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14 August 2008 @ 08:38 pm
I haven't died, even though it's been about two years. You can find me over at hazard_identity. I update there about once a month, which, you gotta admit is better than my track record here. You should know, there's nothing exciting on the other journal. It's all personal posts like, "Woo! My motorcycle's running again!" and, "All right! Finally saw Panorama last night," kinda stuff. Not even any wacky dreams. Anyway, that's where you'll find me.
12 October 2006 @ 06:39 pm
I've worked in a financial planning office, gone to Ireland, and graduated cum laude. What I haven't done, is post to this journal. Yeah, yeah, I suck. I'm thinking of posting all my pseudo-journal entries on Ireland (e-mails I sent mom because I'm way too scattered to actually keep a real journal) up here. I'm also thinking of going on hiatus. I'm not sure which. Of course, I might've mentioned the hiatus thing six months ago, when I last posted. I am aware of this. But I'm here now, saying yes, I am alive. Sorta. Birmingham isn't quite life, but it's close enough. Anyway, if the decision is hiatus, I'll post it this time. If not, you'll be seeing posts on Ireland. And if I get to a computer with frontpage, you may even get photos added to the website. Don't everybody jump for joy at once.

And that's the news from Lake Woebegone.
19 April 2006 @ 02:57 pm
Website for class is up. click
16 April 2006 @ 05:58 am
Ha. Fucking. Ha.

I am the champion.

My back hates me, but I am the champion.
12 April 2006 @ 03:12 pm
26 March 2006 @ 06:38 pm
I'm at the shop and just got back in from the roof. I realized that I really need to get pictures of this place, because it's totally wild and maybe fifty years out of place. No one gets to grow up in such a tetanus-laden kind of place nowadays. I mean, there's a huge chain and pully like in a horror flick just hanging from the ceiling up by the loft. This place is hardcore and I don't have any pictures to prove to my cousin's grandchildren (because we all know I'm probably not going to reproduce) that yes, I did grow up someplace this weird. It's so freakin' awesome. And I can remember when the tarpaper roof used to be covered in pebbles, quartz that Papa used to crack open for me using the press that can exert up to thirty tons of pressure per square inch. And there's the eighty foot gully that used to be home to a tree with big broad leaves that always buzzed with hornets. There's the shallower gully, maybe twenty feet, that I'd crawl into and play with Pic, our musician neighbor's dog, and sometimes I'd look for pigeon nests (which I was firmly forbidden to touch). It's no wonder so many of my dreams take place here. The shop is pure dream-fodder. I need to write about it and take pictures.
Yet another dream offering for you, people. Warriors, Milla Jovoviche, Superman, and four-breasted women.
I watched Donnie Darko last night (night before last, now) and then slept for seventeen hours straight. Dreamed. Here are the results:

I am Milla Jovoviche. I look like her anyway, and I can kick ass in a fight. And there is much fighting. The world is populated with more super-powered, hostile people than a comic book. I work for a sleek corporation that keeps them under control. They point to a bad guy, I destroy. They point to a disaster, I fix. I am a very expensive, finely tuned tool. I am the best fucking sniper gun on the market.

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18 March 2006 @ 02:29 pm
To anyone who encountered me yesterday, I apologize. Hormones. I hope. I'd hate to think I'm usually that grouchy. Anyway, I'm back to being myself (mostly) now.

The Moaners rock. I spent the rest of my discretionary spending for the month on a signed shirt and a CD. Okay, so it wasn't that expensive, but I don't give myself a lot of discretionary spending. Anyway, they rock.

The brain!people started claiming playlists. God help me. I'm enjoying the music, though.
13 March 2006 @ 08:24 pm

Sacrificial Offering

June first was a Sunday. It was Andrew Ovid Perry's first day of camp. His mother helped him carry his suitcase up to a counselor in blue shorts. The counselor squatted down and ruffled his hair and called Andrew “champ.” He had red hair and freckles and a sharp nose. “Hey, champ,” he said. “I'm Troy.” At eight and a quarter years old, Andrew felt he had grown beyond being called “champ.”

Andrew craned his neck up at his mother, hoping that she would suddenly realize the incredible wrongness of leaving him with people who gave him pet names and would force him to share a bunk with someone else. His mother smiled at him, a half-light breaking over her delicate face. She smiled and patted his head—why did adults always do that?—and said, “I'm sure you'll have a lot of fun, honey.” She didn't much sound as though she believed it herself. She pressed cool lips to his forehead and left.

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13 March 2006 @ 02:57 pm
Well, I was going to update with a 2500 word story, a good one too, but alas, Gimlet ate it. Oh, sure, I've got it saved to Nigel, but now I've got to go up to the dorm and recopy it, wasting precious minutes of my day. And I'm in class, so I can't curse the way I want to. Well, I did curse some, but it wasn't nearly as satistfying as ripping Nigel a new one in the lounge when no one's around.

Stay tuned and there should be story later. Flashdrive-willing.

Also, there will be a dream post at some point. I'll dig it out maybe tomorrow.

In totally unrelated news, I went and did Habitat for Humanity Saturday and met some kids from Americorps. I think that's what I'm going to do for a year after I graduate. Looks interesting and the government will pay to send me travelling. How cool is that?

That is all.