When it's over, that's the time I fall in love again
I can never sleep again now, because I'm afraid I'll wake up in the land of the spring onions. Thanks, kadrin. Thanks a whole lot. My God, but Croconion is evil. Or trying to seduce Dogtato-kun, I can't quite tell. But getting away from Japanese animated children's shows focused on animal-vegetable hybrids and their love lifes!
First, you get meatworld. So, yesterday, I was going along my merry way of typing and had the cell phone ring. There's only about five people who call me on my cell phone, and only two people who call me that late in the evening, so I picked it up with a fairly good idea of who was on the other end.
"Hi!" I said.
"Hi," Louise said, somewhat more subdued, and dare I say, sheepish. (You know, I'm still referring to her as my roommate, because it's just easier that way. Hetero roommate for life, or something.)
We exchanged a few meaningless comments.
"Guess where I am," she said.
I ventured some guesses. Most of them involved alcohol. For some reason, she likes to call me when she's on her way to bars. Usually, she's with other folks, so I do my best to get her to say embarrassing things out loud.
"Nope," she said. "I'm in the ER. You know, the Emergency Room."
You know, of course, that Louise and I had several trips to the ER in our long history of being college roommates. They were an annual thing. Usually there was blood involved, and awkward bathing situations afterwards. So it was with this in mind that I beheld the phone. Useless, of course, because she couldn't see the long, level look that I directed at the contraption, but I imagine she knows me well enough by now to have predicted and visualized it accordingly.
I could think of no way to reply that did not start with profanity.
The truth came out. As it turned out, she'd fainted in the bathroom of one of the buildings in her fancy grad school program, and woken up on the floor ten minutes later. She did this more than once. And then her cell phone cut out in the middle of talking to me and she didn't pick up for about a half hour. I had visions of her sprawled out on a New York hospital floor, doctors going through her wallet and realizing with disappointment that she was not an organ donor. I left a raging voicemail. Finally, I got her to pick up again.
"Did you forget to take your meds or something?" I asked.
No, nothing was amiss. But her parents insisted on her going to the ER, so she did. She walked there. That was the part where I exploded again.
"After you fainted, you walked to the ER?" I raged.
"I didn't want to pay for a taxi. I was fine."
And then, some sundry remarks later, her phone cut out again. And no message I left could induce her to return, not voicemail or IM or what have you. So Louise, if you are reading this, please let me know that you are not dead. I realize you probably went to that party you mentioned, and I'm sure you're quite well and telling drunken cow stories, but it would be a great help to me, because if you're dead I'm obviously going to front the cash I would have used on a bus ticket for new headphones or something. Thank you.
Going over that meme from the other night, I tried to categorize how many of my stories end a different way than I'd like them to, post-everything. It's really about a 75% my-way ratio, to a 25% nope-different way ratio. And the second half of Maze of Words, I really can't tell you if Cloud is dead or not. I have my suspicions and theories, but the results are inconclusive.
Anyhow, if you're excited about Brokeback Mountain, more commonly monikered as "that gay cowboy flick", you can read the short story that it's based on right over here. Of course, the story is a major spoiler for, uh, everything, but you can always just bookmark the site or save the text so that you can check it out at your leisure. (Fun trivia that you've probably already heard-- According to reports, Heath Ledger nearly broke co-star Jake Gyllenhaal's nose while filming a kissing scene, they were going at it so hard.)
My aunt sent me pictures of my Tiny Cousins. They may have to make an appearance here. Cuter than a rookery of penguin chicks. I am plotting something, a sort of half fic and half meme thing. It's rather fun.
First, you get meatworld. So, yesterday, I was going along my merry way of typing and had the cell phone ring. There's only about five people who call me on my cell phone, and only two people who call me that late in the evening, so I picked it up with a fairly good idea of who was on the other end.
"Hi!" I said.
"Hi," Louise said, somewhat more subdued, and dare I say, sheepish. (You know, I'm still referring to her as my roommate, because it's just easier that way. Hetero roommate for life, or something.)
We exchanged a few meaningless comments.
"Guess where I am," she said.
I ventured some guesses. Most of them involved alcohol. For some reason, she likes to call me when she's on her way to bars. Usually, she's with other folks, so I do my best to get her to say embarrassing things out loud.
"Nope," she said. "I'm in the ER. You know, the Emergency Room."
You know, of course, that Louise and I had several trips to the ER in our long history of being college roommates. They were an annual thing. Usually there was blood involved, and awkward bathing situations afterwards. So it was with this in mind that I beheld the phone. Useless, of course, because she couldn't see the long, level look that I directed at the contraption, but I imagine she knows me well enough by now to have predicted and visualized it accordingly.
I could think of no way to reply that did not start with profanity.
The truth came out. As it turned out, she'd fainted in the bathroom of one of the buildings in her fancy grad school program, and woken up on the floor ten minutes later. She did this more than once. And then her cell phone cut out in the middle of talking to me and she didn't pick up for about a half hour. I had visions of her sprawled out on a New York hospital floor, doctors going through her wallet and realizing with disappointment that she was not an organ donor. I left a raging voicemail. Finally, I got her to pick up again.
"Did you forget to take your meds or something?" I asked.
No, nothing was amiss. But her parents insisted on her going to the ER, so she did. She walked there. That was the part where I exploded again.
"After you fainted, you walked to the ER?" I raged.
"I didn't want to pay for a taxi. I was fine."
And then, some sundry remarks later, her phone cut out again. And no message I left could induce her to return, not voicemail or IM or what have you. So Louise, if you are reading this, please let me know that you are not dead. I realize you probably went to that party you mentioned, and I'm sure you're quite well and telling drunken cow stories, but it would be a great help to me, because if you're dead I'm obviously going to front the cash I would have used on a bus ticket for new headphones or something. Thank you.
Going over that meme from the other night, I tried to categorize how many of my stories end a different way than I'd like them to, post-everything. It's really about a 75% my-way ratio, to a 25% nope-different way ratio. And the second half of Maze of Words, I really can't tell you if Cloud is dead or not. I have my suspicions and theories, but the results are inconclusive.
Anyhow, if you're excited about Brokeback Mountain, more commonly monikered as "that gay cowboy flick", you can read the short story that it's based on right over here. Of course, the story is a major spoiler for, uh, everything, but you can always just bookmark the site or save the text so that you can check it out at your leisure. (Fun trivia that you've probably already heard-- According to reports, Heath Ledger nearly broke co-star Jake Gyllenhaal's nose while filming a kissing scene, they were going at it so hard.)
My aunt sent me pictures of my Tiny Cousins. They may have to make an appearance here. Cuter than a rookery of penguin chicks. I am plotting something, a sort of half fic and half meme thing. It's rather fun.