Top 25 Things That I Dig. (Part Deux.)

Dean had me going off on a "Top 25 Things That Make Me Happy" list last week, and I threatened to have the lot of it finished by that week. Typical me, ends up writing the rest of it this week, and Man Oh man, what a treat I have for you guys!

Okay. I'm talking out my ass again. At any rate, I wanted to finish the second part of three, saving the last five for later on, because it's getting late, and I's sleepy.

13. Art. I've got heaps of black and white collectable postcards arranged in various formations around my room, backed in plain white, and covered by flat glass panels. No frames to contain them. It's funny. I'm mired in colours 18 hours a day, but when it boils down to what I put on my walls, most of it is black and white, or particular pieces that I've done in my programme that I find are my stronger pieces. My bedroom is mostly black and whites. It's a nice contradiction. (At least I think it is.) I'm retreating into simplicity, and I don't really mind.

14.) Lattés. "A seven pump, Venti, Vanilla Latté, and a pumpkin cream cheese square, please." It's gotten to the point where I walk in, and they don't even ask anymore. Not just at one Starbucks, but at the one near my school AND the one I go to with Crystal 3 times a week. Hardcore. Foam rules.

15.) Theatre. I love seeing a new play. Usually musicals, to be honest, but I think this is my musical background poking it's nose in my life again.

16.) Literature. Yes, this is the artsy Linds speaking tonight, but there's something to be said for a good book, a cuppa chai tea, a cozy sweater, and some groove or ambient music playing in the background softly. I read about 2-4 hours per day, usually travelling to and from school, (unless I'm doing work on the way home. Laptops are handy for the skytrain, I tells ya.)

Usually it's Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Erotica, or an Anne Rice, or J.K. Rowling novel. Yes I read Harry Potter, and I damned well like it. I'm antici.........pating the latest release in theatres with something akin to giddyness.

17.) Writing. Blogger used to have a tally, in your profile that told you words written. For some reason they got rid of that feature, which is disappointing. I was at about 25,000 words in the first seven months of blogging. I've tried writing novels, but sadly, I think the only thing I'm capable of writing about is me. Pathetic, no?

18.) Sex. I'd be lying through my teeth, and avoiding a happy thang if I didn't say that doing the double-backed beast wasn't enjoyable. It's definitely not the end all and be all of life, but it sure is fun, as long as it's safe, consensual, adult play.

19. Makeup. Come on, I'm a girl. I'm a girl that can spend upwards of an hour and fifteen minutes doing the *perfect* warpaint. It's an art form to me, like painting, but on skin. If I'm not satisfied with it, I scrub it off, and start from the beginning again. There's something to be said about enhancing the natural look you have, and doggone it, it's fun, damnit.

20.) Erik. Yes, I never thought I'd put my ex up here as one of the most enjoyable things/people/experiences of my life. Charming, funny, catty, hospitable, generous, sweet, romantic, sexy as hell, intelligent, a myriad of other things. His music collection is cream-your-jeans worthy. While packing, I read my personal handwritten journals I kept before starting GSD, and honestly, I was a total snatch to him while I was dating, and things that bothered me while I was dating were so wholly unimportant, trivial, nonsensical, you name it. He showed me respect (still does, btw), honesty, and treated me the way I've never been treated before meeting him.

The fact that he considers me a "good friend" after all that ridiculous drama, is something I'll never stop cherishing. Thanks Erik.

Stay tuned next week. Same Glamazon time, Same Glamazon Channel, for the next installment of Linds' top 25 happy-fun-time stuff! The last entry on this, I promise.

*muahs*

Get it out of my head!

Damn you, Madonna! Damn you ABBA!

Song: "Hung Up" by Madonna, from the album Confessions on a Dancefloor.

The thing about packing...

Is that you pare down your belongings, all the shit you've gathered, and you toss a lot of stuff, be it clothing, or papers, or whatever, and the clothing goes to the Sally Anne, or Developemental Disabilities... And the papers get sent to the recycling bin.

I've had three papers that I've had for almost thirteen years, that I've never thrown out.

They're letters. From a guy named Aiden James Varga, that used to be my best friend in elementary school, and moved up to Shushwap when I was twelve or thirteen.

I forget about them until it's time to move, and then I get lost in a little metal box that I keep very few keepsakes in... The stuff I'll never throw away. I read them all again today, in a early teenage guys scribbled hand writing, with stickers and doodles all over the place, telling me that he missed me, and that I was his best friend, that I should visit him, because he missed me so much, and how lonely he was without me there with him. Thing is, there's not a week that goes by where I don't think about him, and how much I missed him when he left me. And that I still do miss him.

I don't remember everything about Aiden. I feel bad for that. I do know that when I was growing up with him, he was my best friend. He was always on the move, he had a good sense of humour, and he was the first person I watched the Rocky Horror Picture Show with. I totally didn't get it at that age.

I remember going to the park in Coquitlam, and running around like idiots in between the trees, or playing in the playground, I remember going trick or treating, and a brief spree with shoplifting, because kids are stupid. For all that it was a guy and a girl that were hanging out together... I was just his best friend, and despite however many times he moved growing up, or changed schools, or anything else like that, I stuck around.

I begged my dad drive me out to Coquitlam to spend the night there every weekend. I was heartbroken and sobbing when he worried about me sleeping in the same room as a guy my age, and he wanted to stop me from sleeping over, should things "happen". It was all I could do to look at him in confusion, not understanding what he meant. That was when I was innocent. (He took back that decision, by the way. Good daddy.)

I was probably in love with him, but didn't know what it was. I probably have no idea *now* if I was or wasn't. That being said, he was the only guy my age that didn't run away from me because I was the fat girl, or I had glasses, or had cooties, (because I was harassed mercilessly by kids my age in elementary school.) or the myriad of other things that children discriminate against in their peers. To him, I was just Lindsey, and Lindsey was his best friend. That's worth it's weight in platinum. (Fuck gold.)

Admittedly, it was probably my fault that I lost touch with him, I was a horrid corrospondant via regular mail, and didn't write often enough. This trait has passed itself onward into my Email corrospondance. I hated writing letters back then, and I don't much enjoy writing them now. I'd write back if he emailed me, and I'd never let go of that communication with him again, either.

I know I've written about him before, in snippets, and pieces here and there in GSD. I just wanted to do it again. I hope you guys will forgive my repetition.

Turbulence ahead.

I'm moving November first (hopefully, if I get the apartment I'm viewing today at three) and things are likely to be a little disrupted until I'm settled. Hopefully sooner than later.

I'm nervous.

The only reason why I can think of, is because it's me, and I'm always nervous. Though I'm looking forward to having my own place, and not being nagged at relentlessly. I'm also looking forward to not having a curfew. Yep. You read it right. I've got an 11:30 pm curfew here at Casa De La Granny Cerebus, (Kudo's to Damien for coming up with that granniferous title...) and I'd like to be able to stay at wherever I'm at past 11 pm, If I want to.

