No plastic in microwaves!
So I'm here in Cumming, GA, on the trout hatchery. If you were to see it on the Garmin GPS device that my mother got for Christmas it would appear to be dark green because it's a national park. At least that's how those of us in the car justified the difference in pigment of the area when prompted with the question. That's my where.
If you tried to guess the substance of this update merely by looking at the subject line, then I apologize for wasting your time. In my effort to create my own subject to fill the line with I stumbled across the saved items that were previously typed into the bar merely by clicking it. Because this is not my computer and it is positioned some 500 miles from my house, I rarely use it. That being the case, I saw this as an opportunity to delve into the psychology of my wonderfully hospitable and equally prepossessing hostess, Winnie Jonah Markey. After all, this is her profile, so these are the things she writes about. Or at least writes in her own subject bar about. The bit about the no platic in microwaves creates in my mind an image of a hungry Winnie returning home from a hard fought basketball game (which she probably lost) and desperately searching for some food. Of course most of the food is kept in the fridge so it's cold. Naturally, she decides to heat her particular choice of dish because who likes cold Quizno's anyway? She doesn't. In her exasperated state of mind, the loss weighing heavily on her conscience as she failed to guard the base line with as much determination as her parents, coach, and teammates expected her to, Winnie sticks the frigid sub, and it's tupperware dish deep into the oven.
She turns the oven to 450 degrees, the plastic melts to the grid iron bars of the oven, and the sub catches fire. All of this happens while she is napping. A deep sort of nap intended to make her feel like she has been born again upon waking up. The slumber has the expected effect and her rejuvenated stomach feels less empty than it had upon beginning the nap. Deciding that she no longer wants to eat the sub but not noticing the burning plastic or the toxic smoke, she retrives the mess from the back of the oven and promptly throws it away. Kids don't notice that kind of fire. You know?
That was longer than I expected. And it didn't really have a point. Other topics from the subject bar that I could have chosen include:
~*~Hey Hun! I love you!*~
99.9% True
Hey sexy! and
Discraft Chameleon: Turns Purple in the Sun
Now, if you have been a long time follower of the Tiballier journal, and chances are you haven't, then you might notice that the last phrase there was actually included in one of my own entries from about this time last year. I got frisbees for Christmas last year and one of them was a chameleon discraft, meaning it changed to purple in the sun. I left it here and haven't found it upon returning. Not even over the summer. That's one of the things I love about this hatchery. Everything around me changes. But not this dark green color-coded piece of fish-fucking heaven Everything around me changes. Especially Cumming. What used to be a small Georgia town where I grew up that had lots of trees, little traffic, and very few fast food chains has now become full of everything except trees. The trees aren't the issue. The traffic is the main issue. It take like 698,457 hours to get anywhere here (that's a rough estimate). Two years ago, Last year, I put a Mars is the Tyrant wallpaper on Winnie's computer. It's still there as I type this. Granted, the mostly naked but somewhat clad Abercrombie and Fitch model on Cecilia's profile is still there as well. That's not the point. Or it actually furthers the point. This place is safe from changing. For a while at least. Until the fishermen of Georgia decide that they no longer need a hatchery to artificially stock the rivers with farmed game, this hatchery will be a governmentally protected little piece of fish-fucking heaven. Not that fish fuck. Unless you consider the word to include the idea that the sperm conjoins with the egg. But then that takes all of the dirtiness out of it. Thereby eliminating the emphasis and the little sliver of doubt I have in writing this, making me question my word choice, wondering if my mom will read it some day.
I saw Night at the Museum today. It was less than thrilling. Not that that's bad. It's true though. It was less than thrilling.
