So there was a post here previously detailing my raging substance abuse. And then I realized that it made me sound like a raging substance abuser. So I deleted it. No one needs to know how many nights a week I mix alcohol and sleeping pills before bed.
Anyway.....
This website is the coolest thing for anyone interested in fair tales: http://www.brown.edu/Courses/FR0133/Fairytale_Generator/gen.html
(We all know my fascination for original, pre-Disney taint, fairy tales is rivaled only by my fascination with serial killers.)
Selecting my functions, I generated quite eloquent, but strange, sample of fairy tale-ishness.
"Sugar and spice," the old woman beckoned as she held out palms filled with cinnamon falling between her fingers like sand. As she sprinkled it across the floor my head swum up in a dizzy spell of hunger. I could no longer control my feet moving towards the cheap gimmicks of an old woman.
Under my feet I felt the rhythm of aches and sighs breathe with each step I took. I felt like I was walking on quicksand. And indeed, when I tried to move my feet I could not feel my toes but only the inability to move them on the surface of palpable danger. When I turned to ask for his help he only laughed. Then I began to think it was he who was making my feet turn to stone.
The little man handed what looked like a small wooden piccolo. The small, thin object looked old but not dusty like the man’s worn garments. "A single note from this musical stick will bring rain from the heavens to satisfy this thirsty land," the little man said to me. "But heed my words, should you be tempted to produce sweet melodies to entertain yourself and those around you, mother nature will heighten the aching of the earth around you: the sky will heave torrents of rain producing a monsoon that will be echoed by the quaking of the earth as it splits, spewing forth fiery magma that will consume you and your vanity.
My feet, wearing their newfound bottomed shoes, pressed gently across the soils as not to wake the men clamoring upwards. But I still felt a shadow trail at my footsteps that did not feel like my own. As I walked faster the shadow moved behind me as well, sometimes touching my bare skin with sodden ground.
My family pressed their hands on various swells of my body as they embraced me with joy.
A familiar gold and silken robe of dragon scales was placed in my hands on account of me killing the creature. For an odd reason I could not help but feel regret. The girl with the white hair and her foxlike sibling did not mean any real harm but only wanted to protect the mountain as the men of soil bade them do.
I reccomend anyone with time to kill give this a try. I've also added it to my blogroll to the right of the page.
Cheers,
Alette
"The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea."
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Mailbox! Open Mailbox!
The funniest goddamned thing I've seen on the interwebs in quite some time. Which just says that I haven't been spending much time on the internet. I spend all day sitting in front of a computer, and I can't even check my email on a regular basis. But that's another story for another day....
Monday, July 14, 2008
Suing God
I like to read the news. Usually when I'm supposed to be working. I like reading the random news off of sites like Fark.com and Digg.com. Which is where I come across gems like these:
The headline reads: "Man sues church, claiming the spirit forced him to fall."
Aparently this dude went to church and prayed for God to give him a real spiritual experience. God says "sure", reaches down, and pushes him over like the thirteen year old cousin you wish would play in traffic. Dude is now suing the church for $2.5 million because he got what he asked for.
Link to article: http://www.tennessean.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080710/NEWS06/80710021
But wait! There's more....
Headline: "Can you sue the Almighty's publishers?"
A man in Michigan is suing the company that publishes the Bible because the Big B calls homosexuality a sin. Thanks to the Bible he has suffered from discrimination, general unhappiness, and a rift with his family. Apparently you can't blame the Bible for being a douche-bag.
Excuse me for a minute while I laugh hysterically. And then get sued by a pretentious gay man with too much time and money on his hands.
So this got me thinking. If the trend these days is outrageous lawsuits, I'm going to blow them all out of the water. I'm going to sue Satan for all the pain and suffering that's been dealt womankind. Here's how it's going to work:
If the Serpent hadn't tempted Eve, she wouldn't have bitten the damn Fruit. If she hadn't eaten the fruit, she wouldn't have offered it to Adam. And God wouldn't have gotten mad and kicking them both out of Eden. And since it's apparently all Eve's fault, she was punished with that Original Sin clause, and pain of childbirth, PMS, sexual discrimination, arranged marriage, nylons and stretch marks. All of which has been passed on to the female sex. And none of this would have happened if the Devil hadn't meddled.
Don't go trying to poke holes in my argument.... she didn't have to give in, God didn't have to put the tree in the garden and create the tempting situation to begin with, it's all a silly religious myth anyway.... whatever. Since when did facts have anything to do with litigation?
Maybe it'll be class action. Maybe I'll make the front page of Digg.com!
Hiring a good laywer,
Alette
"There is nothing worse than a sharp image of a fuzzy concept." -Ansel Adams
The headline reads: "Man sues church, claiming the spirit forced him to fall."
Aparently this dude went to church and prayed for God to give him a real spiritual experience. God says "sure", reaches down, and pushes him over like the thirteen year old cousin you wish would play in traffic. Dude is now suing the church for $2.5 million because he got what he asked for.
Link to article: http://www.tennessean.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080710/NEWS06/80710021
But wait! There's more....