Wish me luck.

Oh, a word to Jerilyn, Miss UnfortunateSerendipity... You rock the known universe. Chin up, baby.

Oh, and to The Mayor. Sorry I missed you last night on MSN. I was packing. I know, I know. I suck.

A note: Why is it that hand drawn dogs always look so goofy, when they're trying to look vicious and forbidding? I just wanna give him a bowl of kibble and a chew toy. (preferably *not* my arm.) Awww. Here puppy puppy...

Break out Ye Microscopes...

Medieval Mad Scientist?

No. A Stupid graphic designer that made a rad thingy in After Effects today (All by myself!), but on a canvas size of 120 pixels by 140, or some stupid shit like that. In otherwords, teensy.

Cut me some slack, I'm still learning. However, it's pretty cool, I created a ten second trailer for a made up movie I called "Hunger". The text goes a bit quick, and the screen is small. Apologies. However, I'm still stoked with how it looks, and that I can actually DO shit like this...

Without further ado, my teeny movie trailer.

Superfluous bits of Today

Come on, read over my shoulder.

U-G-L-Y, you ain't got no alibi! You ugly! Uh huh, you ugly! Yo' momma say you ugly, hey! says:

Give me a fact.

~*Linds*~ says:

Just a random fact?

U-G-L-Y, you ain't got no alibi! You ugly! Uh huh, you ugly! Yo' momma say you ugly, hey! says:

Any fact.

~*Linds*~ says:

18 percent of all women fake an orgasm. (I have NO idea if this is accurate.)

U-G-L-Y, you ain't got no alibi! You ugly! Uh huh, you ugly! Yo' momma say you ugly, hey! says:

What a coincidence. 100 percent of all men fake a relationship.

~*Linds*~ says:

Hah!

U-G-L-Y, you ain't got no alibi! You ugly! Uh huh, you ugly! Yo' momma say you ugly, hey! says:

But seriously...no, a REAL fact.

~*Linds*~ says:

Uhm...

Cats is the longest running broadway musical on broadway in NYC? (Why do I know this?)

U-G-L-Y, you ain't got no alibi! You ugly! Uh huh, you ugly! Yo' momma say you ugly, hey! says:

Wow, that was pretty witty of me. I'm using that one.

~*Linds*~ says:

lol! A new msn name?

And yes, that was witty. Even though it made my eyebrows raise a little.

"For every women who fakes an orgasm, there is a man who fakes a relationship" says:

Hmmm. no, that's not the kind of fact I could work with. Nevermind, I'll figure it out myself.

What is with me, and the Pirates of Penzance, FFS.

Courtesy of the lovely Sarathena, this TTS interactive demo has led to my amusement for the evening.

Behold, my amusement.

I need a fucking life.

Hey. Why no comments, guys. You no love me anymore? I love you LONG TIME, and now you no love me?

I know I was lax in writing and all, and I know I get more than my five visits a day to GSD (It's my homepage on Firefox, I don't lurk on my own blog...) Yes. I'm a comment whore. A whore, I say.

I miss you guys.

*pouts*

Courtesy of Orion-Skie, over at My Stars in the Sky.

It's the one where you find the 5th sentence in your 23rd post of your blog and post it. My 23rd post was on May 22 (this year) and my 5th sentence was:

"It was usually The Bugs Bunny Show. When I was living with my parents, I still watched it with my Mom and Dad. "

In reference to talking about my favourite cartoon to watch growing up as a kid. Well Gee. That's not too terribly surprising. I just bloody well mentioned it.

The entry is titled "A little bit of History..." and I think I remember TJP asking me how the hell I could remember stuff that far back. Go take a boo, if you're interested.

Note To Self:

Do NOT walk up the stairs without the lights on. You are NOT a cat, and you CANNOT see in the dark.

Bloody hell. Fucking retard.

Earworm.

I blame Dean, (again.) For introducing me to Sufjan Stevens a couple of weeks ago.

He's been nagging at me to listen to Stevens' newest album entitled "Illinoise". Vocally reminiscent of Paul Simon, from Simon and Garfunkle. (To me at least.) His tenor is soft and sweet, and laden with emotion. I found numerous songs to have subtle Christian overtones, but all in all, it didn't bother me all that much. Maybe I'm getting soft in my old age, or just more accepting. I dunno anymore... There's the song "Chicago", which I totally dig, The lyrics speak to me so much. And then there's track four, entitled "John Wayne Gacy, Jr."

I think that I've never heard a song that is so hauntingly beautiful and gorgeous, about a serial killer. From what I've interpreted listening to this repeatedly, Stevens is expressing his compassion for someone so mentally disturbed. It's not to say I'm defending John Wayne Gacy, but the story of what he did, and his childhood etc... *sighs* It's just so... Full of sorrow. It's so saddening. When he sings "Oh my God" (and "On the mouth") in falsetto, I honestly get shivers.

John Wayne Gacy, Jr.

His father was a drinker and his mother cried in bed,
Folding John Wayne's t-shirts when the swing set hit his head.

The neighbors they adored him,
For his humor and his conversation.

Look underneath the house there,
Find the few living things, rotting fast, in their sleep;

Oh the dead.

27 people,
Even more, they were boys, with their cars, summer jobs,
Oh my God...

Are you one of them?

He dressed up like a clown for them,
With his face paint white and red.

And on his best behavior,
In a dark room on the bed he kissed them all.

He'd kill ten thousand people,
With a slight of his hand, running far, running fast to the dead.

He took off all their clothes for them,
He put a cloth on their lips, quiet hands, quiet kiss on the mouth.

And in my best behavior,
I am really just like him.

Look beneath the floor boards,
For the secrets I have hid.


Song: "Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens, From the album Illinoise.

Song: "John Wayne Gacy Jr." by Sufjan Stevens, from the album Illinoise.

Inspired by Dean.

Is it bad that I'm getting the majority of my postings off of other people's posts?

Probably.

At any rate, I heart my friend Dean, The Neurotic Monkey. Sometimes he can be in a low spot. But only sometimes. He's one of the only people that gives me shit for getting depressed, telling me it's not my job to get down, it's his. Most commonly, this guy makes me grin ear to ear, and giggle incessantly late, *late*, late at night. Why? Because he's the funniest, most pop culture knowledgable, most charming "shy guy with a great heart" guy I've ever known. *AND* the lucky bastard lives in NYC, which I miss terribly.

Dean came up with a top 25 things that make him happy list.

I thought, since I've been down lately, that I'd do the same. It's always nice to remember the things that make us happy, instead of dwelling in the negative. These aren't in order of importance, I don't categorize my stuff like that. I'm just writing them down as they come to me, OK? OK. I'm doing the first 12 tonight, and the rest later on this week.

