do you believe in magic?
i secretly am a packrat. secretly. a disgusting one. i like ordered chaos so much, i keep all manner of knickknacks and scrap paper under the unremarkable delusion i shall find a use for it later. and should such a rare occasion arise, and i pluck an old receipt from my fanny pack- to scribble some acrid memory i vow to retain, the piece finds its way back into the abyss of my man purse and into the annals of stuff i shall most likely dream about later.
the papers themselves become dusted with folding and wear, much like old bills of money. eventually all i intend to save ends up as lint in my pocket. which i can't stand. i find myself occasionally wandering into bathrooms and turning them inside out and dusting them feverishly. mostly in church.
i've stored paper clips and bend metals, pins and needles, bits of string and empty lighters, under the blithering impression i shall at some point be locked in a room or in some death trap situation with nothing but items on hand and my MacGyver knowhow to escape certain death- with just some gum, a shoe lace and gravel. i live in a strange world.
there have been a few times when a screw or string has come in handy. though i can only think of that time i locked myself out of my car- in the rain no less (no not that time! the other one) and i used some wire that had been wrapped around a tree, and some string, to build a tiny lasso/fishing rod and slipping it into the top of my slightly opened car window, fished the lock open. true story.
the other night, i repaired my brothers arm chair, which suffered from a few loose screws, with a bent end of a fancy metal pen that no longer wrote. but this was because i had been too lazy to travel downstairs to get a proper tool.
i won a lighter/flashlight/pocket switchblade at a childrens party pabitin. Ol'Angus would drool over this thing. don't get the reference? true answer to an old joke. i wonder how much the sales of swiss army knives ross in the 80's.
there is a pile of books in our basement, collected from every family member, which is being sent to Cagayan de Oro (to a library that burned down). i'm secretly itching to brave the dust and mounds of yellow'd pages, to take what i "might" want to read for later or might want to keep for reasons that are to "a gay" for me to mention. perhaps there is a nancy drew mystery i had not solved in record time, or a enid blyton story i found charming as a child...
i have this imagination (or is it an afternoon special/TV upbringing) that has me believing these books are going to a place that need them- that some kid will nurse a deep-seeded, unnamed hunger for learning and devour each book in the small public library of his home province, and become the next local Hemingway or Chekov. Anton. not the ensign. (maybe it was just goodwill hunting)
so imma just sit up here and surf the net. passing the time feeding this sudden interest i have in Egyptian Mythology- ignoring the urge to put a bag of sand and a bull whip into my pouchbag... just in case.
the papers themselves become dusted with folding and wear, much like old bills of money. eventually all i intend to save ends up as lint in my pocket. which i can't stand. i find myself occasionally wandering into bathrooms and turning them inside out and dusting them feverishly. mostly in church.
i've stored paper clips and bend metals, pins and needles, bits of string and empty lighters, under the blithering impression i shall at some point be locked in a room or in some death trap situation with nothing but items on hand and my MacGyver knowhow to escape certain death- with just some gum, a shoe lace and gravel. i live in a strange world.
there have been a few times when a screw or string has come in handy. though i can only think of that time i locked myself out of my car- in the rain no less (no not that time! the other one) and i used some wire that had been wrapped around a tree, and some string, to build a tiny lasso/fishing rod and slipping it into the top of my slightly opened car window, fished the lock open. true story.
the other night, i repaired my brothers arm chair, which suffered from a few loose screws, with a bent end of a fancy metal pen that no longer wrote. but this was because i had been too lazy to travel downstairs to get a proper tool.
i won a lighter/flashlight/pocket switchblade at a childrens party pabitin. Ol'Angus would drool over this thing. don't get the reference? true answer to an old joke. i wonder how much the sales of swiss army knives ross in the 80's.
there is a pile of books in our basement, collected from every family member, which is being sent to Cagayan de Oro (to a library that burned down). i'm secretly itching to brave the dust and mounds of yellow'd pages, to take what i "might" want to read for later or might want to keep for reasons that are to "a gay" for me to mention. perhaps there is a nancy drew mystery i had not solved in record time, or a enid blyton story i found charming as a child...
i have this imagination (or is it an afternoon special/TV upbringing) that has me believing these books are going to a place that need them- that some kid will nurse a deep-seeded, unnamed hunger for learning and devour each book in the small public library of his home province, and become the next local Hemingway or Chekov. Anton. not the ensign. (maybe it was just goodwill hunting)
so imma just sit up here and surf the net. passing the time feeding this sudden interest i have in Egyptian Mythology- ignoring the urge to put a bag of sand and a bull whip into my pouchbag... just in case.