Ladies, ladies, ladies.
Each one of us knows what its like to tug, pull, rotate an tuck some orb of fat into a bra. Some of us are none the wiser that our backs look like a smashed can of biscuits, while others, are so aware that they cut eyes at the women who's bra straps look more like pulled shoestrings. I can't lie. I've mastered the art of cutting my eyes and sucking my teeth in one smooth move.
Being an experienced toter of the bra fat, I know what its like to have someone pat me on the back and they touch that soft, tender spot right in the center of your back or that space right under your shoulder blades. You can just imagine that if there was a camera affixed to your back recording the back-patting assault, if you played it in slow motion it would jiggle, bounce and flabber for at least six minutes. You're instantly pissed at who ever touched the alleged "No Zone," straighten your spine and clear your throat.
Now lets be clear, touching that area isn't just limited to a pat on the back. It comes with a one armed hug, cuddling, even a grappling fest during a first kiss. And I guarantee you. It kills the mood every. Single. Time. Its almost in tuned with poking a girl in the belly, from the side. Now, fellas, I wouldn't recommend you do that, either seriously nor playfully. Its a very expedient way to get knocked the hell out.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Friday, October 5, 2007
Unwanted Visitor
After a great workout at the gym, I get back to the house, take a long, hot shower and have a little dinner. The greatest way to wind down after a treacherous Monday.
Finally, time to hit the sheets, I put my sleep timer on my TV and curl up on the couch. My bed's still got clothes all over it. And they're not about to get put up tonight. Dozing, I finally turn my back to the TV to reach that place called heaven.
Dreaming, I'm walking through a meadow with the tall wildgrass grazing against my naked arms. I welcomed the warm sun and the cool breeze from the east. I stopped for a second to brush some seedlings off my arm when I was quickly averted to consciousness. I looked down at my arm to see a two-inch waterbug looking at me in the face, perched atop my elbow.
I jolted out of my fetal position, threw my covers in one direction and reached for the nearest light switch. I can't BELIEVE this bug, BLEH!!!!, walked across my naked arm! And the NERVE to wake me up!
I shook out my blanket to see if the freeloader had found its way amidst the soft fabric. No avail. I quickly realized if I do shake this little f*cker out, I am going to want to stomp on it. Repeatedly. I put on my sh*t-kicker Timberland boots and began stomping around my nesting place.
First the blanket, then my pillows-- no such luck. Then I began to rip the couch cushions off, checking all six sides for the assailant's little body. I look at the bottom of the couch, but the way its made there are no cracks between the springs and the frame. Thank God. I get down on all fours to see if I see the little bugger looking back at me, but seeing how it was dark, I grunt with frustration and almost threw my coffee table across the room as I reached for the back of the couch. I paused for a moment and slid the couch out and BADA-BING! The little bugger saw me and scurried back under the couch. Still ramped, I took the couch and tipped it over, bottom-out to try and unveil the six-legged creature. But I didn't see it.
Where'd he go? Did he weasel his little body under my couch somewhere? I began to kick the bottom of the couch, hoping the little violator would lose its footing and come sprawling out amongst the ruckus. But I saw nothing. I began kicking again, now even more agitated but still no avail. Hair now all over the place and out of breath I assessed the damage to my living room. Couch cushions thrown, coffee table in the dining room. Piles of pillows and blankets everywhere, lamp shade leaning and my couch teetering on a prostrate position. Look at the clock. 3:11 AM.
I began to calm down and realize that I needed to go back to sleep, for christ sake. As I began to reassemble my living room, I kept a vicious eye open for the unwanted visitor. Carefully still shaking out things as I put them back together, you know, just in case I didn't get him the first (or second) time. I finally drift back off to sleep close to 4 AM, a frown smeared across my face. And blanket pulled to the top of my head. I kept on one boot just in case the little bugger decided to strike. Again.
Finally, time to hit the sheets, I put my sleep timer on my TV and curl up on the couch. My bed's still got clothes all over it. And they're not about to get put up tonight. Dozing, I finally turn my back to the TV to reach that place called heaven.
Dreaming, I'm walking through a meadow with the tall wildgrass grazing against my naked arms. I welcomed the warm sun and the cool breeze from the east. I stopped for a second to brush some seedlings off my arm when I was quickly averted to consciousness. I looked down at my arm to see a two-inch waterbug looking at me in the face, perched atop my elbow.