Headline: "Can you sue the Almighty's publishers?"
A man in Michigan is suing the company that publishes the Bible because the Big B calls homosexuality a sin. Thanks to the Bible he has suffered from discrimination, general unhappiness, and a rift with his family. Apparently you can't blame the Bible for being a douche-bag.
Excuse me for a minute while I laugh hysterically. And then get sued by a pretentious gay man with too much time and money on his hands.
So this got me thinking. If the trend these days is outrageous lawsuits, I'm going to blow them all out of the water. I'm going to sue Satan for all the pain and suffering that's been dealt womankind. Here's how it's going to work:
If the Serpent hadn't tempted Eve, she wouldn't have bitten the damn Fruit. If she hadn't eaten the fruit, she wouldn't have offered it to Adam. And God wouldn't have gotten mad and kicking them both out of Eden. And since it's apparently all Eve's fault, she was punished with that Original Sin clause, and pain of childbirth, PMS, sexual discrimination, arranged marriage, nylons and stretch marks. All of which has been passed on to the female sex. And none of this would have happened if the Devil hadn't meddled.
Don't go trying to poke holes in my argument.... she didn't have to give in, God didn't have to put the tree in the garden and create the tempting situation to begin with, it's all a silly religious myth anyway.... whatever. Since when did facts have anything to do with litigation?
Maybe it'll be class action. Maybe I'll make the front page of Digg.com!
Hiring a good laywer,
Alette
"There is nothing worse than a sharp image of a fuzzy concept." -Ansel Adams
Monday, July 7, 2008
Existential Crisis
Some days I feel the need to wax philosophically. Today is one of those days.
I'm feeling most displeased with my life today. Maybe it's the shitty conference call this morning, maybe it's Monday, a side-effect of the sleeping pills, the disappointinly short life-span of my BlackBerry battery. Maybe it's my unintentionally orange hair. I don't know. But I find myself sitting here at 2:41 pm questioning my life goals.
All of my life I have wanted to build things. I'm not even going to pretend I'm good enough at math to be an architect. I didn't feel I was pretentious to be an interior designer (thank you, silly world views of youth) So I picked door number 3. Exhibit Design: the bastard love child of architecture, marketing and interior design. I love it. It loved me. I thought I'd be happy doing this the rest of my days.
Today I'm not so sure. I blame my school for punching out as many graduates as possible, without properly preparing us for the real world. I mean, really preparing us. My education has to base in reality. There are no rules, regulations. Shit, even gravity doesn't seem to apply. When I stood up in front of the class to present my designs, no one questioned: how does it stand? How are you going to get electricity to those strangely placed light fixtures? For this I blame my teacher, that tie-died hippy in the corner who never taught us anything at all. We were given access to a 3D progam and told "have fun!" Never did we have to work within a budget, or in a group. It was all fantasy. It was all sunshine blown up our butts from the faculty telling us how amazing we were and that the world will love us.
So now I'm sitting at a shitty intern desk wondering if this is really what I want to do with the rest of my life. There is no sunshine. There is no fantasy. There is a 10x20 foot booth and a $15,000 budget, which really doesn't buy you more than a square of carpet and a tin of sardines.
If I stay here I'll barter in my soul and creative vision in trade for a project and a few extra buck. I'll become a marketing whore.
Wow. That was really emo of me. Excuse me while I go cut on myself for a minute.
Like I said, this is just a shitty day. And it's probably this project, which I haven't been feeling from day one. Tomorrow I'll probably love my life again. But I'll still be disappointed with my BB battery and my hair.
Cheers,
Alette
The Artist is nothing without the Gift. but the Gift is nothing without the Work.
I'm feeling most displeased with my life today. Maybe it's the shitty conference call this morning, maybe it's Monday, a side-effect of the sleeping pills, the disappointinly short life-span of my BlackBerry battery. Maybe it's my unintentionally orange hair. I don't know. But I find myself sitting here at 2:41 pm questioning my life goals.
All of my life I have wanted to build things. I'm not even going to pretend I'm good enough at math to be an architect. I didn't feel I was pretentious to be an interior designer (thank you, silly world views of youth) So I picked door number 3. Exhibit Design: the bastard love child of architecture, marketing and interior design. I love it. It loved me. I thought I'd be happy doing this the rest of my days.
Today I'm not so sure. I blame my school for punching out as many graduates as possible, without properly preparing us for the real world. I mean, really preparing us. My education has to base in reality. There are no rules, regulations. Shit, even gravity doesn't seem to apply. When I stood up in front of the class to present my designs, no one questioned: how does it stand? How are you going to get electricity to those strangely placed light fixtures? For this I blame my teacher, that tie-died hippy in the corner who never taught us anything at all. We were given access to a 3D progam and told "have fun!" Never did we have to work within a budget, or in a group. It was all fantasy. It was all sunshine blown up our butts from the faculty telling us how amazing we were and that the world will love us.