Part 1 of Linds' Super-happy-fun-time 25 things.

1. Chocolate. Nothing tastes better, or soothes savage spirits like a bar of Lindt 70 percent dark chocolate. Y'all know my love affair with the dark bean goes long and covers my body like... Well... Like something, anyways.

2. Mitch. Like morphine, The Mayor makes my troubled mind melt away. It's strange, that when I'm at my most dire straits emotionally, Mitch pops online on MSN, flirts, teases and razzes me a little, and I feel like a new person.

3. Damien. I've never met a more fantastic person that handles any emotional shit I dish out with aplomb, with a neatly worded rebuke, that never stings, or gentle understanding. Plus he cuddles like nobodies business.

4. The First Triumvirate. By that I mean, Crystal, Crystal and Ryan. This is the group of Uberpals that I spent most of my time with in Highschool, and still hang out with or at least harass on MSN on a regular basis.

5. The Second Triumvirate. Liz, Melissa and Luc. The group of cronies in New West/Burnaby area that I chill with and have some good eats and good convo, the occasional race on the Xbox with. It's my peace away from home where I can be plied with alcohol and good cooking. Many thanks.

6. Sweet, sweet music. You guys might remember, from a while back, when I wrote that I lost all of my music on my computer. That situation has since remedied itself nicely, and though some avid music collectors will have upwards of 30,000 songs on their hard drives, I'm content with my 3110 songs, (9.2 days, 20.55 gigs) I've listened to *almost* all of them at least 100 times each. You do the math. That's a lot of time listening to music. Right now it's "Daddy Cool", "Rasputin", and "By The Rivers of Babylon" by Boney M. (Yeah, it's disco. Sue me.) That's cuz I'm crazy like a fool. What about it Daddy Cool? Oh, those crazy Russians.

7. Bugs Bunny cartoons. I still watch them. All the time. Occasionally with my dad. My favourite episode is this one. Example A is Bugs giving Gossamer the Red Haired Monster a permanamanamanament. Classic, and I *still* giggle like a little kid when I watch them.

8. Lingerie. And I mean GOOD lingerie. No cheap thigh highs for me, thank you very much. I want real silk, I want soft lace, I want black and red and white and teal, I want padding and pushing up, and "click-for-cleavage" bras. I want garter belts, I want panties by the score. I want lace teddies and... Oh wait. I have all of that already. I'm at the pinnacle of my femininity in pretty undies and accoutrement. The more unique, the more interesting it is for me. I feel beautiful and sexy and confident with nice panties etc on, and it's rare to catch me in a pair of plain white cotton briefs.

9. Big, enormous fleece sweaters, preferably with a hood attached. In my mind, there is nothing better than curling up with a novel, music playing in the background, with a big enormous fleece sweater on. One that you swim in. I'm fond of the mens 3XL from Old Navy, and a pair of yoga pants. I can wrap myself in them, and feel utterly at ease, not giving a shit about what I look like.

10. Sleep. I'm a fan of the big sleep.

Wait. Not that kind of big sleep. I'm a fan of sleeping in late. Really late. I'm a bed addict. I love my bed, and it's heaps of pillows, and it's duvet. It's probably my own damned fault that I made my bed so inviting. So inviting that I don't want to leave it, and I'm writing my entry from it.

11. Orange. Orange food, orange the colour. Orange soda, orange chocolate, orange popsicles, orange juice, orange incense, orange soap. I used to love blue, but now I've converted to orangeism. It's bright, warm, playful and inviting, it's invigorating and energizing, it tastes zingy, and makes my taste buds happy.

12. Butter Chicken curry, Basmati Rice, Naan bread, Coca Cola. Anyone that's ever gone to Metrotown with me can attest to the fact that I go to Curry Express pretty much anytime I'm there, and get the EXACT same thing everytime I go. Yes, I do get the same thing every time. No, I don't feel like changing my favourites. I'm an addict. I have no need to explain myself. Mmm. Curry.

Another Contest!

This one is less associated with me, and more with some good old fashioned blasphemous fun.

I want you guys to go to www.churchsigngenerator.com, and pick one of the two signs. Then, I want you guys to write the most creative, amusing phrase to toss in there that you can think of.

The best/funniest/most amusing sign, wins a photo.

Please note, that they ask to not be directly linked to the images themselves, but either save the image onto your desktop and email me with it, and I'll post it, or write the caption you like in the comments box below.

Come on. Stuff my box. I really want you to.

Have at 'er, boys and girls. I'm going to start off the set with my own entry right here.

I know I'm not on the gravy train time wise, but...

I've had this song for the past 2 weeks, and have been meaning to have a post on it. So here goes.

After Hurricane Katrina ripped through New Orleans, and celebrities in California flopped around trying to gather funding for the survivors of that horrible disaster, Kanye West went on television with Mike Meyers, and blatantly said what I, and many other individuals think about Dubya. He went on a two minute speech, where I swear to god the camera men were lulled into submission, and deviating from the teleprompter, announced to the world, (or at least a large portion of the western hemisphere) that "George Bush doesn't care about black people."

(Yeah, I realize my tenses are all fucked up in that last paragraph, damnit. I'm tired, cut me some slack.)

This was said on national television, no less. Granted, for someone that spends large amounts of time in front of massive crowds performing, his delivery made him sound like he was pretty brain damaged, (he was reading most of his lines off of a teleprompter previously, and I suppose slamming the president of the USA on national television is a bit unnerving... But still... Poise, darling.) and the look of utter shock that Mike Meyers gave him was laughable. (I think the look that Chris Tucker had on his face after Mike continued to blather on reading from the prompter was even more priceless.)

The point of my diatribe?

Kanye West released a song called "Gold Digga" (sampling Ray Charles' "I Got A Woman"), but come back after listening to that, and hear the politically influenced spoof song, done by The Legendary K.O. called "George Bush Don't Like Black People".

If I was Dubya, my ears would be stinging.

Sara finds the neatest meme's.

Put whatever you'd like as the finishing sentence. Preferably a confession. A deep, dark, vile confession bearing the utmost concerns and dirty little secrets you have... Or some junk.

1.) I am: Well, at the moment I'm freezing my ass off. It's cold and miserable outside, and I live in the dungeon. More generally speaking, I'm confused... Well, most of the time. I'm torn between what I love to do, What I've chosen to do, what I need to do, what I want to do and what I HAVE to do. this might involve me having to resort to prostitution, becoming the madame of an opium den, and/or drug dealing, so that I actually HAVE an income, instead of dicking around making pretty pichoors.

2.) I think: All the time, and far too much. I think I think when I'm sleeping too... I think. I also think I'm too hard on myself, and have been told as much from everybody that knows me.

