Friday, July 20, 2007
Bizarre Phrases and Screw-On Heads
Everything's been bizarre lately. Partly because I'm leaving for college, and partly because of my state of mind, because I feel like the world is coming to an end, which is, in turn, partly because I'm leaving for college and here we go again on the old merry-go-round. There's a little person who lives in my head (I've sort of named it "Angela," but not really, since the voice is essentially asexual), who usually yells at me when I'm behaving in a manner less than brilliant, which happens more often than I'd like to admit (and by "more often," I mean all the fucking time), but occasionally the voice just sits there, perched above my ear, repeating the same word or phrase over and over again.I'm not kidding, by the way. When that I was but a little tiny girl (with a hey-ho, the Shakespeare allusion doth end here), the voice repeated, "Nice, where?" Over and over and over again. What seriously aggravated me about it, though, was that I could never tell for sure if the voice was saying "Nice, where?" or "I swear!" This continued off and on for months, and I spent much of my time speculating on which phrase the voice was really saying. The voice's accent was such that it sounded exactly the same and it used to drive me nuts.
But this is beside the point. Right now, the voice is happily perched over my right ear, yelling "Bizarro! Bizarro!" at me, a la Sealab 2021. Strange, because my life, while on a bizarre tack at the moment, certainly shows no signs of becoming the complete opposite of itself. Nor have any doppelgangers or parallel universes been cropping up of late.
Talking of parallel universes, that reminds me: Fishy just showed me a cartoon of fantasmical brilliance. The Amazing Screw-On Head, it was called, and it dealt with matters ranging from Abraham Lincoln, to small parallel universes trapped inside old turnip-like vegetables. Almost every line was quotable, and the whole thing was highly larious. I wish they'd made a series out it. But, lest you doubt my words, here are a few choice quotes for you:
"Who says smoking people is bad for you?"
"It's as I always say, all really intelligent people should be cremated for reasons of public safety."
"America is depending on me, Mr. President! And by America, I mean the world."
"DAMN YOU, EMPEROR ZOMBIE!"
Emperor Zombie: You let me down. You went on and on about how sweet the candy was, then told me not to put it in my mouth, and got mad at me when I did.
Screw-On Head: If by "candy," you mean ancient forbidden evil, then yes, I told you not to put it in your mouth.
Patience the Vampire: I think your forbidden evil is fresh as a daisy.
Emperor Zombie: Thank you, darling.
Plus, