The way things have been happening lately, there's a metaphor everywhere I look. A truck full of Christmas trees following along the curve of the road leading up to a dingy u-turn in a shady neighborhood that somehow swam with soap bubbles. Church bells in late afternoon traffic on a normal Tuesday. Dogs that get up on two legs to hug you with no intention of humping your leg or stealing your food in the middle of a horrible fight. Ending up at a Korean restaurant after escaping the clutches of a wrongfully empowered Korean cook. Borrowing a frenemy's pair of socks after running out of clean ones. Getting free credit for reporting an entire department of customer service agent smiths. Meeting an actual Asian who fulfills the prophecy of listening to Beethoven every night. Getting Chinese takeout on the first night after moving for the second time in the same month. Breaking my anti-bug-murder policy with a small Auschwitz.
Hell, my blog is snowing, and no one can see it because it's white. A metaphor to cap the metaphors!
Where do I begin?
Let's try this; I'm getting a cat. A temporary cat; I cut a deal with a friend to take in her stray if she let me give it back in a month. I'm allergic and can't see past my nose financially. In my defense, having a cat while being allergic to cats makes sense in the bigger scale of things. After all, I am an asthmatic who smokes and can't really live with the idea of accidentally killing a dog.
That didn't work, let's try again.
Cable guys are NOT sexy, porn lies just as much as fairytales. Neither are electricians, carpenters, plumbers or construction workers. They're all sweaty, hairy, blood-sucking assholes that deserve to die at the stake of their own PVC pipes.
The engine revved up a little there, but we still can't get the good old baby to write about this. Let's try again.
I missed my own birthday again this year. It flitted by me while I was coiled up in a strange bug-infested bed halfway across town with my feet jammed through the arms of my lavender jumper for warmth. I also missed Christmas again this year, I was hosting an irresponsible C-level asshole and his harem as my friends watched awkwardly in their designated corners. No turkeys were harmed in the process.
Funk is hard to get out. Scrubbing a fridge will teach you that your skin can peel off faster than the funk will. My grazed knuckles are proof that violence is not always violent. A month ago, I was scared of the dark. Today, I walked happily through a dark corridor carrying twice my weight like a brave dung beetle because relativity applies in life just as much as it does in particle physics.
It's the 29th of December at 5 in the morning, and I have three homes, three doors to legally go through and three keys to prove it. It's been such an incredibly weird month. December, oh sweet December; you've always been an oddball.
Doors are very important, locked doors even more so. Going through said doors is equally important, especially with a mug of coffee and your fuzzy pajama pants in the early morning chill to prove something to yourself and get used to all the damn silence and all the damn birds. Where I live - one of the places anyway - the birds chirp so much you'd think they're on speed. But that's not what's pissing me off. What's pissing me off is that I'm at the home that has the 420 songbird, and the bitch didn't chirp today. Here's another metaphor for you, go figure, go fish, go fuck yourself.
Funk. It's really hard to get out; even with all the love and all the lasagna that comes with it. I got three keys in multiples of five and I'm really bad at Maths. I used to be better at it when I was young, but things don't always happen to you in the right order.
I need to buy milk and call my ISP for some lung practice.
Santa was wrong; Christmas can be bought. As a matter of fact, not only can Christmas be bought, it can also fit in a sedan with room to spare for an elf hostage or two if you're into that sort of thing. Here's another myth-buster for you; you CAN have enough Christmas lights, especially if you can't afford the juice to feed them. Adults should not be allowed to celebrate Christmas. Christmas is for people that are too young to know what an electricity bill is, or how to count. I'd happily lose a tooth if it means I can see Christmas lights in blue, red and green again. The spectrum is blinding me.
Funk is hard to get out of, but maybe not impossible. I have one functional TV channel and no internet to access my Netflix, but I choose to see this as a metaphor. Metaphors are nice; they teach you things, but they can also fool you. There's a whole bible of them somewhere that confused people into ax-wielding murderers for the better part of a millennium. You must never underestimate the power of a metaphor, but you'd die if you did anything but.
I need to slow down. I'll get some sleep and try again tomorrow. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life; here them sing!
Hell, my blog is snowing, and no one can see it because it's white. A metaphor to cap the metaphors!
Where do I begin?
Let's try this; I'm getting a cat. A temporary cat; I cut a deal with a friend to take in her stray if she let me give it back in a month. I'm allergic and can't see past my nose financially. In my defense, having a cat while being allergic to cats makes sense in the bigger scale of things. After all, I am an asthmatic who smokes and can't really live with the idea of accidentally killing a dog.
That didn't work, let's try again.
Cable guys are NOT sexy, porn lies just as much as fairytales. Neither are electricians, carpenters, plumbers or construction workers. They're all sweaty, hairy, blood-sucking assholes that deserve to die at the stake of their own PVC pipes.
The engine revved up a little there, but we still can't get the good old baby to write about this. Let's try again.
I missed my own birthday again this year. It flitted by me while I was coiled up in a strange bug-infested bed halfway across town with my feet jammed through the arms of my lavender jumper for warmth. I also missed Christmas again this year, I was hosting an irresponsible C-level asshole and his harem as my friends watched awkwardly in their designated corners. No turkeys were harmed in the process.
Funk is hard to get out. Scrubbing a fridge will teach you that your skin can peel off faster than the funk will. My grazed knuckles are proof that violence is not always violent. A month ago, I was scared of the dark. Today, I walked happily through a dark corridor carrying twice my weight like a brave dung beetle because relativity applies in life just as much as it does in particle physics.
It's the 29th of December at 5 in the morning, and I have three homes, three doors to legally go through and three keys to prove it. It's been such an incredibly weird month. December, oh sweet December; you've always been an oddball.
Doors are very important, locked doors even more so. Going through said doors is equally important, especially with a mug of coffee and your fuzzy pajama pants in the early morning chill to prove something to yourself and get used to all the damn silence and all the damn birds. Where I live - one of the places anyway - the birds chirp so much you'd think they're on speed. But that's not what's pissing me off. What's pissing me off is that I'm at the home that has the 420 songbird, and the bitch didn't chirp today. Here's another metaphor for you, go figure, go fish, go fuck yourself.
Funk. It's really hard to get out; even with all the love and all the lasagna that comes with it. I got three keys in multiples of five and I'm really bad at Maths. I used to be better at it when I was young, but things don't always happen to you in the right order.
I need to buy milk and call my ISP for some lung practice.
Santa was wrong; Christmas can be bought. As a matter of fact, not only can Christmas be bought, it can also fit in a sedan with room to spare for an elf hostage or two if you're into that sort of thing. Here's another myth-buster for you; you CAN have enough Christmas lights, especially if you can't afford the juice to feed them. Adults should not be allowed to celebrate Christmas. Christmas is for people that are too young to know what an electricity bill is, or how to count. I'd happily lose a tooth if it means I can see Christmas lights in blue, red and green again. The spectrum is blinding me.
Funk is hard to get out of, but maybe not impossible. I have one functional TV channel and no internet to access my Netflix, but I choose to see this as a metaphor. Metaphors are nice; they teach you things, but they can also fool you. There's a whole bible of them somewhere that confused people into ax-wielding murderers for the better part of a millennium. You must never underestimate the power of a metaphor, but you'd die if you did anything but.
I need to slow down. I'll get some sleep and try again tomorrow. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life; here them sing!