3.) I am pretty sure that: The hurdles I'm tossed now will eventually wear away, if not from surmounting them, then by throwing my mind and body over and over again at them wearing them down through sheer persistance and stubborn-ness.

4.) I'd like to believe: That Santa, the Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy exist. I envy the innocence of children.

5.) I really like to consume: Curry. Electricity. Chocolate. Vitamin D. Oxygen. Coca Cola. And heaps of other stuff.

6.) I'd consider stealing: The winning lottery ticket.

7.) I love: Music, (good) food, writing, music, sleep, design, sex, music, reading, music, art, theatre, singing, music, sex, Oh, and music. (Hey, did you ever notice that when you type a word over and over again, it just starts to look stupid? Like Design. Design. DE-sig-N. De-Si-GN. De-Sign... Damnit.)

8.) One time at band camp, I: Stuck my flute up my pussy. No, really. Didn't you know that's what band camp is all about? Discovering your sexuality?

9.) I last laughed: After writing out number eight. Before that, it was on the #15 bus on the way home at about 2 pm today, where a very congenial hippie made small talk and dirty jokes to myself and a classmate, and pretty soon the entire group of people in the front of the bus was laughing and chatting away. It was fun. I love it when shit like that happens. It breaks us all out of our little shells of isolation, and I think it's something we need.

10.) My most treasured possession is: You'd think it was my laptop, wouldn't you? While that's important, I'd have to say my bed, with it's 400 threadcount sheets, king size goose down duvet, and seven zillion pillows either tops, or equally competes with that. As much as I enjoy writing, browsing the internet, and designing stuff... Man I love my bed. That and my books and music.

New Creative.

Part of an assignment, but also having fun on my own. The entire tree, background, clouds, all the stuff here, I did myself. There's no photo manipulation etc.

Whee!

Feet & Technology.

For a couple of people. A fresh pedicure, and my laptop. (admittedly, this photo *is* from my when I had my old laptop, and my nails are now metallic baby blue.) I'm thinking of having a Feet and technology Sunday night/Monday, every two weeks, because, Hey, I pamper the hell out of my feet, and not many people ever get to see them in the winter, even WITH a new coat of polish, and I love macs.

If you like mac's, if you like toes, this is a fairly fetish specific photograph. Just for the hell of it, I have no excuses, nor do I need any. I just feel like catering to a specific target group, that may or may not read GSD, ever. I don't really care. This is the abstract artist in me tossing up my odd piece now and then. I'm appeasing myself, here.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go finish my homework. The complete random-ness of this post is done now.

G'nite.


Post-script...

Hey. Does my toe look funny the way it curves? or is it just me being Toe-judgemental? What kind of DRUGS did I smoke today? Gawd.

The Perry Bible Fellowship.

So, you like comics, right?

I mean sometimes dark, always funny, wickedly drawn cartoons, right?

Then you'll love the Perry Bible Fellowship.

Here's an example, entitled "The Man with no Penis."

Yoinked from Fat Lady Walking.

"Go to musicoutfitters.com and look around a bit. Nice, huh? Okay, now go to their Top 100 Songs/Top 100 Hits and choose the year you graduated from high school. (just type in top 100 of ____" in the search field. it'll save you time.)

Bold the songs you like, (b and /b, framed with angle brackets (<>) for each tag), strike through (s and /s framed in angle brackets (<>) for each tag) the ones you hate and underline (u and /u framed in angle brackets (<>) for each tag...) your favorite(s). Do nothing to the ones you don't remember (or don't care about)."

**Please note, that I have embellished on the instructions, for anyone who cares enough to do this meme, and doesn't know basic HTML very well yet. It never hurts.**

I graduated in 1998.

1. Too Close, Next
2. The Boy Is Mine, Brandy and Monica
3. You're Still The One, Shania Twain
4. Truly Madly Deeply, Savage Garden
5. How Do I Live, LeAnn Rimes
6. Together Again, Janet
7. All My Life, K-Ci and JoJo
8. Candle In The Wind 1997, Elton John
9. Nice and Slow, Usher
10. I Don't Want To Wait, Paula Cole
11. How's It Going To Be, Third Eye Blind
12. No, No, No, Destiny's Child
13. My Heart Will Go On, Celine Dion -- (Unfortunately, this was my graduation class song. Ugh.)
14. Gettin' Jiggy Wit it, Will Smith
15. You Make Me Wanna..., Usher
16. My Way, Usher
17. My All, Mariah Carey
18. The First Night, Monica
19. Been Around The World, Puff Daddy and The Family
20. Adia, Sarah McLachlan
21. Crush, Jennifer Paige
22. Everybody (Backstreet's Back), Backstreet Boys -- (I'm so lame.)
23. I Don't Want To Miss A Thing, Aerosmith -- (WAY overplayed!!)
24. Body Bumpin Yippie-Yi-Yo, Public Announcement
25. This Kiss, Faith Hill
26. I Don't Ever Want To See You Again, Uncle Sam
27. Let's Ride, Montell Jordan
28. Sex And Candy, Marcy Playground
29. Show Me Love, Robyn
30. A Song For Mama, Boyz II Men
31. What You Want, Mase
32. Frozen, Madonna
33. Gone Till November, Wyclef Jean
34. My Body, Lsg
35. Tubthumping, Chumbawamba -- (WAY too overplayed.)
36. Deja Vu (Uptown Baby), Lord Tariq and Peter Gunz
37. I Want You Back, 'N Sync
38. When The Lights Go Out, Five
39. They Don't Know, Jon B.
40. Make Em' Say Uhh!, Master P (Uuuuh! Shut the fuck up. I have nightmares still about the 17 year old teenaged white boys in my school trying to be cool saying that all the time.)
41. Make It Hot, Nicole Featuring Missy "Misdemeanor" Elliott and Mocha
42. Never Ever, All Saints
43. I Get Lonely, Janet
44. Feel So Good, Mase
45. Say It, Voices Of Theory
46. Kiss The Rain, Billie Myers
47. Come With Me, Puff Daddy
48. Romeo And Juliet, Sylk-E Fyne
49. It's All About Me, Mya and Sisqo
50. I Will Come To You, Hanson
51. One Week, Barenaked Ladies
52. Swing My Way, K.P. and Envyi
53. The Arms Of The One Who Loves You, Xscape
54. My Love Is The Shhh!, Somethin' For The People
55. Daydreamin', Tatyana Ali
56. We're Not Making Love No More, Dru Hill
57. Semi-Charmed Life, Third Eye Blind
58. I Do, Lisa Loeb
59. Lookin' At Me, Mase
60. Looking Through Your Eyes, LeAnn Rimes
61. Lately, Divine
62. Quit Playing Games (With My Heart), Backstreet Boys
63. I Still Love You, Next
64. Time After Time, Inoj
65. Are You Jimmy Ray?, Jimmy Ray
66. Cruel Summer, Ace Of Base
67. I Got The Hook Up!, Master P
68. Victory, Puff Daddy and The Family
69. Too Much, Spice Girls
70. Ghetto Supastar (That Is What You Are), Pras Feat. Ol' Dirty Bastard and Mya
71. How Deep Is Your Love, Dru Hill Featuring Redman
72. Friend Of Mine, Kelly Price
73. Turn It Up [Remix] / Fire It Up, Busta Rhymes
74. I'll Be, Edwin McCain
75. Ray Of Light, Madonna
76. All For You, Sister Hazel
77. Touch It, Monifah
78. Money, Power and Respect, Lox
79. Bitter Sweet Symphony, The Verve
80. Dangerous, Busta Rhymes
81. Spice Up Your Life, Spice Girls
82. Because Of You, 98 Degrees
83. The Mummers' Dance, Loreena McKennitt -- (This reminds me. I must go raid my mom's music.)
84. All Cried Out, Allure Featuring 112
85. Still Not A Player, Big Punisher Featuring Joe
86. The One I Gave My Heart To, Aaliyah
87. Foolish Games / You Were Meant For Me, Jewel
88. Love You Down, Inoj
89. Do For Love, 2Pac
90. Raise The Roof, Luke
91. Heaven, Nu Flavor
92. The Party Continues, Jd
93. Sock It 2 Me, Missy "Misdemeanor" Elliott Featuring Da Brat
94. Butta Love, Next
95. A Rose Is Still A Rose, Aretha Franklin
96. 4 Seasons Of Loneliness, Boyz II Men
97. Father, LL Cool J
98. Thinkin' Bout It, Gerald Levert
99. Nobody's Supposed To Be Here, Deborah Cox
100. Westside, TQ

