tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-335398472024-03-13T12:23:22.123-04:00Wasted PagesLife is non-linear.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-84086168186620767892010-12-03T18:17:00.000-05:002010-12-03T18:17:37.740-05:00Ahem.Blogger won't let me start over without permanently ridding myself of everything they have of mine.<br />
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wastedpages.tumblr.com<br />
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Sixth time's the charm?DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-3106279377836062752010-07-25T00:33:00.002-04:002010-12-03T17:58:40.659-05:00Im wondering if doing book reviews here would be fun? Ive a got a few i could recommend after being around them all year.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-15484060549641053352010-07-18T15:11:00.002-04:002010-07-18T15:20:23.986-04:00Ten Things I Hate About Children1. They take over the television, insist on watching cartoons or horrid Disney shows. Or worse, really bad shows (or TERRIBLE DVDs that I may or may not have hidden due to brain bleeding last time they made me sit through it).<div><br /></div><div>2. They always wanna know "WHATCHA DOIN?" "None of your business ya little creep, now get out of my room."</div><div><br /></div><div>3. They're the only human beings immune to my stare of death. They know no fear.</div><div><br /></div><div>4. They're needy. "I'm hungry, I'm bored, I'm thirsty, I just ate but I wanna be a fatass and have a snack..." etc. STFU.</div><div><br /></div><div>5. They're LOUD AS HELL when playing with one another but then they get all quiet and mumbly and shy when talking to adults. I CAN'T HEAR WHAT YOU'RE FUCKING SAYING YOU'RE TWO FEET OFF THE GROUND AND I'M WAYYYY UP HERE.</div><div><br /></div><div>6. They're incapable of SITTING THE FUCK DOWN. Unless they're shoveling food into their dirty mouths.</div><div><br /></div><div>7. Peronal space. They don't understand it.</div><div><br /></div><div>8. They make a mess of EVERYTHING.</div><div><br /></div><div>9. No fucking privacy.</div><div><br /></div><div>10. You can't complain about them because their parents will get all huffy and feelings will be hurt and OH MY GOD I'M NOT THE ONE WHO POPPED SIX KIDS OUT OF MY VAG TAKE CARE OF YOUR OWN DAMN CHILDREN JESUS H CHRIST.</div><div><br /></div><div>Never shall I ever be a mother. Can I donate all my eggs, please? I don't need them.</div>DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-72264536366249675692010-06-25T10:26:00.001-04:002010-06-25T10:26:02.951-04:00Anyone else get dream songs stuck in their head? Mine goes, "i will promise you heaven / i will put you through hell"DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-62379233424116787142010-06-12T01:43:00.003-04:002010-06-21T17:29:08.510-04:00I Talk Out Loud Like You’re Still AroundSo I'm reading Sloane Crosley's <i>How Did You Get This Number? </i>(great book go get it) and at the chapter where she explains her learning disability (something about really crappy spatial reasoning which gets her lost all the time) I feel myself relating to her problem. Why? At first I'm confused because I don't have any issues that I can recall that inhibit me from functioning normally...OH WAIT DUH. It smacks me in he face: I've got the shittiest memory ever. So shitty that I <b>forgot about my own shitty memory. </b>Whoops.<div><br /></div><div>In the book Crosley explains her ways of dealing with her disability. She has invented elaborate ways to cover it up so it doesn't impede on her adult life. So being the overly involved reader that I am (I do this with every book I read, sticking myself in it) I start to consider how I deal with my shite memory. </div><div><br /></div><div>My coping mechanism is to over-analyze everything.</div><div><br /></div><div>David does it too. My best friend that is. We have a habit of taking minor occurrences in our lives and breaking down the memory of it: discerning cause, effect, psychological motivations, etc. Most people HATE when I do this. David is all for it, and we laugh at our own ridiculousness.</div><div><br /></div><div>Do we really have to decode exactly what circumstances led to us running into one another on his -and now mine as well college campus? Normal people would simply think, "Oh, duh! I had registration today and Dave has a summer class in this building so we were bound to see each other!" We aren't very normal.</div><div><br /></div><div>And in this very pattern of over-analyzing I see: </div><div><br /></div><div>I need to break things down in to patterns and know the WHY of the event to help myself in remembering the event.</div><div><br /></div><div>David needs to turn over every detail and know WHY because of the anxiety he gets over things he can't figure out. If he can't figure out why his boyfriend said something it'll fester and make him more exacerbated until he intentionally picks a fight over something pretty negligible.