Anyway, it was really dark outside the theater. In the parking lot of the theater it was hard to see. Driving home was like Hell. I mean that literally. I recently heard someone say that the word literally is being overused in the English vernacular these days. Stephen Pastis wrote that in Pearls Before Swine. Cool guy. Great strip. However, this cliche was entirely appropriate. It looked like hell outside as we drove back to the hatchery. The roads were under construction. The rain was drizzling. Not pouring down. Just making a tapping sound loud enough to annoy the Hell (is that a pun because I'm talking about being in Hell kind of) ((I don't think so)) (((I should have included the double parenthesis in the single parenthesis and then continued to include the triple in the double...damn))) out of you. The added effect of ambulances and firetrucks driving by, stopping traffic with their sirens blaring and their lights flashing really made it seem like a Hellpit. What the Hell is a Hellpit? Pulling onto Trout Place Rd. was really tricky because it was really dark. I wasn't driving. My dad was. He turned the headlights out and because there aren't very many lights here on the hatchery except for the beautiful christmas lights the Markey's tastefully covered their charming little abode with but are blocked by the large pines between the gate and the radius that they are capable of shining, it was eerily dark. EEEERY. But really neat. Really, really neat.
There is a nine year-old boy in the room across form this one watching TV. I heard a commercial for Girls Gone Wild come on so I told him to turn the channel. He said, "Ok." I then heard the same commercial but at a lower volume.
I was thinking earlier today about Jack and Jill. Do you think the name Jill was chosen because the author had already planned the doom of his protagonists, their descent down a hill? Or was the hill chosen as the bringer of their demise simply because it rhymed with Jill? If Jack's companion had a simpler name, Cass, for instance, perhaps the two of them might simply have had an enjoyable afternoon of chatting on the grass. No crowns broken. The same nine year-old boy in the room across from this one earlier brought the more morbid idea of the companion christened Count Sbleverus (that is not a typo) and Jack and said Count's tragic fall from Mount Everest. He then went on to explain that Jack would most probably break his pelvis upon hitting the ground...and that he'd like to meet Elvis. The way I describe this you'd think I was talking about a 5 year-old. That's not my intent. Later on in the conversation (as it was a long one) Winnie simply blew both of our minds by hypothesizing the effects of having Jill climb up the hill before Jack. Jill and Jack climbed up the _______. Tack? Iraq? Any thoughts?
Mind blowing. Simply mind blowing.
Now for a little slice of Mars ------->
You are the white surf on my hand.
You are my living reverie.
You turn my rocks of pain to dust.
You burn her eyes from memory.
Now I've found a way to make my days
Wonderful and continuing
and so I thank God for his gifts
Your life,
your eyes,
your soulful grace.
If you tried to guess the substance of this update merely by looking at the subject line, then I apologize for wasting your time. In my effort to create my own subject to fill the line with I stumbled across the saved items that were previously typed into the bar merely by clicking it. Because this is not my computer and it is positioned some 500 miles from my house, I rarely use it. That being the case, I saw this as an opportunity to delve into the psychology of my wonderfully hospitable and equally prepossessing hostess, Winnie Jonah Markey. After all, this is her profile, so these are the things she writes about. Or at least writes in her own subject bar about. The bit about the no platic in microwaves creates in my mind an image of a hungry Winnie returning home from a hard fought basketball game (which she probably lost) and desperately searching for some food. Of course most of the food is kept in the fridge so it's cold. Naturally, she decides to heat her particular choice of dish because who likes cold Quizno's anyway? She doesn't. In her exasperated state of mind, the loss weighing heavily on her conscience as she failed to guard the base line with as much determination as her parents, coach, and teammates expected her to, Winnie sticks the frigid sub, and it's tupperware dish deep into the oven.
She turns the oven to 450 degrees, the plastic melts to the grid iron bars of the oven, and the sub catches fire. All of this happens while she is napping. A deep sort of nap intended to make her feel like she has been born again upon waking up. The slumber has the expected effect and her rejuvenated stomach feels less empty than it had upon beginning the nap. Deciding that she no longer wants to eat the sub but not noticing the burning plastic or the toxic smoke, she retrives the mess from the back of the oven and promptly throws it away. Kids don't notice that kind of fire. You know?