That's ILL!

I feel like poop.

Flu stuffs have been zipping about the school for oh, two weeks now, and my Auntie Terri had a nasty bout of something when I was around mi familia last weekend, and now, head hurts, body hurts, and I feel like I'm thinking through molasses.

What does this mean? This means Advil (mmmmdrugs) bad comedy, cranberry juice and Ginger ale, and hopefully not tossing up my dinner. P'raps this is why my week has seemed so crappy, and I'm touchy on a bunch of subjects. Blech.

Though, I did talk to The Mayor of Mitchieville fame today on MSN, and he always cheers me up. Yay Mayor! *smooches!*

I missed you, you shiny topped gay penguin sympathizer.

Keep on Rocking in the Free World... Friday Five.

Been a while since I tinkered with a Friday Five. I know, I'm bloggin' like MAD these past two days. I guess I have a lot to write about. Here, have some more.

1. What if any instrument do you play?

Guitar, but mostly I'm a vocalist. I can play two or three cover songs, and one that I wrote myself.

2. If you could choose to play an instrument what would it be?

Piano. That would rule.

3. If you were in a band, what would your band’s name be?

"The Immaculatemissconceptions", or just "Immaculatemissconception"

4. What type of music would your band play?

Uhh. If it's me playing guitar, then it's Bob Dylan cover songs. If it's someone else, that's actually got TALENT, well then anything but bubblegum pop, or death metal.

Probably "Alternative Rock".

5. Would you continue to be good for years to come, or would you and your band end up in Branson playing for bus loads of elderly?

Oh, we'd rock, we'd rock until WE needed the hearing aides and Depends®, baby.

Just to whip off a quick note...

To the cocksuckers that stole my laptop from MacStation a week and a half ago, who will most likely READ this, since I've got GSD set up as my homepage.

"Fuck you."

I hope, in my heart of hearts, you learn what it's like to have your private work stolen from you. I hope, that you learn what it's like to have your identity trampled on. I spent over six months working on the work on that machine, and over four years, collecting the music on it, as well. I feel violated, and I have you to blame.

Good luck figuring out my admin password, fuckwad.

Yeah, I know you just logged on to it, because you booted me off of MSN. I got news for you, bitch. Watch yourself. If I ever find out who you are, somebody gonna get a hurt REAL bad.

Oh, by the way... That G4 powerbook in your filthy, thieving little hands? It's Hard Drive is going to fail in about Hmm. let's see... Three weeks. However, you get an A for effort, what with the concept behind your break in. Unfortunately, I have to follow that up with an F for "Fucking up", when the alarm went off three seconds after you guys got in the building. Maybe you should have taken into account, that a computer store in the middle of Yaletown, would actually have a security system in place... Y'know... especially with those stickers saying "Alarm System" all over the windows n' shit. Instead, you dropped down, like some malignant spider, and when the bells and whistles went off, you grabbed whatever shit you could, including my comp. Unfortunately, you chose to break into the "repairs" section, and not the actual store itself.

Nice job stealing broken computers, retards. You disgust me.


MAN! Do I ever hate people sometimes.

"Lindsey Needs..."

Wholeheartedly stolen from Sarathena at Craftswoman Fool Box, a meme involving something called the Google search engine.

All you do is type in your first name, followed by "needs" See my top ten results below.

1. Lindsey needs nurturing, patient, and committed adoptive parents.
2. Lindsey needs to get a life.
3. Lindsey needs to take breaks to use the water fountain or bathroom.
4. Lindsey needs to raise money to help with her expenses.
5. Lindsey needs a little break from her social life.
6. Lindsey needs to grow the hell up and stop starting shit.
7. Lindsey needs a room to match her sweet and colorful personality.
8. Lindsey needs less faith and fervor and more critical analysis.
9. Lindsey needs a kidney transplant.
10. Lindsey needs to be punished somehow.

Fun!

I'm including the 11th one, just because it made me laugh until tears almost ran down my legs.

11. Lindsey needs to lay off the coke, seriously.

Seriously. Like, Oh migawd.

"Stop being so Goddamned Catholic..."

Guilt dogs my heels all the time. I feel guilty for not hanging out with my friends, I feel guilty enjoying the stuff I enjoy, like butter chicken, or shopping, or chocolate, or sleeping in on the weekends. Guilt plagues me regarding the fact that I'm not working, having a steady income, and spending time furthering myself.

I'm tired of feeling guilty. I feel guilty being tired of being guilty, for fucks sakes.

I'm tired of giving a shit about people disapproving of my actions, and I'm tired of being my own hardest critic. But no matter how many times I *say* that to myself, (sometimes I think it) I still do the same old shit.