I jolted out of my fetal position, threw my covers in one direction and reached for the nearest light switch. I can't BELIEVE this bug, BLEH!!!!, walked across my naked arm! And the NERVE to wake me up!
I shook out my blanket to see if the freeloader had found its way amidst the soft fabric. No avail. I quickly realized if I do shake this little f*cker out, I am going to want to stomp on it. Repeatedly. I put on my sh*t-kicker Timberland boots and began stomping around my nesting place.
First the blanket, then my pillows-- no such luck. Then I began to rip the couch cushions off, checking all six sides for the assailant's little body. I look at the bottom of the couch, but the way its made there are no cracks between the springs and the frame. Thank God. I get down on all fours to see if I see the little bugger looking back at me, but seeing how it was dark, I grunt with frustration and almost threw my coffee table across the room as I reached for the back of the couch. I paused for a moment and slid the couch out and BADA-BING! The little bugger saw me and scurried back under the couch. Still ramped, I took the couch and tipped it over, bottom-out to try and unveil the six-legged creature. But I didn't see it.
Where'd he go? Did he weasel his little body under my couch somewhere? I began to kick the bottom of the couch, hoping the little violator would lose its footing and come sprawling out amongst the ruckus. But I saw nothing. I began kicking again, now even more agitated but still no avail. Hair now all over the place and out of breath I assessed the damage to my living room. Couch cushions thrown, coffee table in the dining room. Piles of pillows and blankets everywhere, lamp shade leaning and my couch teetering on a prostrate position. Look at the clock. 3:11 AM.
I began to calm down and realize that I needed to go back to sleep, for christ sake. As I began to reassemble my living room, I kept a vicious eye open for the unwanted visitor. Carefully still shaking out things as I put them back together, you know, just in case I didn't get him the first (or second) time. I finally drift back off to sleep close to 4 AM, a frown smeared across my face. And blanket pulled to the top of my head. I kept on one boot just in case the little bugger decided to strike. Again.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Morning Constitution
If you have sort of a habit in the mornings when you get to work, you can relate. If you don't have a habit, pick one up at your local Walmart.
My habit is tea. I'm not much of a coffee drinker-- I just don't like the stuff. I tried and tried to like it when I turned 25, because hey, that's an offical grown 'n sexy drink. I've tried it iced, frappe'd, cappicino'ed, mocha'ed, whipped, blended, shaken not stirred, all of it. I just can't get with it.
Anywho, I drink tea in the morning for my pick-me-up: a firm combination of two packs of Splenda (three if I'm feeling frisky), one bag of green tea and a bag of cranberry apple. See, the green tea doesn't have much of a taste to it, but I drink it because "they say" its good for you. Whatev. The cran apple has this sweet, robust tingle that just generally makes me happy every time I take a sip. Healthy and tingly. Just how I like most things in my life.
But have you ever noticed, that there is a pattern of people that are around you when you're trying to fix your morning brew in the mornings? You play double dutch in reaching over, around, behind and in front of people to successfully concoct your small caldron of drink without getting overtly frustrated or pissed off that someone is standing in your way between you and happiness. Eventually, it becomes a routine-- sort of a coreographed dance, if you will, of arms and necks working harmoniously together to acheieve the same goal: The Caffine Fix.
And then, here they come. THE VISITORS. They aren't necessarily people who are coming to visit the job, per se, but its the lady who's running late, had an early meeting and missed her "brew group," or just felt like pissing you off and decided to become the remedial stick in your wheel of progression today. She throws everyone COMPLETELY off, stopping the processes, not standing on the correct side of the coffee maker, reaching down when she should be reaching up or any wild combination of the aforementioned crimes. She smiles and says "Oh, sorry!" alot when all you're thinking in the back of your mind is "If this stringy-haired winch doesn't get out of my way..."
So, friends, know and remember your "brew group" and when your shift is. If you walk into the common area to get your morning brew and you don't recognize the locals, it may be best to hold off until a shift change. Or better yet, to prevent decapitation, the next morning.
My habit is tea. I'm not much of a coffee drinker-- I just don't like the stuff. I tried and tried to like it when I turned 25, because hey, that's an offical grown 'n sexy drink. I've tried it iced, frappe'd, cappicino'ed, mocha'ed, whipped, blended, shaken not stirred, all of it. I just can't get with it.
