You can't say no to the beauty and the beast
I feel it's appropriate, as I haven't really written in a while, and I can't truly fall asleep for a little bit yet, to go over things bobbing about in the ol' brain cavity. The word that keeps floating to the surface is "love", so that's the apex/epoch/vector/prime of it all.
I love my parents. Before escapading tonight, the 'rents and I made cookies (linzer tart delishness), danced around the kitchen, had a scrumptious dinner of red red meat, and listened to an e.b. white essay/some of my hermeneutics essay. It never ceases to amaze me that they find it in their hearts to support my ventures...well thought out or not. And we know there have been much of the later. But it just means so much to me that I can tell them [almost] anything and know I'll get some sort of response from it that doesn't condescend or make me feel like shit.
[In addition, my pops bought one of the first bottlings of absinthe up for sale, being as the post WWII law has now been studied more closely, and the liquor is legal, and has been for the past 60-odd years. To start the eve off right, the three of us, absinthe spoon in hand, concocted some lovely glasses of the green stuff. Delishers.)
I love the ability to see myself as something of value. It's taken time, and more time shall need to be applied, of course, but recently, I feel good. I feel like Rose should feel. Like I have a brain. Like I have a pleasing face. Like I can make a decent joke. This is all very pandering stuff, but it's nice to realize things every once and a while, and go, "oh yeah, that's right. Something's nice here. Something works." Blah blah you're probably going, "fuck, Rose, whatever." But I maintain that it's nice to look in the mirror and enjoy the curly haired broad looking back at ya.
I love Creative Writing. I need to fucking do some. But the idea of it is lovely as well. I'm so stoked about this next quarter, and getting tossed back into that realm of schooling...that major that I'm actually supposed to be working on. Yeah, I'm not expecting an actual job to float out of it. But shit, man, it's a passion. And I used to do it more. And it sickens me that I don't now. Hence, tomorrow/today, later, I am going to write something. I dunno what. But something. I need to just get words onto the page and stir them up to make something.
I love David Bowie. I love listening to "sons of the silent age" and hearing him say, "oh baby I'll never let you go." Aching, longing in the notes. There's something just truly great about his voice, the music he creates, and the emotions it pulls up. Some certain people will crit, but I don't care. I do love it. DB's insane. And brilliant. And I love that his beautiful face is splashed all over his stuff because he knows he looks like an alien. And I want him to live forever.
I love reading Irvine Welsh again. I love the fact that he's so fucking crude and vulg and that whenever I start reading him again, I feel sick in my stomach because of the brutal visceral detail of it all. It's what I feel Palahniuk is like, but I can't get into that guy. Palahniuk just feels like shock value. Welsh does something to bring it home. I get completely grossed out by the mind-numbing sex and drugs and violence, and just when I am almost about to put the book down and read a book for 4-year-olds, I become cut off from the gut reactions. I lose myself in the book. I'm the slimy scottish gangster, the one who drinks endless pints of lager every 5 minutes, does a million mountains [baHA!] of cocaine, and fucks every chick in sight, describing it in purient detail, and not giving a shit when said skirts are heartbroken because I can't settle down. I don't know what it is, man, but reading his stuff is just crazy. It makes my mind whir like few things have done. I'm starting "The Bedroom Secrets of Master Chefs" (his newest) and though it isn't as intense as, say, "Trainspotting", or maybe "Acid House", it's got something interesting going. I wonder if he's [slightly] mellowing as he gets older. I hope not. There's a part of me that just loves being completely disgusted by what I'm reading, right before I dive into it head-over-heels.
I love the difference a year makes. I'd go into more detail, but I just don't feel like it. Mostly because I feel this can apply to everyone, rather than my obsessively personal above paragraphs. So the difference a year makes.
I suppose now, as I am running out of steam, and haven't yet hit the sappy shit, it's time to say the most obvious.
I love all of you.
I do. I truly do. At the precise moment midnight hit, 3 1/2 hours ago, I thought about how extremely fortunate and lucky I am to know you. Each and everyone of you, of course, but I thought about you. You. The one is who reading this now. You. About how great you are. About how you listen to me. About how you make me laugh. About how you make me cry. About how you make me so fucking angry, I want to fucking kill you. About how very incredibly full my heart is with love for you. About how the matter of time we have known one another doesn't really matter, because it's an endless and eternal love. Though I might not say it to your face, it isn't for a lack of affection. It's the thing inside me that keeps me from shouting it aloud. But know this now. As I sit here, at 3:23 in the AM, wasting my time writing some endless drivel that I wouldn't blame you for a moment in skipping, know that I love you. Fully and incredibly. You make my life strong. You make my heart beat. You make me me.
As Arvo Part is coming to a close, the time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things. Most of those things I have just said. And I know there's more inside. And I know I'll spill more out onto the world wide interweb, the information highway, the nasty 'net before this new year is over. For now, I shall say, it's been a pleasure. And it promises to be another one. Let us not say happy new year, but let us say, here is the year where we do it. Whatever "it" is. It'll change and continue to mutate. In any case, it'll happen. And when it does, I'll be by your side, smiling at the beauty of this. and you.