I love my grandmother, but so help me gawd, she is the BEST at dishing out guilt trips in the universe. I just spent 2o minutes, from walking in the door, going to the bathroom, coming out of the loo, collecting my mail. You name it, the myriad of day to day things that you do when you come home, and for me after an hour and a half of public transit... I hate people. I've said this numerous times. I took this, I stood there, while she berated me, for not having a clean room, (because that so matters in this world.) talking to me like I'm 14 years old again, and all I could do was look at the wall, unable to fire back a nasty reply for all the bullshit that she tossed at me, all the stuff she was saying to make me feel like crap. When I KNOW that she talks nasty about me to family members, and I can hear it in their voices when they phone.

I USED to have pretty good self esteem. Then I moved in with a 74 year old very Catholic woman, and I learned that according to her, everything I do, and every ounce of my being, is something wrong. Every action I do is something wrong. Every word I say, every word that comes out of my mouth is offensive, or blunt, or crude, or inappropriate.

I mean, honestly, what else should I expect from a woman that attends religious ceremonies from a religious sect that thinks homosexuality is an illness, and all movies should contain a reference to God. Yes, before you religious backbenchers get your hackles up, I HAVE read the bible. It's a good book, really. Great fantasy literature. A bit dry in places, but hey, it's like 3000 pages long. You can't expect it ALL to be golden.

All heresy and blasphemy aside. I'm just tired. I'm tired of being judged. I'm tired of being berated when I come home, instead of being greeted back when I say "Hi, how was your day?" I don't wanna hear, "This, this, this, this, this, this, this and THIS isn't done, So-and-so, and so-and-so phoned while you were out, and I don't like the phone ringing so often." I want to hear, I'm okay, or I'm shitty, or I'm doing great. I don't need to be bitched out for twenty minutes over some spare change that fell out of my jeans pocket the morning before hand and is still on the floor, and the mis-matched socks in the top of my dresser drawer.

I DON'T want to hear about how much stuff is not where it *COULD* be because I moved into the basement, and rearranged my whole life, including all my possessions, like giving them away, so that I could manage to get an education.

I DON'T want to hear you talk to my friends about me like I'm not there, saying rude things about me, or even worse, saying rude shit to me WHILE my friends are there, and pretending they aren't there. It's humiliating.

I'd love to not feel guilty. I'd LOVE to stop being so Goddamned Catholic, as Damien said to me at the mall either yesterday or Monday. It's too tiring.

Sigh.

Whadda week.

I've been consoling my mom, Aunts and Uncle for a majority of the weekend. Thusly, homework? Yeah right. This isn't good, due to the fact that I'm already two weeks behind in After Effects, but other than that, I'm up to par on the rest of my stuff.

I think. It doesn't matter all that much to me right now. I'm just mentally and emotionally drained. I feel guilty that I'm pissed off that my entire long weekend to catch up on homework went the way of the Do-do, but you make due with what happens, and work harder to fix the problems that come along the way.

You can skip this post, if you'd like. I'm kinda waxing poetic about the history of Gordon Moxam, the guy that I called "Grandpa"... Medical and otherwise. It's long, and and probably boring to those who never knew him, not that many people that do will read this... But it's necessary for me to write...

So, honestly? This has been a horrid week. I'm glad it's over. I feel guilty for being relieved that I'm at home, and not hugging my mother, and getting a soggy shoulder, while I rub her back. Ah, my poor mother, She's so distraught over the death of her father.

It's not to say I'm not upset. The copious amounts of crying I've done have been largely in private. First when I got the news, at 12:45 on Saturday morning, and a few other times. Largely alone, though. I hate it when people watch me cry. Some women are graceful, and inspire men to comfort them when they cry, and others, (like myself) drip fluids from places they'd rather not, get all sweaty and their face goes red, and sound about as pretty as a flock of Canadian Geese honking away. Needless to say, I cry in private, if possible.

I think I just handle this better than my mom. Now, if it was MY dad that died, I'd be in floods. For weeks. I'm terrified of losing my parents. And honestly; I wasn't that close to my grandfather. And I'd given him until the end of this year. I knew his health was bad, and I was preparing myself for the time. I'd just really really hoped he'd make it until after Christmas, and he didn't.

I didn't know all that much about him, and what I learned, I learned from his children, and from the few stories he told me when I hung out around him. I was a little intimidated by him, and maybe it's the weaker, more timid part of my nature that just didn't understand the relatively standoffish, quiet, alone-time appreciating individual that he was when I was between the ages of five and eighteen, the ages I was living with my parents in the basement suite underneath him and my grandmother.

I told this story already, not as detailed, but I did this in Metrotown today, telling Damien about him, and to my horror, I choked up, and tears started streaming down my face. I guess I needed to tell it to someone, instead of being the person who was the crying shoulder for my family...

They all talk to me about him. About who he was. About what they'll miss, and it was all I could do to just listen to them, and try to help them though their pain. I'm pretty good at listening, I guess. I just wish someone had bothered to have the time to listen to me. Well, Damien volunteered... Sort of. It's not really the place or the time I wanted to start crying. Not surrounded by hundreds of people, and all the ones around looking at me, while I sniffled and cried in the middle of the Food Court. If I can't talk to someone, then I do most of my storytelling here. Though, I've been known on occasion to tell a few stories with enthusiasm to willing listeners. I'm a writer, not really a speaker, unless I feel like it.

Anyways, I'm digressing. Somewhat. I'm so tired, my head feels full and useless.

There is no service for him, he didn't want one. I think that's a bit sad, but only because he had heaps of friends. Good friends. Close ones, that will miss him immensely, and it would be good for them to all gather together, and remember the good stuff about him. But he didn't want one, so we're not going to do anything. Instead it was a relatively sad and stifled Thanksgiving Day dinner, where we tried to cover up our grief with a charade of mirth. Pseudo-Mirth, I guess.

It was relatively uncomfortable for me, being that I'm close to that side of the family, but closer to my Father's side. I felt like a little bit of an outsider there, and having the entire family sitting in the living room, lined along the edges on the couches and chairs, not saying a word for half an hour other than the occasional murmered comment, was uncomfortable and awkward to say the least.

My mom was/is mad at everything and everyone, including the nurses and doctors at the hospital... But, I suppose I should start from the beginning, and work my way to this point, if I wanted to be linear about my storytelling.

My grandfather was almost 74. He'd have turned 74 a month and a day from now, on November 11th, Rememberance Day. Needless to say I, Miss "brain-like-a-sieve", actually remembered his birthday every year.

When he was a kid, he got hit by a truck while he was riding his bike, I think he was about seven or so. The truck ran over his left leg, from the knee down, and when I was little, and he'd walk around wearing shorts, the only thing covering his shin bone, was a layer of skin. I remember looking at it, I remember asking to touch it, and he let me. I remember asking how it happened, and he told me. Nothing detailed, just the rough story behind it. I suppose it was hard for him to remember the details, though I'm not certain that it's easy to forget something like that. This is the innocence and curiosity of children. I guess surgery back in the late 1930's was lacking, and he was lucky that he didn't lose his leg from the knee down. Well, not yet at least.