</div><div><br /></div><div>We're such freaks.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-79243273385896458822010-05-25T23:57:00.004-04:002010-06-21T16:58:40.963-04:00Shave It OffReminder to myself to find and repost that song i wrote about hairy [indie/hipster/whatever] boys. It needs to be restated as they've just gotten hairier.<br /><br />EDIT: Found it! Its not very good but it was just for shits and giggles, and in the looking for it I found some stuff I'd forgotten that I wrote. Anyway, here it is, try to imagine it being sung to a punk melody by an 18 year old girl. And try not to laugh.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; font-family:arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><u><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">BEARD RAWK</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Up on stage with your hair so long<br />can you see your guitar?<br />can you see me singin along?<br />Between your beard and that mop you wont get real far<br />without bumpin into somethin<br />without gettin a concussion<br /><br />They said you had a baby face<br />So you grew out a beard to erase<br />the id at the liquor store<br />and the sixteen year old whores<br />But you didnt forsee how its botherin me<br />cause I see you<br />and you cant see me<br />even when we're in bed<br />I'll have this song stuck in your head<br /><br />SHAVE IT OFF SHAVE IT OFF<br />cause youre not santa claus<br />and i'm tired of getting rug burn<br />on my face<br />[repeat]<br /><br />I know you dont think its so wrong<br />to resemble a grizzly<br />as if its 1973<br />but youre only twenty five<br />how long can that fur survive?<br /><br />SHAVE IT OFF SHAVE IT OFF<br />cause youre not santa claus<br />and i'm tired of getting rug burn<br />on my face<br /><br />SHAVE IT OFF SHAVE IT OFF<br />and get a round of applause<br />cause I'm tired of getting rug burn<br />yeah im tired of getting rug burn<br />on my face</span></span></span>DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-4703321235931545882010-05-24T18:50:00.002-04:002010-05-24T18:53:49.103-04:00Testing, 1, 2, 3...<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br /><a href="http://photos.helio.com/imgALB/201005/24/01274741351335000000885675_0.jpg"><img src="http://photos.helio.com/imgALB/201005/24/01274741351335000000885675_1.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Old picture, just a test of the posting system V Mobile uses. That was fast! Real posts soon.<br />--<br />Sent from my Virgin Mobile </div>DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-11643135056301645012010-05-15T01:31:00.001-04:002010-05-15T01:31:39.266-04:00I have a bad habit of thinking of things to rant and/or ramble about in the wee hours when my pc is off. And i'm in bed. Lo siento, mis amors.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-26528091413907056742010-05-09T00:07:00.003-04:002010-05-09T00:10:25.701-04:00They Call Me Diva, But That's All Him<div>A little Canadian birdie floated the first vid my way, and I loved both it and the second. I need to live in the UK someday, there are so many wonderful people there, it seems!</div><div><br /></div><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/JzLVAbInQjs&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/JzLVAbInQjs&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/alOcEM7GgWg&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/alOcEM7GgWg&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-15946477773932460182010-04-30T19:29:00.004-04:002010-04-30T20:21:58.638-04:00Wasted Pages 2<i>[I interrupt the story that may never be finished to note that I may actually start writing actual blog entries that are not vague and mostly not personal. I'm officially bored of writing diary stuff. I'm gonna try to keep myself practiced in creative writing and opinion stuff. Though it'll still be really informal and randomly updated. Its not like anyone reads this anyway. Now back to a teensy bit of an extension.]</i><div><br /></div><div>"Um, in a good way or a bad one?"</div><div>"Neutral. I thought you were younger."</div><div>"Haha, I guess that's a compliment."<br />"Not necessarily."</div><div>Before he can respond, a customer arrives. The bell above the door jingles softly alerting us to the presence of a tall, strong looking woman who made the cafe her personal catwalk. From the short conversation I caught between her and Gavin, she was a local business owner who came every day for her lunchtime coffee and a croissant. Her name was Isabel. The scent of cigarettes wafted after her and her voice was soft and barely audible. She waited patiently for her things, and I saw a five dollar bill drop in to the tip jar. Then she was gone as quickly as she came.