Anywho, I drink tea in the morning for my pick-me-up: a firm combination of two packs of Splenda (three if I'm feeling frisky), one bag of green tea and a bag of cranberry apple. See, the green tea doesn't have much of a taste to it, but I drink it because "they say" its good for you. Whatev. The cran apple has this sweet, robust tingle that just generally makes me happy every time I take a sip. Healthy and tingly. Just how I like most things in my life.
But have you ever noticed, that there is a pattern of people that are around you when you're trying to fix your morning brew in the mornings? You play double dutch in reaching over, around, behind and in front of people to successfully concoct your small caldron of drink without getting overtly frustrated or pissed off that someone is standing in your way between you and happiness. Eventually, it becomes a routine-- sort of a coreographed dance, if you will, of arms and necks working harmoniously together to acheieve the same goal: The Caffine Fix.
And then, here they come. THE VISITORS. They aren't necessarily people who are coming to visit the job, per se, but its the lady who's running late, had an early meeting and missed her "brew group," or just felt like pissing you off and decided to become the remedial stick in your wheel of progression today. She throws everyone COMPLETELY off, stopping the processes, not standing on the correct side of the coffee maker, reaching down when she should be reaching up or any wild combination of the aforementioned crimes. She smiles and says "Oh, sorry!" alot when all you're thinking in the back of your mind is "If this stringy-haired winch doesn't get out of my way..."
So, friends, know and remember your "brew group" and when your shift is. If you walk into the common area to get your morning brew and you don't recognize the locals, it may be best to hold off until a shift change. Or better yet, to prevent decapitation, the next morning.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Advertising INTERPOL
Okay.
I am COMPLETELY convinced of something.
You may thing this is contrived, but for those who know, KNOW.
For those of you who are in advertising, you know how close-knit everyone and eveything is. You know someone who knows someone who knows someone... its a vicious circle. I GUARANTEE you if we played a 14-hour game of six degrees of separation, we could find a way to link EVERYONE in advertising, all the way down to the 1st quarter student at The Circus.
Anywho, I'm convinced that there is an undisclosed INTERPOL for advertising. Once you fill out your information at a portfolio school or internship, your name is inserted into a secretive database that's kept in a private cave in upstate New York. Satellite offices? North-west Chicagoland area, Bay Area outside San Fran and a new one opening up in the west suburb of Miami.
Information is shipped off and entered... and when a person is looking for a job, they check out the agency and send off their book. The PR person goes downstairs in a stale, dark, secured room, entering only with a retnal scan and tissue sample. She has to take off her shoes and put her hair in a cap to prevent any static...she enters the room and types in your name, direction and current phone number. Then a green and black grid of the world pops up on the screen while the computer beeps LOADING. The screen scrambles for a second and pulls up your name, SSN, logo identity, website, Dan Balser and Norm Grey's comments from EVERY class you took, your grades all the way back to Sylvia's class and a video clip of your graduation speech. A few swift keystrokes and the mystery woman sees every agency that you've submitted your .pdf too, emailed, stopped by, and met with at a portfolio review.
A few more keystrokes and she can see every comment about you every agency has said behind your back after they told you "We're in a holding pattern at the moment..." She reaches for the mouse to her right, and scrolls down and briefly nods to herself as she reads the comments. As she reaches the bottom of the page, a computer prompt pops up. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO ADD YOUR OWN COMMENT?" A tap of "OK" and off she goes, typing in what each ECD, CD, PR and whatever person had something to say about you, said. She hits what I assume to be Apple+S and "SAVING..." flashes across the screen. A few seconds later, she clicks "OK" and exits the program. She smiles slightly to herself as she swivels out of the cold, backless, metal chair, presses her palm against the access pad and shuffles back to her desk to throw you, your hard spent education money AND your book into a pile of faceless numbers and codes.
And THAT friends, is my theory.
Any objectors?
I am COMPLETELY convinced of something.
You may thing this is contrived, but for those who know, KNOW.
For those of you who are in advertising, you know how close-knit everyone and eveything is. You know someone who knows someone who knows someone... its a vicious circle. I GUARANTEE you if we played a 14-hour game of six degrees of separation, we could find a way to link EVERYONE in advertising, all the way down to the 1st quarter student at The Circus.
Anywho, I'm convinced that there is an undisclosed INTERPOL for advertising. Once you fill out your information at a portfolio school or internship, your name is inserted into a secretive database that's kept in a private cave in upstate New York. Satellite offices? North-west Chicagoland area, Bay Area outside San Fran and a new one opening up in the west suburb of Miami.