After that he was always cold. Always. Even in mid-summer. I suppose the blood circulation was messed up after such major physical trauma, and his hands and feet were always frozen. He had a zillion fleece sweaters. My mom crocheted him at least six lap blankets over the years.

When he was 15 years old, he ran away from home, by jumping on a boat. At the end of his journey, he found himself in San Francisco, where he had the opportunity to become an artist. I don't know if San Francisco was his goal, or if it was just the place he ended up at. Either way, he stayed there for a few years.

My grandfather was deft with a pencil and paper, and it was his instruction that eventually taught my mother how to draw. When he left San Francisco, he swore to himself that he was never going to draw again, and stood by that saying until he gave my mom an easel, and art supplies for her birthday present. When she looked at those supplies, not knowing what to do, he taught her bit by bit, how to draw portraits, scenery, and still life. She tells me it shocked the hell out of her to learn that he knew how to draw. He'd never let on beforehand.

When he returned to Vancouver, he became a plumbers apprentice, working hard long hours, learning how to repair and fit pipes and heating ducts as well. He always needed something to do with his hands. He met and married my grandmother, and they had four children and adopted one into their household.

He was passionate about fly fishing and hunting, his skills with pencil and paper adapted themselves to creating flies for his hobby. His flies were sought after, and he was well appreciated in the Burnaby Fish and Game Club, both as an avid member, and as a craftsman. He never sold his flies. He usually gifted them to individuals that he knew would appreciate them, usually as prizes in a children’s fishing tournament, or to like minded individuals that loved fly fishing as much as he did. It was never for profit.

He took me fishing and camping all the time when I was growing up, and I think the thing that he liked to do most, was teach us how to fish. Properly. Not this hokey crap that you do on the shoreline, but actually a mile out in the lake, quiet and peaceful. That was his zen, I think.

He refused to retire at the age of 65. He hated not having anything to do; so he started his own plumbing company, and had tons of work on his hands. I don't remember if it was when he was working for his own company, or before he retired that he got pretty badly burned by an exploding hot water tank, but he had third and second degree burns over about 60 percent of his body, for a while. He recuperated from that, though.

Two years ago, the wound on his leg, that he'd had for sixty some odd years became infected. It went gangrenous. Yeah. Gangrene. That's like WW2 shit. But because he was a stubborn old bastard, and if he hadn't shown my dad his leg, he'd probably have died from blood poisoning, because there were already streaks of red going up his leg, and you could smell the infection when he finally was worried enough to show someone. They removed his left leg from the knee down, in the hospital, and it took him about six months to "get used" to not having it. I don't suppose you could ever get used to not having half of a limb.

He had a prosthesis, but he never used it, and the house was changed around, installing a wheelchair lift to the second floor, and renovating the bathroom to suit wheelchair access. And he was fine. He still tied his flies in the garage, which is where he spent most of his time, he still went fishing with his buddies every now and then; and I'm pretty sure he even went hunting for deer once or twice as well. He kept on trucking.

Then, he was diagnosed with cancer. Bladder cancer, specifically. He went through round after round of chemotherapy, after the drugs he was taking didn't have any effect. He spent nights in the hospital for minor surgery, and tests. And nothing worked. So they scheduled an operation to remove his bladder, hoping that it would circumvent the cancer that was poisoning his body.

That was Friday, late in the afternoon. The likelihood of survival was roughly around 30 percent, given his age, and his health, and a myriad of other details that always play a part in situations like this. Surgery went fine. He had told my Mom that he wanted to die with this surgery. I don't know how to take that, to be honest. He was just tired of suffering. He was tired of being in pain, and cold, and not being able to keep food down. He was tired of having a sporadic sleep pattern, not being able to sleep for more than three hours at a time.

His heart failed, and by the time they resuscitated him, he had suffered medium to severe brain damage. The hospital called my grandmother, and told her what had happened. Did they want the staff to keep him alive? Yes, she said, and my mother and her went to see him, to see if they needed to sign a letter of release. And they did.

He had tubes in his throat, and even though they said "brain damaged" he was trying to talk, and swallow but he couldn't. He was looking around the room, he was trying to THINK, and he was looking at my mother, who was holding his hand, and talking to him in a low voice. The staff was talking over him, like he was already dead, and my grandmother couldn't say anything. She didn't know what to say, other than "fifty years." in a small, sad voice, that didn't seem to belong to my grandmother.

They'd just celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary earlier this year. I was there.

And because she couldn't say anything, my mother did. My mom talked to him, the entire time he lay there dying, smoothing his hair back, and telling him stories about the stuff he loved, the stuff that made him laugh. My mom watched the heart monitor go from 48 beats per minute, to 27 beats per minute, to three beats per minute, until he died. It only took twenty minutes, after they stopped life support.

It's so hard to see such a strong person, brought so damned low.

And my mom was angry. Furious at the doctors, and the nurses, because she thought them callous. Flagrant disregard for the life of a person they already considered gone, and how they talked over him like he was dead already. And it's hard to justify that for her. It's hard to tell her, diplomatically, that they see death everyday, and that it's not them being cold-hearted. It's them having to "Get used" to seeing people die. I don't think it's something you get used to, to be honest.

I think she needed to say good-bye that way, though. I think it was closure, and a way for her to say good-bye to her dad.

And it makes me wonder, that if it ever came down to that point for me, would I be strong enough to do the same thing?

Honestly, I couldn't answer you.

As for the remains of my grandfather, he's going to be cremated, or has been already. Of that, I'm not certain, and I'm not sure it really matters. His ashes are going to be spread across the lake, where he found his peace, fishing up in the interior of British Columbia, by my mom, Grandmother and Auntie Terri, sometime in the spring.

As for me?

I'll remember the sound of his laughter, which was more a cackle, that had a wonderfully wicked, fun-loving sense about it when you cracked a rather cheeky joke, and the fact that even after his second chemo session on Christmas Eve, he was smiling the next day. Even just as a facade. That's the important stuff. That's what matters to me. He was a tough old bird, but he's gone to the "Happy Hunting Grounds". Literally. He's probably wherever we go when we die, sound of limb, trekking after moose, and pulling up all the fish he can imagine that he's sent to Valhalla many moons ago. That and reading Science Fiction novels and watching bad movies, laughing at the jokes he always laughed at. I knew him that well, anyways.

Rest in Peace, Grandpa. I'll miss you, ya punk.

Gordon Arthur Moxam

November 11th, 1932
October 8th, 2005

Random Quote Of The Day.

"And the Lord spake, saying, "First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. Then shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in my sight, shall snuff it."

Inspired by Mitchieville

This is a test...

This is merely a test...


