GIMME DEM QUESTIONS I'LL BEAT YOU UP
I... am not much of a natural dancer. But I had a friend who was a natural dancer.
You could call her... a jumping bean! She's got ants in her pants, and fibromyalgia.
I liked her a lot. I liked her smile, and I liked her hair, and maybe we both fucked it up, but my inclination is to hoard all the blame to myself. It's been a year since i saw her last, and two before that. At one point I wanted to marry her, and now we're strangers.
The wine, how it talks! I am a crime on the dance floor, a sick horse that nobody has the heart to take out back and shoot.
Sydney, NSW, a hell of a town. We rambled up and down the streets, drinking Solo, while a Brisbanishman marvelled at the sights of the city and took a picture of literally everything. We visited / refused to leave the house of a Sydneyman and his Yankeewife, and also did all the touristy stuff - went to the Opera House, took a picture by the Harbor Bridge, tracked down a park with kangaroos and chilled with them. We met the prince of all burgermakers in Sydney, and took pictures with him. It was high times indeed, Australia! It was higher times because I had such good buddies to travel with! Doubtless left to my own devices, I would have holed up in a room somewhere and read forums and drank.
But yeah, I had a lot of fun in Sydney! Maybe someday I will return to that exotic land of Australia.
Full disclosure: I briefly entertained the notion of trying to contact you and find out if you were a Sydneyman, and maybe try to buy you a sandwich or something because I like the things you draw. But I let that opportunity sweep right past me, like how Sydney buses just kind of sweep past bus stops hilariously.
Properly, I didn't do it, but in my senior year of high school, I had to work the lights for the multicultural night, and there was this one group that was doing this part from an adaptation of Faust. They'd spoken with me beforehand, and said that they wanted the lights to be kind of dim, so I did what I could. They brought a boom box to play the sound, I remember that, and we had to get this really obscure cable to pipe it into the auditorium. Well, whatever. I remember being really impressed by the prelude, which stretched for like five minutes. That's when the music took a really dramatic turn, and a guy leapt up from the front of the stage, where he'd been obscured in shadow, I guess.
As he capered about the stage in his costume, I recognized him. We'd had a run in earlier that week, wherein both of us had been excited about the same girl, but he had expertly made his move while I was still triangulating. My opportunity was lost, probably forever (since that's how high school works). When you think about it, it made sense: he was the kind of guy who'd jump around and caper on the stage, and cause much astonishment in the crowd, and I was just the crappy dude who pointed the lights so I could hide behind them.
And as I watched him on the stage, my hands were clenched in fists of rage.
No angel born in Heaven
could break that Satan's spell.
She came across a child, mewling by the shore, on a cold night in late August. The sun had long since set, and clouds covered the sickly moon - you or I, perhaps, wouldn't have found such a small and pitiful thing, but the little ones have long and forever been a particular prize of hers.
She prodded the child, not kindly, with the end of her staff. "Here now, little one, stop this! Stop your infernal snivelling!"
The child looked up, choked with tears. "I'm lo-ost," it blubbered. "I'm here all alone, and no-bo-dy caaaares," and then it began to wail anew. The waves broke against the rocks, and disgruntled seagulls took off, cawing their disgust, but the interloper stood, and waited. Presently, the child hiccupped, and drew a shaky breath.
"Now," she said, before the wail began again, "I can mend this little thing for you. Lost, are you? I'll see you never lost again. I'll fix a little house for you, and you can live there forever. Alone, are you? I'll see you never alone again. Always and forever, I'll have people come to you, little bubbling streams of questions and demands. They'll hear of you, they'll come to you, because what you can give them, nobody else will be able to."
The child had gone quiet. A thin river of snot ran from their nose, but in the dark, who would have noticed?
"All I ask," and she smiled, a smile that didn't reach her eyes, "is a trifle in return. Good name, high standing, they're ephemeral things, and they do you little enough. So, when you are great, the master of questions and answers, you will never be too great. For these things I will do for you, the head of your glory shall be mine."