I love my parents. Before escapading tonight, the 'rents and I made cookies (linzer tart delishness), danced around the kitchen, had a scrumptious dinner of red red meat, and listened to an e.b. white essay/some of my hermeneutics essay. It never ceases to amaze me that they find it in their hearts to support my ventures...well thought out or not. And we know there have been much of the later. But it just means so much to me that I can tell them [almost] anything and know I'll get some sort of response from it that doesn't condescend or make me feel like shit.
[In addition, my pops bought one of the first bottlings of absinthe up for sale, being as the post WWII law has now been studied more closely, and the liquor is legal, and has been for the past 60-odd years. To start the eve off right, the three of us, absinthe spoon in hand, concocted some lovely glasses of the green stuff. Delishers.)
I love the ability to see myself as something of value. It's taken time, and more time shall need to be applied, of course, but recently, I feel good. I feel like Rose should feel. Like I have a brain. Like I have a pleasing face. Like I can make a decent joke. This is all very pandering stuff, but it's nice to realize things every once and a while, and go, "oh yeah, that's right. Something's nice here. Something works." Blah blah you're probably going, "fuck, Rose, whatever." But I maintain that it's nice to look in the mirror and enjoy the curly haired broad looking back at ya.
I love Creative Writing. I need to fucking do some. But the idea of it is lovely as well. I'm so stoked about this next quarter, and getting tossed back into that realm of schooling...that major that I'm actually supposed to be working on. Yeah, I'm not expecting an actual job to float out of it. But shit, man, it's a passion. And I used to do it more. And it sickens me that I don't now. Hence, tomorrow/today, later, I am going to write something. I dunno what. But something. I need to just get words onto the page and stir them up to make something.
I love David Bowie. I love listening to "sons of the silent age" and hearing him say, "oh baby I'll never let you go." Aching, longing in the notes. There's something just truly great about his voice, the music he creates, and the emotions it pulls up. Some certain people will crit, but I don't care. I do love it. DB's insane. And brilliant. And I love that his beautiful face is splashed all over his stuff because he knows he looks like an alien. And I want him to live forever.
I love reading Irvine Welsh again. I love the fact that he's so fucking crude and vulg and that whenever I start reading him again, I feel sick in my stomach because of the brutal visceral detail of it all. It's what I feel Palahniuk is like, but I can't get into that guy. Palahniuk just feels like shock value. Welsh does something to bring it home. I get completely grossed out by the mind-numbing sex and drugs and violence, and just when I am almost about to put the book down and read a book for 4-year-olds, I become cut off from the gut reactions. I lose myself in the book. I'm the slimy scottish gangster, the one who drinks endless pints of lager every 5 minutes, does a million mountains [baHA!] of cocaine, and fucks every chick in sight, describing it in purient detail, and not giving a shit when said skirts are heartbroken because I can't settle down. I don't know what it is, man, but reading his stuff is just crazy. It makes my mind whir like few things have done. I'm starting "The Bedroom Secrets of Master Chefs" (his newest) and though it isn't as intense as, say, "Trainspotting", or maybe "Acid House", it's got something interesting going. I wonder if he's [slightly] mellowing as he gets older. I hope not. There's a part of me that just loves being completely disgusted by what I'm reading, right before I dive into it head-over-heels.
I love the difference a year makes. I'd go into more detail, but I just don't feel like it. Mostly because I feel this can apply to everyone, rather than my obsessively personal above paragraphs. So the difference a year makes.
I suppose now, as I am running out of steam, and haven't yet hit the sappy shit, it's time to say the most obvious.
I love all of you.
I do. I truly do. At the precise moment midnight hit, 3 1/2 hours ago, I thought about how extremely fortunate and lucky I am to know you. Each and everyone of you, of course, but I thought about you. You. The one is who reading this now. You. About how great you are. About how you listen to me. About how you make me laugh. About how you make me cry. About how you make me so fucking angry, I want to fucking kill you. About how very incredibly full my heart is with love for you. About how the matter of time we have known one another doesn't really matter, because it's an endless and eternal love. Though I might not say it to your face, it isn't for a lack of affection. It's the thing inside me that keeps me from shouting it aloud. But know this now. As I sit here, at 3:23 in the AM, wasting my time writing some endless drivel that I wouldn't blame you for a moment in skipping, know that I love you. Fully and incredibly. You make my life strong. You make my heart beat. You make me me.
As Arvo Part is coming to a close, the time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things. Most of those things I have just said. And I know there's more inside. And I know I'll spill more out onto the world wide interweb, the information highway, the nasty 'net before this new year is over. For now, I shall say, it's been a pleasure. And it promises to be another one. Let us not say happy new year, but let us say, here is the year where we do it. Whatever "it" is. It'll change and continue to mutate. In any case, it'll happen. And when it does, I'll be by your side, smiling at the beauty of this. and you.