been saying I’m pretentious. “But she’s fancy, she speaks other languages,” one of my supporters said. “Spanish? That’s for poor people” he replied. So today I confronted him. I looked at him straight in the eye while Dave and Rory opened the night’s session with a concept about lesbians from Vermont smuggling hot sauce to Canada and driving a Subaru (according to Rory, that’s the vehicle of choice for all your smuggling endeavors.) He trembled a little bit. “No, you’re not pretentious,” he said doing the “they caught me” smile and head shaking combo. “Are you sure?” “Yeah. You’re just really intimidating. I mean, your people killed a lot of our people with the towers’ stuff.” Another group got up to present ideas for Sriracha. The word “cock” was thrown in there, I casually said I called it “the cock sauce” before I even knew its name and everything after that was not important anymore. It’s week 8 at the Circus, that time when desperation starts taking over the last bits of sanity and shame left in us. Looking forward to week 11.
thinguin:

“You’re manure-isms are pretentious” #andrewisms

I heard the rumors going around our little circle. Andrew’s been saying I’m pretentious. “But she’s fancy, she speaks other languages,” one of my supporters said. “Spanish? That’s for poor people” he replied. So today I confronted him. I looked at him straight in the eye while Dave and Rory opened the night’s session with a concept about lesbians from Vermont smuggling hot sauce to Canada and driving a Subaru (according to Rory, that’s the vehicle of choice for all your smuggling endeavors.) He trembled a little bit. “No, you’re not pretentious,” he said doing the “they caught me” smile and head shaking combo. “Are you sure?” “Yeah. You’re just really intimidating. I mean, your people killed a lot of our people with the towers’ stuff.” Another group got up to present ideas for Sriracha. The word “cock” was thrown in there, I casually said I called it “the cock sauce” before I even knew its name and everything after that was not important anymore. It’s week 8 at the Circus, that time when desperation starts taking over the last bits of sanity and shame left in us. Looking forward to week 11.

thinguin:

“You’re manure-isms are pretentious” #andrewisms


Dearest Jane,
In an unmoored life like mine, sleep and hunger and work arrange themselves to suit themselves, without consulting me. I’m just as glad they haven’t consulted me about the tiresome details. What they have worked out is this: I awake at 5:30, work until 8:00, eat breakfast at home, work until 10:00, walk a few blocks into town, do errands, go to the nearby municipal swimming pool, which I have all to myself, and swim for half an hour, return home at 11:45, read the mail, eat lunch at noon. In the afternoon I do schoolwork, either teach of prepare. When I get home from school at about 5:30, I numb my twanging intellect with several belts of Scotch and water ($5.00/fifth at the State Liquor store, the only liquor store in town. There are loads of bars, though.), cook supper, read and listen to jazz (lots of good music on the radio here), slip off to sleep at ten. I do pushups and sit-ups all the time, and feel as though I am getting lean and sinewy, but maybe not. Last night, time and my body decided to take me to the movies. I saw The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, which I took very hard. To an unmoored, middle-aged man like myself, it was heart-breaking. That’s all right. I like to have my heart broken.
Kurt Vonnegut
September 28, 1965

I have dreams about this. Of waking up and getting all my jumbled up thoughts on paper before they’re gone. That dream probably happens at around noon though, somewhere between the moment all my hair falls off at once and when Norm smiles at me, agrees that there’s nothing wrong with commas, but says my time here is over.
Something to read and remember.

Dearest Jane,

In an unmoored life like mine, sleep and hunger and work arrange themselves to suit themselves, without consulting me. I’m just as glad they haven’t consulted me about the tiresome details. What they have worked out is this: I awake at 5:30, work until 8:00, eat breakfast at home, work until 10:00, walk a few blocks into town, do errands, go to the nearby municipal swimming pool, which I have all to myself, and swim for half an hour, return home at 11:45, read the mail, eat lunch at noon. In the afternoon I do schoolwork, either teach of prepare. When I get home from school at about 5:30, I numb my twanging intellect with several belts of Scotch and water ($5.00/fifth at the State Liquor store, the only liquor store in town. There are loads of bars, though.), cook supper, read and listen to jazz (lots of good music on the radio here), slip off to sleep at ten. I do pushups and sit-ups all the time, and feel as though I am getting lean and sinewy, but maybe not. Last night, time and my body decided to take me to the movies. I saw The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, which I took very hard. To an unmoored, middle-aged man like myself, it was heart-breaking. That’s all right. I like to have my heart broken.

Kurt Vonnegut

September 28, 1965

I have dreams about this. Of waking up and getting all my jumbled up thoughts on paper before they’re gone. That dream probably happens at around noon though, somewhere between the moment all my hair falls off at once and when Norm smiles at me, agrees that there’s nothing wrong with commas, but says my time here is over.

Something to read and remember.

I hate pictures. I hate happiness I hate laughter. I hate this holiday.

—Thanksgiving love from my dinner host (via thinguin)

I’m thankful for my sense of humor.