I used to love that thing where you’d count the numbers of the letters in l-o-v-e-s that were in your & your crush’s names, and then add them up & whittle them down until you got the percentage that you’d be together forever. There was always a margin of error, I suppose.
Sometimes in class, I’d doodle line graphs to try and represent all the boys I’d ever liked. X was time, Y was intensity. I never could work out the pattern that would predict who was coming next. And, in hindsight, I probably should have used a different line for each boy, or a bar graph, or something.
I don’t do well with maths these days, but I still like the way it simplifies and abstracts everything. Lines and absolutes. (Unless, I suppose, you’re good at it, and go into imaginary numbers and the Infinite?)
In a true war story, if there’s a moral at all, it’s like the thread that makes the cloth. You can’t tease it out. You can’t extract the meaning without unraveling the deeper meaning. And in the end, really, there’s nothing much to say about a true war story, except maybe “Oh.” True war stories do not generalize. They do not indulge in abstraction or analysis.
For example: War is hell. As a moral declaration the old truism seems perfectly true, and yet because it abstracts, because it generalizes, I can’t believe it with my stomach. Nothing turns inside.
It comes down to gut instinct. A true war story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe.
In full here: How to Tell a True War Story, from The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien.
Read this. I know I don’t get it any more than the woman at the end, but. Oh.
Y’all know I read Twilight, but. Bella Swan is ridiculous and pathetic and Buffy would deal with the whole Edward situation far more appropriately. This video shows how.
P.S. My second post at A Cat On The Wall is up: here. I am supposed to be talking about music, but I mostly embarrass myself regarding pats on the back for public transport and high school crushes that still have a hold on me.
I love xkcd and am off to do just this… (worst grammar ever?)
Sometimes on the subway, you pass another train all lit up in the dark tunnel, headed the same way on parallel tracks. You can see in, everyone’s lit up like the cinema, and the trains sort of go back and forth as their speed changes. You’re not on the same schedule and you won’t stop at the same station. You just get to look for a few seconds through layers and layers of glass, all of you moving underneath the city, close but never together.
Somedays it feels like everything here is romantic.
Vintage bicycles tangled together…
I wish this came out clearer. On this workperson’s trailer thing, someone’s written in slopey handwriting: and in the end the love you take // is equal to the love you make.
I saw West Side Story on Broadway last night. Time Square has recently been closed off to traffic, so you have to battle through crowds instead of taking a chance darting out in front of a bus. There were hoards of people blowing bubbles – I let myself think “ahhh.. tourists” with a gentle eyeroll (because I am soooo native now you guys, ha), but it turns out it was some big Dr Seuss inspired Bubble Battle party, which in hindsight would have been really fun to get into.
Anyway, I am clearly getting ancient. Because like all Broadway shows, I loved the performance of WSS – the seamless set changes, the high kicks and flouncy skirts, the singing boys with their dancer’s arms. But. But the story? I mean, love’s great and all, but I don’t see it overriding little things like the guy stabbing your brother to death just hours before. Come on kids! You’ve known each other for a day! And then Maria has the audacity to try and justify it to Anita, grieving girlfriend of said dead brother:
You were in love – or so you said.
You should know better . . .
I have a love, and it’s all that I have.
Yeah I wouldn’t have a bar of that, but Anita is convinced.
I’m totally turning into a cynic! Romeo and Juliet should totally have gotten over it and found partners who were more suitable too.
My ten year old friend couldn’t believe I’d never been to Max Brenner, and positively dragged me there on Sunday. Thank goodness for her fine taste. You walk in the door and suddenly you’re inhaling chocolate. It’s a classier Wonka-land, with vats and tubes of liquid chocolate, but no neon (or decapitated chicken slideshows).
- Of course chocolate pizza is classy!
There are three menus. The children’s one is pictured below, and includes a chocolate burger, alongside my personal favourite – a huge syringe filled with chocolate you can squirt in your mouth. Disgusting/Delicious? You be the judge.
- I have few ambitions beyond trying each of these
- The Illegal Chocolate Chocolate Chocolate Pancakes
I had the chocolate pancakes (from the adults menu, because I’m mature like that). I just could not stop smiling. Half the fun is pouring the liquid choc over it yourself and making a terrible mess.
My friend went for what sounded like a healthier option – the Tutti Fruity crepes. Rather than actual fruit though, they arrived studded with Gummi Bears. She wasn’t too disappointed…
I had an average day at work today, and then I spent too long agonising over what to get for dinner. Ended up going to a restaurant that didn’t serve burgers, when they are all I ever want to eat these days. So I came home all unsatisfied, and opened the cupboard to look for a dustpan. Look what I found!
I know! But that’s not all…
There’s more interesting looking stuff towards the back that I am saving for a similarly dull-tinged day. I couldn’t resist one more bag…
And it was honestly filled with money! Truly, this is the city of dreams…
Coming across this figurine in a toy store today, I was mindboggled that it even existed (but not that it was in the clearance bin).
What what what now? Who wants an ugly Superman? And why does his costume have a back to front S on it instead of, like, a B ? The back of the box cleared things up a little:
In primary school, my group of girl friends had a ritual called “Monday Mix Up Morning”, where anything you said on – you guessed it – Monday morning meant the opposite. It was mostly used as an excuse to take offence at whatever a person said, e.g. “I like your scrunch socks!” – if you were feeling bitchy you could enforce the rule of the day and stop speaking to the complimentor. In short, I get the general Bizarro concept.
But until now I had no idea this was a longstanding part of DC Comics canon! The Wikipedia entry is long and INSANE. Bizarro’s been around since 1958… and there are all these alternative universe versions of Bizarro hanging around also, like Zibarro, who looks exactly like Superman but has no powers, and is the only person on Bizarro world with the mental ability of a normal human being.
My respect for comic fans and their ability to keep all these stories straight just ratcheted up ten billion degrees.