<br />"Now, that's an admirable person. She works even when she's on her break. Its because she has to take care of her mother and her business is just starting to take off." Gavin smiles and leans over the counter. "The antique place, its hers. The one across the street."<br /><br /><i>[I'm so tired from work and I have another long shift tomorrow so I'm stopping now but there'll be more.]</i></div>DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-90236346388052848172009-05-18T22:28:00.007-04:002010-04-30T19:23:59.176-04:00Wasted Pages 1This is the first time I've ridden this far on my bike. Today I sped past all of the familiar houses, coasting down hills and rising off of the seat to push forward; making turns only when necessary until I no longer knew where I was. I figured I'd risk not finding my way back to my apartment before dark. It is 10am; I have almost 12 hours of freedom. I have a twenty as well as my cell in the pocket of my light blue cargo shorts. Actually I think the shorts were his. At some point. He's so small, it’s unsurprising that we can wear one another's clothes. I have no intention of even turning the damn phone on--he's probably calling to find out where I am. I'm glad I wore a tank top. It's very sunny and warm with a nice breeze.<br />As I finally slow down to a stop I realize I have to be in some neighboring town, and thus I am not really that far from familiar territory. However, the point was not to go a long distance. The point was to go somewhere Kaleb wouldn't think to look. As I catch my breath, I examine my surroundings.<br />Look's like I'm on the Main Street of this random town. Not much so far, I can see an ice cream place, a cafe, a furniture store, and a sporting goods store. That's all across the street. On this side are a community bank, a card-and-gifts shop, and a hobby shop. I'm wiped, and I need to sit and rest and most importantly I need to just <i>think. </i>Cafes are usually conducive to that sort of thing so here I go. The streets are empty and I figure my pretty pink bike is safe. I leave it leaning against the building and walk in.<br />The place is called The Eagle Bean. It's a standard lounge style cafe, complete with a stage near the back. There's a jukebox by the register. The furniture is comfortable looking with the air of history that comes from being secondhand. At least, I hope it's secondhand. One couch looks thirdhand, maybe even fourth. The barista is a young man, close-shaved blond hair and blue eyes that brag long eyelashes. He's taller than me, though I think he's my age. Maybe a year or two older. I step forward tentatively. The menu is extensive, listing many coffee based drinks and some teas as well as pre-made snacks. The barista, who I can see is wearing a band tee screaming out DOOM TROOPS and a very loose apron with a name tag attached smiles and asks how he can help me. His name tag says Rebecca.<br />"So your name is Rebecca?" I ask gesturing towards the tag.<br />"What? Oh, no--she's my co-worker, we switched shifts and she thought it'd be funny to switch name tags. My name is Gavin."<br />"Nice to meet you Gavin."<br />"So anything you'd like to drink? Our special is the Mint Mocha Iced Coffee, and believe me it is delicious."<br />I grimaced, "I'm not a fan of the mint/chocolate combination."<br />"Really? You strange girl." He laughed.<br />"No kidding. A regular iced coffee is fine, please." I can't afford to waste money right now, considering that I might need it for actual food later. But I am damn thirsty. And sweaty.<br />"One iced coffee coming up." He quickly put the drink together and then charged me. I pocketed the change.<br />"What, no tip?" Gavin gives me a flirtatious grin as I seat myself in a floral print recliner.<br />"I'm poor," I state bluntly.<br />"At least tell me your name then, young lady."<br />I eyed him carefully over my drink, "You're not old enough to call me young." He just shrugs and keeps staring so I respond, "Idelle. Tracie."<br />"Wait which one?"<br />"Both. My name is Idelle Tracie."<br />"Oh! Gotcha. Bridger. My last name that is. I mean, that's my last name." He blushes. My turn to laugh.<br />"Nice to meet you Gavin Bridger." I'm beginning to feel more relaxed and less tense. I remember that I'm free right now; I can do as I please. For now, Kaleb can't make me feel guilty for my behavior. I can't hurt him any worse than I have already. I smile to myself, remembering. I am free until I have to go back. I don't know what I'll do then, but I may as well enjoy my time. I look back at Gavin. He is still looking at me, seemingly intrigued. I smile as radiantly as I can. "Gavin, how old are you?"<br />"Older than you, love."<br />"I'm twenty years old as of last month."<br />"I'm seven years older than you."