That was longer than I expected. And it didn't really have a point. Other topics from the subject bar that I could have chosen include:
~*~Hey Hun! I love you!*~
99.9% True
Hey sexy! and
Discraft Chameleon: Turns Purple in the Sun
Now, if you have been a long time follower of the Tiballier journal, and chances are you haven't, then you might notice that the last phrase there was actually included in one of my own entries from about this time last year. I got frisbees for Christmas last year and one of them was a chameleon discraft, meaning it changed to purple in the sun. I left it here and haven't found it upon returning. Not even over the summer. That's one of the things I love about this hatchery. Everything around me changes. But not this dark green color-coded piece of fish-fucking heaven Everything around me changes. Especially Cumming. What used to be a small Georgia town where I grew up that had lots of trees, little traffic, and very few fast food chains has now become full of everything except trees. The trees aren't the issue. The traffic is the main issue. It take like 698,457 hours to get anywhere here (that's a rough estimate). Two years ago, Last year, I put a Mars is the Tyrant wallpaper on Winnie's computer. It's still there as I type this. Granted, the mostly naked but somewhat clad Abercrombie and Fitch model on Cecilia's profile is still there as well. That's not the point. Or it actually furthers the point. This place is safe from changing. For a while at least. Until the fishermen of Georgia decide that they no longer need a hatchery to artificially stock the rivers with farmed game, this hatchery will be a governmentally protected little piece of fish-fucking heaven. Not that fish fuck. Unless you consider the word to include the idea that the sperm conjoins with the egg. But then that takes all of the dirtiness out of it. Thereby eliminating the emphasis and the little sliver of doubt I have in writing this, making me question my word choice, wondering if my mom will read it some day.
I saw Night at the Museum today. It was less than thrilling. Not that that's bad. It's true though. It was less than thrilling.
Anyway, it was really dark outside the theater. In the parking lot of the theater it was hard to see. Driving home was like Hell. I mean that literally. I recently heard someone say that the word literally is being overused in the English vernacular these days. Stephen Pastis wrote that in Pearls Before Swine. Cool guy. Great strip. However, this cliche was entirely appropriate. It looked like hell outside as we drove back to the hatchery. The roads were under construction. The rain was drizzling. Not pouring down. Just making a tapping sound loud enough to annoy the Hell (is that a pun because I'm talking about being in Hell kind of) ((I don't think so)) (((I should have included the double parenthesis in the single parenthesis and then continued to include the triple in the double...damn))) out of you. The added effect of ambulances and firetrucks driving by, stopping traffic with their sirens blaring and their lights flashing really made it seem like a Hellpit. What the Hell is a Hellpit? Pulling onto Trout Place Rd. was really tricky because it was really dark. I wasn't driving. My dad was. He turned the headlights out and because there aren't very many lights here on the hatchery except for the beautiful christmas lights the Markey's tastefully covered their charming little abode with but are blocked by the large pines between the gate and the radius that they are capable of shining, it was eerily dark. EEEERY. But really neat. Really, really neat.
There is a nine year-old boy in the room across form this one watching TV. I heard a commercial for Girls Gone Wild come on so I told him to turn the channel. He said, "Ok." I then heard the same commercial but at a lower volume.
I was thinking earlier today about Jack and Jill. Do you think the name Jill was chosen because the author had already planned the doom of his protagonists, their descent down a hill? Or was the hill chosen as the bringer of their demise simply because it rhymed with Jill? If Jack's companion had a simpler name, Cass, for instance, perhaps the two of them might simply have had an enjoyable afternoon of chatting on the grass. No crowns broken. The same nine year-old boy in the room across from this one earlier brought the more morbid idea of the companion christened Count Sbleverus (that is not a typo) and Jack and said Count's tragic fall from Mount Everest. He then went on to explain that Jack would most probably break his pelvis upon hitting the ground...and that he'd like to meet Elvis. The way I describe this you'd think I was talking about a 5 year-old. That's not my intent. Later on in the conversation (as it was a long one) Winnie simply blew both of our minds by hypothesizing the effects of having Jill climb up the hill before Jack. Jill and Jack climbed up the _______. Tack? Iraq? Any thoughts?
Mind blowing. Simply mind blowing.
Now for a little slice of Mars ------->
You are the white surf on my hand.
You are my living reverie.
You turn my rocks of pain to dust.
You burn her eyes from memory.
Now I've found a way to make my days
Wonderful and continuing
and so I thank God for his gifts
Your life,
your eyes,
your soulful grace.