Information is shipped off and entered... and when a person is looking for a job, they check out the agency and send off their book. The PR person goes downstairs in a stale, dark, secured room, entering only with a retnal scan and tissue sample. She has to take off her shoes and put her hair in a cap to prevent any static...she enters the room and types in your name, direction and current phone number. Then a green and black grid of the world pops up on the screen while the computer beeps LOADING. The screen scrambles for a second and pulls up your name, SSN, logo identity, website, Dan Balser and Norm Grey's comments from EVERY class you took, your grades all the way back to Sylvia's class and a video clip of your graduation speech. A few swift keystrokes and the mystery woman sees every agency that you've submitted your .pdf too, emailed, stopped by, and met with at a portfolio review.
A few more keystrokes and she can see every comment about you every agency has said behind your back after they told you "We're in a holding pattern at the moment..." She reaches for the mouse to her right, and scrolls down and briefly nods to herself as she reads the comments. As she reaches the bottom of the page, a computer prompt pops up. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO ADD YOUR OWN COMMENT?" A tap of "OK" and off she goes, typing in what each ECD, CD, PR and whatever person had something to say about you, said. She hits what I assume to be Apple+S and "SAVING..." flashes across the screen. A few seconds later, she clicks "OK" and exits the program. She smiles slightly to herself as she swivels out of the cold, backless, metal chair, presses her palm against the access pad and shuffles back to her desk to throw you, your hard spent education money AND your book into a pile of faceless numbers and codes.
And THAT friends, is my theory.
Any objectors?
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Holy Christmas!!
Alright. So this story may not be as funny as my "Hotter than hell" day I had in NY, but I definitely feel as though I had to write up a quick blog about this.
The Dinklemobile is sick. She's been acting funny since before I got back-- but moreso now that its gotten colder. Shaking, sputtering, loss of power during acceleration: an all out inconvenience in a city that requires EVERYONE to have a car. I called AAA and asked them to point me in the direction of the closest diagnostic center; a automobile's doctor's office.
The place wasn't far, just about a half-mile down Ponce from my house. I dropped it off this morning, checked her in, and waited around for another twenty minutes for the Courtesy Shuttle to pick me up and take me to the Marta.
For some reason, I DON'T miss riding the train.
The shuttle dropped me off at the North Ave. station and I grabbed my baggage and headed for the ticketing machine. I stood there in blind stupor trying to figure out what meant who and what the heck a "Breeze Card" is. (Note: Breeze Card = Metro Card). The local cop came up and stood behind me, asking me if I needed any help. Trying to sound as uncertain as I could, I said "Um... no... I...uh... think... I..." trailing my voice off to sound more convincing. Before I can turn around, my so-called shirpa bounded off to help another person. Jerk.
So, looking as tourist-y as possible, I finger the railway map, making sure I needed to go northbound instead of southbound. I take the stairs down, and wait for a few minutes for The Silver Bullet to approach.
Getting on the train, I felt like I was stepping back onto the 4, to casually find my spot standing holding the pole at the opposite door. I quickly realized that everyone was sitting, and that there were actually a few available seats. I quickly decided to remain standing: I look cute today. Everyone's just going to have to stare at me. I find my Gazing Spot... you know, that spot you find on the train to stare at to avoid eye contact from everyone around you. Remember: I'm standing. I don't have a whole lot of places I can look. I see something flicker out of the corner of my eye and see a small television embedded into the panel. Praise Moses! Entertainment Bliss! I've found my Gazing Spot!
Four stops later and I get off the train, and THOUGHT I'd end up one place but ended up someplace completely different. CRAP. Instead of walking one-and-a-half blocks north and one block west, I ended up having to walk an entire six blocks west.
Ladies and Gents: its KUHOLD outside today. I'm talking Des Moines Winter quality cold. Its 19 degrees with a windchill of 2, and the wind is blowing NNW at 21 MPH. I wouldn't even lock enemies outside in this.
I start the journey (uphill, mind you) to work. The icy wind hitting my face, my eyes begin to water, nose starts to run and I have nowhere to turn to hide. A gym bag and a bookbag strapped to my back, I mentally kicked myself for actually WANTING to work out today.
Two blocks down... four more to go.