Of the emergency broadcasting signal. blah blah blah, let's make a scary noise that freaks out small children.

Speaking of small children, or hatchlings, as it may seem, did you know that Katie Holmes isn't allowed to scream while pushing Tom Cruise's spawn out of her loins? And did you know that no one is allowed to talk to the baby for up to seven days after it's been born?

Why? Well cause that poor little hatchling went through Soooooooo much trauma being born.

Can you remember YOUR birth trauma? Do you have a photographic memory from when your brain was no more than a bowl of pudding? What a load of hokey crap.

Animated Individuals

I've been trying to keep myself distracted. I found an easy enough method. Have a look.

Rest In Peace.

Goodbye, Grandpa. I'll miss you.

I'm taking a few days off. If I need it. ciao guys.

Back in the Saddle... Again.

Ah.

How nice to have technology back in my hands. Literally.

Last night I got my brand-spankin'-new G4 powerbook, and this time it has a few perks.

Like a backlit keyboard (y'know, in case I need to type in the dark... For some unknown reason. Shaddup, perverts.) and a gig of ram, which should make rendering stuff in After Effects a little less time consuming and on the whole a little less painful.

I'll admit. I appreciated the reprieve from technology. More than I thought. I also felt like a total fucking retard, struggling to do such things as check my email, and having to use the instructors computer at school to type out assignments.

I'd like to be grateful to MacStation, for giving me a replacement. But I'm not. I was informed the day I picked it up that the theft wasn't actually covered by the stores insurance policy (Which is Bullocks, in my opinion) and they were replacing it out of the kindness of their hearts, knowing I was a student, and technically, it should have been covered under MY insurance.

Wait, wait, wait. Before I grovel and kiss your ring in gratitude, Mister MacStation, I have a couple of points to bring up.

1.) *I* did all of the work required to fix the problem (that shouldn't have been a problem in the first place) regarding my warranty, including phoning down to California, and repeatedly phoning your store back, talking to a myriad of employees, ensuring that work was being done, as quickly and smoothly as possible. I came down there, when it could have been cleared over the phone, I did all the virtual "legwork" to ensure that you guys, had it easy. You're welcome.

2.) I left my laptop in the care of certified Mac technicians, under the assumption that the locale I was leaving it in was a secured area. It's not MY fault that someone broke in through the ceiling of your store, and decided to rip off whatever the fuck they could grab on a Sunday night. I was not the one remiss in assuring that my store was secure, I was not the one that decided to situate my store in that location. You guys have insurance for that, and though I do have my computer covered through my house insurance, I'm pretty fucking sure that when I signed that order form for repairs, I was placing my technology into your custody. That's like blaming the parents for allowing their children to get injured on a field trip. In short, that's just fucking ridiculous.

Blah. Whatever. Like I said, this benefited me, in ways I never would have thought. I got two weeks rest, and actually did a lot of design on PAPER, as opposed to digital, and I think that was an aspect that was lacking from my repetoire. Actually... I know it was. This just forced me to leave my comfort zone and actually get smudges of pen, charcoal, conte, pencil, paint and eraser bits all over the side of my left hand. (I'm left-handed... I dunno if some of you knew that.)

I rearranged ALL of the artwork in my two rooms in the dungeon, and noticed that I have a fetish for women of the 1940s, and monochromatic imagery. Black and whites. Rarely colour, which is surprising. My artwork is a mixture of sparse, and eclectic.

It also gave me a respite from the writers block I'd been suffering. I'm guessing you guys noticed, what with my lack of decent posts, that I was having trouble writing ANYTHING. I think that's done with now, even with the heaps of homework that I have to catch up on... Or at least anything that was computer related. Luckily for me, a great deal of work thus far has been writing. Which probably got me over my writers block as well. Not just typical goals etcetera, but I was REALLY digging deep in myself. I was exposing my soul, and it was terrifying. I was interviewed, and then I had classmates review ME, as a person. I had the six people I've spent the majority of the year with, telling me what they thought of me, and presenting ME as a person, to the rest of the class.

I was worried. I was scared that all of the faults I can see in myself, which get overlooked by people that don't know me that well, would be exposed, to the people that see me everyday, 5 days a week, for 8 hours a day. They see my creative side, they see my passions... And by far, I'd like to thank Nick, but more than anyone else, Michel, the dazzling, brilliant woman I spend most of my time chatting to on a personal basis, for telling me the things I needed to hear, and was too afraid to admit.

I read. Tons of books. I read the entire Harry Potter series again, my favourite author Jaqueline Carey, and everything she's written so far, a shiteload of Anne Rice smutty vampire novels, some Terry Pratchett, (courtesy of Damien letting me raid his bookshelf). I slept. Which I needed. I spent more time with my friends outside of chatting, (though I *did* miss quite a few chat buddies.)

But I'm back.

...

...

Didja miss me?

"Overexposed" Linds

Random photography nonsense, while experimenting with my aparture settings and exposure setting on my digital camera.

This was the most pleasing of the lot of them.

The room is actually pitch black, and I had the shutter open for approximately 20 seconds. If your wondering why I have a green tinge to my skin, no, it's not the bad chinese I had for lunch, it's actually from the glow of my alarm clock.

Ach!! (A Brief)

Well, my computer WAS in the shop. Yes, "Was". (forboding!!!) It's remarkable how redundant the word "unfortunately" at the start of a sentence is.

Someone broke into the shop. Someone STOLE my laptop. Goody. The morons stole a broken computer. a whole bunch of them, actually. That's thinkin, I tells ya. Unless they were stealing information ON the comps themselves, and I've thwarted them by changing around my passwords for everything. I'm glad the important shit is all in my brain. I changed my online banking, and my paypal acct. which was all I was worried about.

I'm too amused at the whole situation to actually BE mad, and all in all it benefits me. Why? Well, because there's good news.

I gets me a NEW computer. Whooooo fucking hoo!!!

Now, I just have to wait until I get it in my hot little hands.

Loves ya!

Linds

For the love of a Furby

Why is it so fun to torture these fuzzy gibberish speaking bastards?

They mock the phone, and ring along with it, taunt you with a "neener neener neener", sing to themselves to keep them entertained, and actually says "Eek!" when you move him too quickly up and down. Light sensitive, sound sensitive, and learn to speak english from "Furbish", which is a mixture of gibberish and asian languages. right now it's torturing us (Crystal and myself) with a gibberish version of "Twinkle, twinkle, little star".

I dunno why I'm writing about them, but it's fun to torture the fuzzy bastard. He's remarkably cute, but at the same time... Y'know... He sorta creeps me out.

This entry has no purpose. I'm just writing to hear the keys rattle. With a furby singing, and actually snorting when you tickle him. I'll admit, it makes me giggle.

I can be 12 years old sometimes.