Skip to main content

On A Lighter Note

Yesterday at work:

C: Can we make gingermen sometime?
me: Sure, we can make gingerbread men.
C: At Christmas, we make gingerbread houses. And we can eat them, 'cause they're food.
me: Yes, they are for eating.
C: But if they were chickenbread houses, they would be healthier, right? Because chicken is protein, right? And protein makes you run faster.
me: (laughing) Yes, chicken is protein. And protein helps you grow strong.


And an assortment of texts I don't want to delete:




Get out of my head.
Just saw a sign that says free lunch. First thought: I should go there! Second thought: why is it free? Oh no! It's a strip club! (no such thing as a free lunch these days)

Cool. Date b

If ur not sleeping well maybe u need a husband to keep u warm.

Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are shooting stars?

I can't believe I didney reply to this text from now 24 hours ago. Eesh. Work was so busy I couldn't...and then my brain fell off and...

Serious, bree.

Mmm quite. God is _________.

Hand to forehead and swoon. Miss you lots. I'm checking for that T.O. job all the time!

I love you Beth. No. None of us are blameless. It's okay though. Really, it is.

Try 100 pounds. My heart feels sexy!!!

Reachin for the stars...Run away with me...To another place...

Yes yes yes to everything you said. And I didn't mind THE SHOUTING!

Como estas mucho tiempo que no escuchamos nada de ti.

The point was that you went, and had pointless fun. Does it have to be more than that?

Me too. I miss our talks.

Does ________'s apartment seem completely impersonal to you? Like it came from a catalogue of Young Urban Male.

I'm 80% there. Aren't you dick?
(one minute later) Wow. Sick. Sick
(two minutes later) So I will get ill as well?
(five minutes later) I meant sick. Just to reiterate.
(ten minutes later) Like it was supposed to be the word sick. 
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Simone Weil: On "Forms of the Implicit Love of God"

Simone Weil time again! One of the essays in Waiting for God  is entitled "Forms of the Implicit Love of God." Her main argument is that before a soul has "direct contact" with God, there are three types of love that are implicitly  the love of God, though they seem to have a different explicit  object. That is, in loving X, you are really loving Y. (in this case, Y = God). As for the X of the equation, she lists: Love of neighbor  Love of the beauty of the world  Love of religious practices  and a special sidebar to Friendship “Each has the virtue of a sacrament,” she writes. Each of these loves is something to be respected, honoured, and understood both symbolically and concretely. On each page of this essay, I found myself underlining profound, challenging, and thought-provoking words. There's so much to consider that I've gone back several times, mulling it over and wondering how my life would look if I truly believed even half of these thi...
1 comment
Read more

I Like to Keep My Issues Drawn

It's Sunday night and I am multi-tasking. Paid some bills, catching up on free musical downloads from the past month, thinking about the mix-tape I need to make and planning my last assignment for writing class. Shortly, I will abandon the laptop to write my first draft by hand. But until then, I am thinking about music. This song played for me earlier this afternoon, as I attempted to nap. I woke up somewhere between 5 and 5:30 this morning, then lay in bed until 8 o'clock flipping sides and thinking about every part of my life that exists. It wasn't stressful, but it wasn't quite restful either...This past month, I have spent a lot of time rebuffing lies and refusing to believe that the inside of my heart and mind can never change. I feel like Florence + The Machine 's song "Shake it Out" captures many of these feelings & thoughts. (addendum: is the line "I like to keep my issues strong or drawn ?" Lyrics sites have it as "stro...
2 comments
Read more

Esse - Czeslaw Milosz

I'm on a bit of a poetry binge this week, and Monday afternoon found me lying on the luxurious shag rug of a friend's tiny apartment, re-reading some of my favourite poets (ee cummings, William Carlos Williams, Czeslaw Milosz). It is an adventure to re-open a collection and wonder what will pop out, knowing something you've read before will strike you afresh, or you will be reminded of a particularly moving line that you had somehow forgotten. Like this piece from Milosz, which floors me. Every. damn.* time. The first time I read it, I lay in a park with a friend (this same friend who offered me her rug as my reading burrow) and demanded that I share it with her. I spoke it carefully, and then, into the post-reading silence, I slammed the book shut, and dropped it as loudly as I could onto the grass. "I'm never reading anything again," I declared, "What else is there to say?" Esse I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro st...
Post a Comment
Read more