The child accepted. Young, tired, confused, and lost, who wouldn't have? Perhaps it was unfair, but what is fairness to one such as she? What is pity to the infinite? What is justice to one beyond victory and defeat? The bargain was sealed.
The waves will crash against the cliffs forever, and into their vast has vanished the good name and good glory that Formspring might have had, if only it hadn't strayed so far from home, that cold night in late August.
anchovies + pepperoni otp
They are both extremely salty and that makes you want to drink IPA, and everything is just beautiful when you have anchovies and pepperoni pizza and a big stupid IPA hooray! hooray! HOORAY FOR ALL TIME.
They fled the coasts, early on, and took to the high grounds in the middle of the country. Huddled, shivering camps of refugees, warming themselves around flickering kerosene flames, and chewing the leather of their shoes in an attempt to stretch their rations that much further. They're almost third-world refugees here, here! in the middle of the first world! I can't really even speak for the rest of the world. Perhaps they took to the Himalayas in China, perhaps the outback is a teeming mass of mankind right now?
There was footage of it on the news, you know, boats leaning drunkenly through the roofs of buildings never meant to support that weight, let alone the incredible pressure of the tide that surged around them. Fish everywhere, as though they'd rained from the sky, flopping and splashing in puddles. A shark twitches in a child's sandbox, as the timber lining it slowly leaks lifeblood out. Out to sea, hurricanes roar and waves foam - by landfall, they strike at the artifices of man as the fist of an angry god.
You'd be surprised what I could see, back when I was up there. You'd be surprised what I can hear, the great voices that cry out from the earth, bleeding across this vast emptiness.
But the King of Tricks made his offer, and I have paid his toll.
I'll never again see the flash of her wine-dark skin, catch the glitter from the shining strings of pearl in her hair. But the crash and thunder of her laughter, and the cool soothing of her touch are more than enough to make up for these ruined eyes.
I can feel the heat on me as I re-enter the atmosphere, and hear the hiss as the dust on my leading edge turns to glass. But it'll all be over, soon.
Tethys, my love! Can you hear me?
I'm coming home to you!
A tiny violin, right on my bicep, so whenever somebody was being overly dramatic, I would just start FLEXING and they'd be all "What are you doing ARE YOU PLAYING A TINY VIOLIN FOR ME" and they'd start getting all mad, and I'd defuse the situation, cool as ice, "No man, I gotta put on a show... for the ladies!" and they'd chill right out because we all have to put on a show for the ladies, you know?
But secretly, I would be playing a tiny violin for them!
But I'd also actually be putting on a show for the ladies! And damn those'd be some lucky ladies because how often do you get a concerto at the gun show? ("guncerto")
We will go to the coast of France, a small village that her family knows well. We will wander the cobblestone streets and take in the scenery, enjoy a string of excellent meals at little out-of-the-way restaurants, visit some of the war memorials to pay our respects. As days go, it will be without a doubt one of the happiest of our lives. But it will all come crashing to an end at about 11:30PM Paris time, in a little bed-and-breakfast overlooking the chalk-white cliffs.
"Aren't you coming to bed?" I'll say, looking over the newspaper towards the bathroom.
"In a moment," she'll call, the crash of surf and the rude caw of seagulls in her voice. I'll fold down the newspaper, and lay it carefully on the side table. And then, she comes. From out of that doorway she pours, tuna and bream, shark and whale, salmon and clownfish, seal and dolphin, remora and swordfish, ocotpus and squid. The rustic timbers holding the thatched roof aloft will groan, and still she'll proceed. Seaweed crawls across the floor, crabs scuttling in and out, and coral surges proudly forward. Sand crashes all around the room, the geysers belch sulfur and magma, and the ground-down remains of the proudest mountains Earth once held to herself will spill across the floor like so much rice. The timbers of the bed will creak, and start to crackle like a fire, and still she'll proceed. Here come the corpses of drowned sailors and the luckless dead from time immemorial, there are the wrecked and wretched remains of a thousand kings' navies, with tattered sails billowing in a wind nobody can hear, and oars beating madly against a lunatic current. Water crashes all around the house, and the ancient windows shatter under the strain. And still she'll come. Vast, alien, magnificent, beyond victory and defeat. Pearls in her hair, rings on her fingers, sunken gold shimmering in her eyes, the bearing of a queen and the seeming of an army. Heaven and Earth will never see a woman so beautiful and so terrible as my wife in that moment.
