I love spring. Everyone is miserable with allergies, the white folk come out of hibernation to odyssey to Panera Bread, the crime rate goes up. The grass looks so tempting in the sun, the chipmunks darting about bright-eyed, but do not sit upon it, noble audience, for it is treacherous and it is wet and it will deliver unto your ass great discomfort. Perhaps a little more self-consciousness than already exists. Perhaps you will even look as if you had an accident. Oh, spring.
So, I quit Barnes&Noble, finally, praise Jesus. No more little lanyard with my name on it and a litany of “Members save 10%!” Now I work at the restaurant and my life is 90% less kill myself. I had been procrastinating quitting longer than you'd wait in line behind a group of Mexicans at Family Dollar. At Zeus, Poncho is our Mexican dishwasher (Do they come in other kinds?). He cranks dat, is 18, has two kids in Mexico, and the most English he knows is the Spongebob themesong, his singing of which I might compare in shrillness to the whistle of a train that was somehow crossbred with a nagging wife who just inhaled copious amounts of helium. Yes Poncho, Superman that Sponge. He asks me, “You want to lay on my car?” I'm like, “No Poncho, God damn it.” He asks all the waitresses, “You want baby? Babies are beautiful. You like Mexican babies?” All the while he's giggling incoherently like a fucking tweaking Girl Scout. Yes please, inseminate me, and sire my child, oh ye charmingly soapy handed breadwinner. My legs are spread. Heh. One of the waitresses there keeps getting asked if she's pregnant, and she's not. If someone asked me if I was pregnant, I would say yeah. I would say that I love the black cock.
As far as restaurants go, and hell, all places, I would like to assert, right now, that there is no more blatantly hilarious place on Earth than Waffle House. I would like to die at Waffle House, facing the rising sun, with a pile of waffles so large that they eclipse the sun, so that I die entrenched in syrupy, buttery goodness, flanked by ash trays and friendly ex-meth addicts who use a three cans of hairspray a day. Yes, Waffle House. Do not make pretensions to dignity, fine lady, with your menus. Oh, the memories. I have been at Waffle House at obscene hours. Favorite memory involves four characters: the fat black man falling asleep in the corner booth as comic backdrop, actually smoking as he slept, a flaming gay guy with a voice like velvet, blue color contacts and hair that looked like it was dyed with an exquisite blend of rust and Castrol GTX (JiffyLube does hair now, just ask them about their other thinly veiled innuendo-tastic services), and a Middle Eastern guy with dreadlocks who was running around like a AV kid on the day of the pep rally. Now that our illustrious cast has been introduced, I will tell you that it was 5 in the morning, and none of us had slept. I don't remember saying this next thing at all, but apparently, as I was informed afterwards, I asked the waitress – a withered leather purse of a woman with soulful eyes – for, “An egg.” She asked, “Do you want the whole thing?” Yes, yes, that's right, she made a funny. And the lights just turned off in my brain. I just looked at her as though possessed by Terry Shaivo's younger, dumber twin. Needless to say, she called me sweetheart for the rest of the night. She also warned us, quite balefully, against the grits, the way in which she said it as if grits had killed her family. So we're all enjoying a wonderful meal and suddenly Dreadlocks McGee runs by and screams, “Oh no! Don't hit me with the cheese pan!” and runs through the double-doors at the end of the kitchen line that lead to God knows what dimension, to which great lulz were had. The crowning part of the experience, however, was the arrival of a visored, knee-length coat swaddled old woman, the scowl she wore doing to her mastiff face like what I would imagine a lawn mower might do to, oh, a worm, or a baby bird that had tragically fallen out of its tree. Her nametag said Grace, and oh, did never did a woman live whose name suited her more, though I think Attila would have also been a good choice. Grace resembled a squash with legs, her face one of those undesirable bumps, the kind of bump a squash gets rejected by migrant workers for. Grace had seen better days, and I'm sure better days had not wanted to see Grace. The rest of the staff chorused, “Good morning Grace!” To which there was no hint of a facial expression in response. That woman's face was as still as rigor mortis on pause (I checked with the manufacturer, there's no rewind on rigor mortis either. Sorry for the disappointment. I know, I know, broke my heart too). For all intents and purposes, Grace was deaf, dumb and blind to the world. Then the gay guy gave her a hug and said, “Hi Grace!” To which Grace, lovely soul that she was, did not utter even a grunt, but stared dead ahead in her visor, hands at her sides, while we laughed our asses off.
If you're offended by this, blame it on my Tourette's.
"Oh, my eye isn't bloodshot, I just burst a blood vessel." "Oh, that happens to me all the time. Like from videogames." "I don't think that's what it is." "It also happens when I throw up." "Oh! I threw up today! My throat was really sore so I was drinking a lot of water and I overhydrated and just threw up water." "Yeah, your system is really straining when it's just throwing up liquid, so you burst blood vessels then. Yeah, happens to me all the time."
"It has been found that the parasite has the ability to change the behavior of its host: infected rats and mice are less fearful of cats — in fact, some of the infected rats seek out cat-urine-marked areas. This effect is advantageous to the parasite, which will be able to sexually reproduce if its host is eaten by a cat."
TOXOPLASMOSIS IS SERIOUS BUSINESS.