So now I'm sitting at a shitty intern desk wondering if this is really what I want to do with the rest of my life. There is no sunshine. There is no fantasy. There is a 10x20 foot booth and a $15,000 budget, which really doesn't buy you more than a square of carpet and a tin of sardines.
If I stay here I'll barter in my soul and creative vision in trade for a project and a few extra buck. I'll become a marketing whore.
Wow. That was really emo of me. Excuse me while I go cut on myself for a minute.
Like I said, this is just a shitty day. And it's probably this project, which I haven't been feeling from day one. Tomorrow I'll probably love my life again. But I'll still be disappointed with my BB battery and my hair.
Cheers,
Alette
The Artist is nothing without the Gift. but the Gift is nothing without the Work.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Aesthetically Unappealing
The unforgiving sun beats down on blistering pavement, slow roasting the road-kill squirrel from last week. I awake at night, flesh stuck to sweaty sheets. The lights flicker occasionally as the power grid is taxed to the limit. My second floor apartment is a brick oven. The only air coming in the ridiculously small windows is super heated from the roof of the building next door. If I can't find the cats, it's because they're in the dark bathroom, sleeping behind the toilet. It is both the most disgusting and coolest place in the apartment.
It's that time of year again.
I buy a small air conditioner at the Home Depot store. As far as a/c units go, it's a complete pussy. But it should keep my bedroom a few degrees south of roasting.
So here I sit, perched on the Stairs to Nowhere, contemplating the situation at hand. I have one window large enough to fit a small a/c through. Unfortunately it is one of those windows that opens on the side, cranked by hand. You know what I'm talking about. The kind not built for mechanical appendages. I love a challenge.
Step one: crank that damn thing open as far as it goes. Step two: remove the crank mechanism and store it safely away. Step two fails; the crank won't come off. So I heft up the a/c and jam it into the window, balancing it precariously on top of the crank box. I wedge small chunks of scrap wood in place to help balance it. It doesn't fall out of the window when I let go, which means I'm heading in the right direction.
I have purchased a chunk of plywood to seal up the top half of the window. It is square.... the space it has to fit into is trapezoidal. I slam the sucker into place, and screw it directly into the window frame, my maniacal laughter drowning out the buzz of the drill.
Let's step back and take stock of the situation. Bottom, a crooked air conditioner. Top, and equally crooked piece of wood. I'm doing good.
I proceed by stuffing bits of the foam insulation that came with the unit into the cracks and gaps. When I run out I resort to using the dish towels I don't really like all that much. Then I seal it all in.
The purple duct tape is a nice touch. There is a thick band of bubble gum purple around the edge of the window and along the seal between the a/c and the ply wood. It looks like shit. But the point is that it's pretty much air-tight.
Now for the moment of truth. I drag the bright orange extension cord across the bedroom to the nearest outlet. A set up that is sure to trip and kill me in the night as I stumble to the bathroom. But the humming from the window and the blast of cool air is a sweet, sweet symphony.
Flash forward a year. I'm in a new apartment, with marvelously large proper windows. And yet, I find myself sealing in the air conditioner with bits of foam, dish towels and duct tape. Silver this year, it matches the decor better.
My father would be proud.
It's that time of year again.
I buy a small air conditioner at the Home Depot store. As far as a/c units go, it's a complete pussy. But it should keep my bedroom a few degrees south of roasting.
So here I sit, perched on the Stairs to Nowhere, contemplating the situation at hand. I have one window large enough to fit a small a/c through. Unfortunately it is one of those windows that opens on the side, cranked by hand. You know what I'm talking about. The kind not built for mechanical appendages. I love a challenge.
Step one: crank that damn thing open as far as it goes. Step two: remove the crank mechanism and store it safely away. Step two fails; the crank won't come off. So I heft up the a/c and jam it into the window, balancing it precariously on top of the crank box. I wedge small chunks of scrap wood in place to help balance it. It doesn't fall out of the window when I let go, which means I'm heading in the right direction.
I have purchased a chunk of plywood to seal up the top half of the window. It is square.... the space it has to fit into is trapezoidal. I slam the sucker into place, and screw it directly into the window frame, my maniacal laughter drowning out the buzz of the drill.
Let's step back and take stock of the situation. Bottom, a crooked air conditioner. Top, and equally crooked piece of wood. I'm doing good.
I proceed by stuffing bits of the foam insulation that came with the unit into the cracks and gaps. When I run out I resort to using the dish towels I don't really like all that much. Then I seal it all in.
The purple duct tape is a nice touch. There is a thick band of bubble gum purple around the edge of the window and along the seal between the a/c and the ply wood. It looks like shit. But the point is that it's pretty much air-tight.
Now for the moment of truth. I drag the bright orange extension cord across the bedroom to the nearest outlet. A set up that is sure to trip and kill me in the night as I stumble to the bathroom. But the humming from the window and the blast of cool air is a sweet, sweet symphony.
Flash forward a year. I'm in a new apartment, with marvelously large proper windows. And yet, I find myself sealing in the air conditioner with bits of foam, dish towels and duct tape. Silver this year, it matches the decor better.
My father would be proud.
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