<br />Surprised I say, "I believe I miscalculated."<p></p>DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-45079576335660382262009-05-18T22:24:00.003-04:002009-05-19T01:21:00.259-04:00Did You Ever Think That You Would Be This Blessed?Honestly, I don't know. I don't think I would know.<br /><br />I've finally figured it out now. What I should do.<br /><br />Thank you, love.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-21201717645191376542009-03-20T23:40:00.002-04:002009-03-20T23:51:53.887-04:00My Love Has Become An Affliction1. There are those I love, and those I do not love.<br /><br />2. I refuse to allow myself to be happy.<br /><br />3. Desire has a breaking point.<br /><br />4. Forgiveness has never felt so good.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-23698075565991600512008-08-22T18:53:00.002-04:002008-08-22T19:04:59.276-04:00The Gloss Has Washed AwayThings are changing, faster than I thought possible.<br /><br />I'm afraid and anxious and excited and happy and angry all at once.<br /><br />I'm approaching the culmination of so many decisions I have made, some without thinking, others after careful deliberation.<br /><br />Here goes nothing.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-27427958909036560692008-04-15T18:47:00.002-04:002008-04-15T18:49:32.399-04:00I'm Still WaitingSomething potentially life changing is going to take place in mere days and yet...<br /><br />...I don't feel it.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-41583872883164747112008-02-29T17:29:00.001-05:002008-02-29T17:32:44.676-05:00Exaggerating the Barrier Between Who I Am, and Who I Want To Be.1. I'm thrilled.<br /><br />2. I'm terrified.<br /><br />3. I'm lonely.<br /><br />4. I'm upset.<br /><br />5. I think I love the way I do just to be distracted from my sadness.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-29668389984877073642008-02-06T19:29:00.000-05:002008-02-06T19:33:59.206-05:00Erase Me, I'm Done1. I lasted 5 hours in the quiet and managed to make it through alive.<br /><br />2. Dependency lacks the scare factor it once had.<br /><br />3. Change your tactics.<br /><br />4. I simply can't leave it at this.<br /><br />5. Prime factors just feel more stable.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-69452222750938236792008-01-21T19:43:00.001-05:002008-01-21T19:55:12.532-05:00And I Don't Really Even Care If I'm Alone NowWallowing in misery is NOT HEALTHY.<br /><br />Oh, well.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-56313920396134107952007-12-01T01:36:00.000-05:002007-12-01T01:38:49.135-05:00Why Can't You Stay Just Long Enough To Explain?I've come to accept the arrival of the morning, and everything it brings.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-66723530104839462132007-11-25T00:37:00.000-05:002007-11-25T00:48:00.596-05:00It's Pretty Dirty Business"It is not enough to conquer; one must know how to seduce."<br /><br />-VoltaireDropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-6982306602756975092007-11-12T20:40:00.000-05:002007-11-12T20:45:16.440-05:00Don't Say We're Healing When That's Just Not What We DoI [<span style="font-style: italic;">I have been lied to.</span>]<br /><br />Love [<span style="font-style: italic;">Love was my excuse for letting this happen again.</span>]<br /><br />You [<span style="font-style: italic;">You hurt me more than you'll ever know.</span>]DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-88734995913791243962007-10-08T02:36:00.000-04:002007-10-08T02:45:03.607-04:00I Won't Be SavedI've become a terribly interesting person. In one of the worst ways.<br /><br />I'm not sure if I like this or hate it.<br /><br />Was I granted a wish or given a curse?<br /><br />If it's the latter-- damn, this is a fun curse.DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-51775928875225379732007-08-30T20:20:00.000-04:002007-08-30T20:32:28.518-04:00Just To Keep Our Desires Alive"I'm never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don't do any thing. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don't even do that any more."<br /><br />-Dorothy ParkerDropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-91491665944320669462007-08-12T05:12:00.000-04:002007-08-12T05:23:33.518-04:00Is That Your Love Down On The Ground?"I like everything. Boyish girls, girlish boys, the heavy and the skinny. Which is a problem when I'm walking down the street."<br /><br />-Angelina JolieDropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33539847.post-9634109624517958082007-06-29T11:05:00.000-04:002007-06-29T11:11:35.901-04:00Do We Step Into The Light?"With your little claws, Lolita."<br /><br />-Humbert in Vladamir Nabokov's <span style="font-style: italic;">Lolita</span>DropDeadPoethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00576996089106388346noreply@blogger.com0