I'll struggle for air, and still she'll surge forth. I'll feel the blackness, and still she'll roar onwards. My breath will pass from me, and I will sink, and it is only then, at that moment, that she will stop.
Sorrowing in her folly, she will draw my crushed form, and place me in the sky, in a place of honor for all generations. I will spin, slowly, aimlessly through the heavens for all eternity, and she will follow me across the surface of this miserable ball of dirt that we used to call home. Behold, my wife is Tethys, and she is the ocean - behold, she has made me the Moon.
Do you think I'll be able to think of a funny response given like three damn months of lead time?
See if you'd asked me earlier I would have said "Australia" because I was hella excited about going to Australia. But now I'm back! Back where everybody talks through their nose, and chickens are kept caged and not allowed to roam the streets in feral gangs. The other thing, Prometheus, you've already named, so I'm just going to look like an uncreative chump if I name that too!
Uhhh, I'm helping a brother move at some point in the not-too-distant future, so I'm going to be driving a Uhaul truck from somewhere Bostonwards to somewhere Atlantawards. I'e never driven a truck before, and I'm told there's gonna be hella mountain roads and we'll be plowing right through Joisey and Yankeeheimr and maybe a stopoff in Jotunheimr? I'm pretty excited for that! Heck I gotta start making some mix tapes for that or something.
Hmm let me generate a very large prime, just for you. Ready? Ready!
WAIT that's divisible by two! That's not a prime at all! A MACHINE COULD NEVER MAKE SUCH A TRIVIAL MISTAKE.
There are things that I am obliged to keep secret, by mighty oath and by honor.
Bonus note: even among people who are theoretically "cleared" for secrets, you shouldn't just spout it willy-nilly. The doctrine of "need-to-know" applies, because the more people who know the secret, the more likely it is to accidentally come out. Like the joke goes, three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead. And I like my friends too much to kill them in order to preserve my secrets! Which is good because that'd be a crime, and they'd put me in the jail for that.
拙者. Back in the day, it's how samurai would refer to themselves (in the third person), and a good translation is "bumbling fool". That was because, y'know, politeness in feudal Japan meant saying what the man with the legal authority to kill your ass wanted to hear. So grovelling was the order of the day! But we're in the United States of America, where we bow to no king or emperor, and yet still I refer to myself as the clown shoesiest of men. That's called self-confidence issues, and mamas tell yo' children not to do what I have done.
"Pony vs. the Morning". Every day I'd be up, bright and early, ready to take your calls. But nobody would ever call me, nobody. The first hour, I'd be clearly forcedly cheerful, and just keep playing the station bump and putting the number out there ("Everyone, we're just waiting by the phones here on WKGB. WKGB! We're watching you.") By the second hour, I'd stop saying it so much, and you'd hear kind of a sobbing in the background between songs. The third hour in, switching between an incoherent string of expletives, and monstrous self-pity, I would be clearly extremely drunk.
Despite this, it would take months before I went off the air, because nobody would listen to the show to be offended. In the end, I guess, I'd be taken off the air because I was replaced with a robot of Japanese design.
The crowd railed and jeered as the pitiful figure stood before them, tinny voice screeching heresies.
"Wretch!" they cried. "Madman! Forsaken of Heaven!"
He tried to raise his voice, to better vent his bile over them all, but they only shouted the louder.
"Take him away!" they roared, as one. "Let his lies trouble us no more!"