My legs begin to tingle and itch from my blood trying to circulate under freezing skin. The wind whipps past my butt to remind me how open and vulnerable I am. I shift my gym bag backwards to help cover the cold cheeks. Although it did help a little, a small shock of wind would find its way between me and the bag whenever I took a step. Friggin' hips.
Four blocks down... two to go.
This is at the very busy (and WIDE) intersection of Lenox and Peachtree. The opposite cross light isn't functioning properly-- of course I didn't realize this until four rounds of straight north-south, straight east-west, turn, turn cycles were executed. I decided to take a chance: I'd officially lost all feeling in my hands and the tears from my eyes were officially frozen to my face.
I double-dutched my way across the street, avoiding delivery trucks and angry cab drivers. Making it safely across, I gazed back at my accomplishment of safely passing through the most dangerous intersection in Atlanta.
I can see the office building in the horizon and my legs are really starting to complain. The itching and tingling intensified, it took everything in me to keep from clawing my jeans off and scratching right then and there. But since I was in public and still outside, I refrained. But the idea made me smile a little.
I rounded the final curve and entered the office building. The security guard looked at me in shock as I came in sniffing and wide-eyed... not even so much as a good morning. I passed by a reflective spot on the elevator doors and finally saw what he was so agape about. My bangs had flown straight up despite the excessive application of hairspray, my ponytail looked like a cat got a hold of it. My eye makeup had mosey'd its way up near my forehead and I'd actually lost an earring. The tears were still frozen to my face and now starting to melt and my entire face and hands were as red as a newly-spanked butt. I blinked, wiped my nose and got on the next elevator.
Ahh... its good to be warm.
The Dinklemobile is sick. She's been acting funny since before I got back-- but moreso now that its gotten colder. Shaking, sputtering, loss of power during acceleration: an all out inconvenience in a city that requires EVERYONE to have a car. I called AAA and asked them to point me in the direction of the closest diagnostic center; a automobile's doctor's office.
The place wasn't far, just about a half-mile down Ponce from my house. I dropped it off this morning, checked her in, and waited around for another twenty minutes for the Courtesy Shuttle to pick me up and take me to the Marta.
For some reason, I DON'T miss riding the train.
The shuttle dropped me off at the North Ave. station and I grabbed my baggage and headed for the ticketing machine. I stood there in blind stupor trying to figure out what meant who and what the heck a "Breeze Card" is. (Note: Breeze Card = Metro Card). The local cop came up and stood behind me, asking me if I needed any help. Trying to sound as uncertain as I could, I said "Um... no... I...uh... think... I..." trailing my voice off to sound more convincing. Before I can turn around, my so-called shirpa bounded off to help another person. Jerk.
So, looking as tourist-y as possible, I finger the railway map, making sure I needed to go northbound instead of southbound. I take the stairs down, and wait for a few minutes for The Silver Bullet to approach.
Getting on the train, I felt like I was stepping back onto the 4, to casually find my spot standing holding the pole at the opposite door. I quickly realized that everyone was sitting, and that there were actually a few available seats. I quickly decided to remain standing: I look cute today. Everyone's just going to have to stare at me. I find my Gazing Spot... you know, that spot you find on the train to stare at to avoid eye contact from everyone around you. Remember: I'm standing. I don't have a whole lot of places I can look. I see something flicker out of the corner of my eye and see a small television embedded into the panel. Praise Moses! Entertainment Bliss! I've found my Gazing Spot!
Four stops later and I get off the train, and THOUGHT I'd end up one place but ended up someplace completely different. CRAP. Instead of walking one-and-a-half blocks north and one block west, I ended up having to walk an entire six blocks west.
Ladies and Gents: its KUHOLD outside today. I'm talking Des Moines Winter quality cold. Its 19 degrees with a windchill of 2, and the wind is blowing NNW at 21 MPH. I wouldn't even lock enemies outside in this.
I start the journey (uphill, mind you) to work. The icy wind hitting my face, my eyes begin to water, nose starts to run and I have nowhere to turn to hide. A gym bag and a bookbag strapped to my back, I mentally kicked myself for actually WANTING to work out today.
Two blocks down... four more to go.
My legs begin to tingle and itch from my blood trying to circulate under freezing skin. The wind whipps past my butt to remind me how open and vulnerable I am. I shift my gym bag backwards to help cover the cold cheeks. Although it did help a little, a small shock of wind would find its way between me and the bag whenever I took a step. Friggin' hips.
Four blocks down... two to go.