Or rather, Toxoplasma gondii is serious business. And protozoans in general. "Oh unicellular microbe, who art endowed with the power to fuck shit up."
Exclusive inside jokes: "Haha, feet! Hahahaha, hehehehe." - Aaron "IT'S A BLUE WHALE, NOT A SPERM WHALE." "A handle?" - Ben "Like... deli meats, or muscle meat?" - Me A myriad others
I'm not even going to get into Silent Hill, but Carter's adventure was brilliant. He's amazing. He should get that copyrighted.
The beach was great. The house was three stories, had five different porches at various altitudes, all of which Ben scaled naked. Ben is floppy penis spider rogue. The house was like one of those really fancy hamster cages, with lots of hiding places; or it was like a playplace at McDonald's, minus the rampant bacteria and choking hazards. The weather was fantastic the entire time we were down there save for one overcast day. We stayed up until 7 am every night. We went to Jockey's Ridge at night - illegal, maybe, but worth it. I mean, nothing was explicitly forbidding us. We waded out 100 yards in the sound and it was so warm and calm. I felt like I was in a different world.
Example of the ridiculously entertaining walls: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=30025831&id=1573590082 There was also a Nemo, a Spongebob and Patrick, and random macaws, but my favorite were the whales and dolphins in the pool room. Much impassioned debate ensued as to the species of one of the whales: sperm vs. humpback (the innuendo is too easy). The house was approximately this touristy. Folk art made of seashells, much Jesus paraphernalia, from a strangely big arsenal of like 20 mugs for Latterday Saints (coffee mugs are a sure shot to winning converts; I was almost convinced) to pages of books (Why Do Men Have Nipples?) with their naughty pages ripped out, and Bibles hidden in drawers in the bedrooms. It was the best solid week I've ever had: sun, friends, Carter, amenities, peace, games. Access to a pool and hot tub at my whim was rad.
I bought a gargantuan, tacky purple French tanner float from the gift shop next door on the next to last day and, testament to my fiscal wiseness, it now deflates in my backseat.
In the room with surround sound television, there was an overstuffed suede sofa that all six of us could fit on with room to spare. Also, the ocean was warm. Good weather overall.
I'm sitting on a cat scratching post. Hurray college. My pizza's in the toaster oven. Time for Magic Garlic Sauce (I.E. ranch by any other name) and TV.
A customer says, "Good evening, I am looking for a book about the food that is prepared and served in the dining cars of passenger railroad trains. Can you help me?" You say, "That sounds interesting. Where did you hear about this title?" His response is, "I read about it in a cooking magazine. The article said there were recipes in it. I remember one of the recipes was for huge baked potatoes."
Welcome to Barnes&Noble. *facepalm*
I miss the beach. Also, I miss Isaac.
These are the first bills I've ever paid living on my own. Thank you, Dominion Power, for punching me in the back of the head repeatedly.
So… I got some more awards, except these are national. American Voice and Gold Key on the national level, one of 350 in over 100,000 applicants. I’m going to New York City on June 14th to participate in a workshop and on the 15th the awards ceremony is in Carnegie Hall.
So. I got two American Voices, 1 Gold Key, and 2 Silver Key awards from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards 2007. That means that I am getting forwarded to national level and have the opportunity to win $12,000 in scholarships. Amongst other esteems. I feel like I was just hit with a bowling ball. Actually, I feel like people I was in the middle of bowling ball dodgeball... madness. There's a ceremony this Sunday. For the awards, not for a very heavy, painful game of dodgeball.
So. I guess this is my life plan so far. I wish I could draw a really indie diagram of it on Paint. Oh wait, I can.
And, unrelated to the above: Apparently I'm that girl that guys forget is a girl sometimes. I'm not liking that. I'm thinking sexing it up is in order.
Why is it always store employees that turn out to be the best demon/zombie killers respectively? Ash from S-mart and Shaun from Appliance World, for instance. Normal guys... just armed with bloody chainsaws (American) and cricket bats (British).
My program from Evil Dead is covered in fake blood. Do the Necronomicon.
"...Ashten, where are my keys?" "I don't know dear, I haven't touched them." "Yes you have, because I haven't." "No, really, I have not touched your keys. I don't remember at all touching your keys." "When you were taking my pants off, you must have taken them off." (he has one of those hip-clips) "No, Carter. They weren't even on there at that point. You took them off and set them somewhere." "No. I didn't. You did." "GOD DAMN IT CARTER I DIDN'T TOUCH YOUR GOD DAMN KEYS ARGSJKHFSD!@!"
and we drove back to my house and there they were, sitting on my nightstand where he left them XD X_X
So, my progenitors are computarded. I was installing DSL at my grandmother's house, and she picked up a CD from Toyota and asked me, "Is this blank?", which momentarily rendered me speechless. After I got home, my mother says to me:
"I was trying to get on the Internet but I couldn't get on." Which is good. There are things on the Internet that her young eyes should not see. She also said, "There was some update for Mozz... *pause* Mozillra? And I clicked out of it."
*facepalm*
Random fact: I'm wearing knee-length shorts. A Grail shirt with the rose/skull logo, my magenta Asics (scroll down if you will, fair reader) and Lost purple/gray/white plaid shorts.. and my black jacket with the I VOTED sticker and the Phenomenauts patch.
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triften_jack_w's journal
amused
nostalgic
tired
cold