This is at the very busy (and WIDE) intersection of Lenox and Peachtree. The opposite cross light isn't functioning properly-- of course I didn't realize this until four rounds of straight north-south, straight east-west, turn, turn cycles were executed. I decided to take a chance: I'd officially lost all feeling in my hands and the tears from my eyes were officially frozen to my face.
I double-dutched my way across the street, avoiding delivery trucks and angry cab drivers. Making it safely across, I gazed back at my accomplishment of safely passing through the most dangerous intersection in Atlanta.
I can see the office building in the horizon and my legs are really starting to complain. The itching and tingling intensified, it took everything in me to keep from clawing my jeans off and scratching right then and there. But since I was in public and still outside, I refrained. But the idea made me smile a little.
I rounded the final curve and entered the office building. The security guard looked at me in shock as I came in sniffing and wide-eyed... not even so much as a good morning. I passed by a reflective spot on the elevator doors and finally saw what he was so agape about. My bangs had flown straight up despite the excessive application of hairspray, my ponytail looked like a cat got a hold of it. My eye makeup had mosey'd its way up near my forehead and I'd actually lost an earring. The tears were still frozen to my face and now starting to melt and my entire face and hands were as red as a newly-spanked butt. I blinked, wiped my nose and got on the next elevator.
Ahh... its good to be warm.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Country Boys
This past Thanksgiving weekend I had the wonderful opportunity to go home and visit with the honey's family. Such a good time. If you've ever been anywhere outside of Atlanta, GA you will know and realize that it is all country.
Sandersville, GA is a small town (more like community) about two hours south east of Atlanta. After driving down, we pulled up to this tiny little house that was packed full with so many memories... and so much love.
Friday night, Washington County High had a game against their arch-rivals and The Watts Brothers would have to be in attendance. We rolled in about six-deep (of course to meet others there) and casually strolled up and around the stands to find our seats on the Home side of the field. People shouted their hellos and exchanged glances as we walked by-- seeming in slow motion the entire time.
Sitting on the clad metal seat I looked out at the field, watching the black and gold boys of WaCo High plan out their next play. The hot steam from their breath hit the cold night hair with rhythmic pumps as they stood there, paced, strolled and spoke to each other in hushed voices.
As I looked out at them I thought back to what it was like for me when I was decked in black and gold, with HCHS emblazoned across my chest, down my leg and across my forehead. Forgetting and not knowing what lies outside these gates but everything in me focusing on what's happening right now. Watching your fellow classmates and the guy you have a crush on squat down into formation with the goal of making another mark on the turf where so many others had played before-- hoping, wanting and willing to make it.
Time slowed as the quarterback caught the ball and took two giant glides back, and I thought of the flourescent lights in the halls at HCHS. As the cracking sound of helments hitting pads and bodies thudding into one another, I thought of running to class after getting a note from a friend... waiting for that bell to go to lunch... and scrambling to get homework done on the bus before school.
The Touchdown Cannon blasted and the sound reverberated in my chilled bones. These boys just don't know what life has in store for them today, tomorrow or next week. All they know is now. And they dwell and cherish every single minute of it.
Maybe I need to take a note from these boys.
Sandersville, GA is a small town (more like community) about two hours south east of Atlanta. After driving down, we pulled up to this tiny little house that was packed full with so many memories... and so much love.
Friday night, Washington County High had a game against their arch-rivals and The Watts Brothers would have to be in attendance. We rolled in about six-deep (of course to meet others there) and casually strolled up and around the stands to find our seats on the Home side of the field. People shouted their hellos and exchanged glances as we walked by-- seeming in slow motion the entire time.
Sitting on the clad metal seat I looked out at the field, watching the black and gold boys of WaCo High plan out their next play. The hot steam from their breath hit the cold night hair with rhythmic pumps as they stood there, paced, strolled and spoke to each other in hushed voices.
As I looked out at them I thought back to what it was like for me when I was decked in black and gold, with HCHS emblazoned across my chest, down my leg and across my forehead. Forgetting and not knowing what lies outside these gates but everything in me focusing on what's happening right now. Watching your fellow classmates and the guy you have a crush on squat down into formation with the goal of making another mark on the turf where so many others had played before-- hoping, wanting and willing to make it.
Time slowed as the quarterback caught the ball and took two giant glides back, and I thought of the flourescent lights in the halls at HCHS. As the cracking sound of helments hitting pads and bodies thudding into one another, I thought of running to class after getting a note from a friend... waiting for that bell to go to lunch... and scrambling to get homework done on the bus before school.
The Touchdown Cannon blasted and the sound reverberated in my chilled bones. These boys just don't know what life has in store for them today, tomorrow or next week. All they know is now. And they dwell and cherish every single minute of it.
Maybe I need to take a note from these boys.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Double-Click
Sometimes when you get older in not necessarily age but more so maturity, its really weird to look back on something that just happened a few weeks or a few months back. Its kind of strange that we are so zealous in living in NOW that we oftentimes completely disregard the possibility of the future.
Forgive my vagueness, please, and consider this: the mind is a machine. A computer, to be more specific. See, if you look at your desktop on your PC or MAC, doesn't matter, there are files and directories that are the gateways to numerous other files and directories. Ever consider, that when you look up from your book and across the room you see a set of eyes and a smile you can't resist, or when you extend your hand in a fellow greeting, and right when your palms touch in magnetic desire that person creates a folder in your mind? Its almost as if by the time you complete the sentence "Nice to meet you," and looking at an object of desire through dilated pupils, your mind makes a directory of this person in your head that stores information, news, events, happenings and general misc. items about them.
So, say, you develop a genuine crush on this person. The file is marked red-hot and it gets more clicks than myspace in your mind. You think about them, constantly reviewing their information on why they are just so fucking wonderful. You scan documents of previous conversations, browse picture files of memories of what they were wearing and how great their smile was.
But what happens when you have to delete the file? When they've pissed you off for the last time, or finally reveal to you that they don't feel the same way you do? What then? As you hang up, storm off, slam the door or drive off, you clutch your fingers to white knuckles and try desperately to drag their file over to the trash can. "Are you sure you want to delete file?" flashes across your mind and depending on how angry you are determines how long you hesitate to click "HELL YEAH". You click and you sit in angst as you watch the files slowly melt away to the trash, trying to repeatedly convince yourself that you did the right thing.
The file is never deleted.
Its stored on your hard drive as long as your hard drive remains in tact. Even though its deleted from your immediate desktop, it still looms around in your system, creeping up on you in the recent documents menu and default settings. You try to dig and search to find the originals to erase them but you'll never find them. Your search gets prioritized with other hot jobs, of course, and more often than not, its forgotten, but not lost.
And sometimes a familiar smell, a random phone call or an over-heard conversation can double-click on the file and open it again. Thing is, its your decision whether you browse through it or not.
Forgive my vagueness, please, and consider this: the mind is a machine. A computer, to be more specific. See, if you look at your desktop on your PC or MAC, doesn't matter, there are files and directories that are the gateways to numerous other files and directories. Ever consider, that when you look up from your book and across the room you see a set of eyes and a smile you can't resist, or when you extend your hand in a fellow greeting, and right when your palms touch in magnetic desire that person creates a folder in your mind? Its almost as if by the time you complete the sentence "Nice to meet you," and looking at an object of desire through dilated pupils, your mind makes a directory of this person in your head that stores information, news, events, happenings and general misc. items about them.
So, say, you develop a genuine crush on this person. The file is marked red-hot and it gets more clicks than myspace in your mind. You think about them, constantly reviewing their information on why they are just so fucking wonderful. You scan documents of previous conversations, browse picture files of memories of what they were wearing and how great their smile was.
But what happens when you have to delete the file? When they've pissed you off for the last time, or finally reveal to you that they don't feel the same way you do? What then? As you hang up, storm off, slam the door or drive off, you clutch your fingers to white knuckles and try desperately to drag their file over to the trash can. "Are you sure you want to delete file?" flashes across your mind and depending on how angry you are determines how long you hesitate to click "HELL YEAH". You click and you sit in angst as you watch the files slowly melt away to the trash, trying to repeatedly convince yourself that you did the right thing.
The file is never deleted.
Its stored on your hard drive as long as your hard drive remains in tact. Even though its deleted from your immediate desktop, it still looms around in your system, creeping up on you in the recent documents menu and default settings. You try to dig and search to find the originals to erase them but you'll never find them. Your search gets prioritized with other hot jobs, of course, and more often than not, its forgotten, but not lost.
And sometimes a familiar smell, a random phone call or an over-heard conversation can double-click on the file and open it again. Thing is, its your decision whether you browse through it or not.
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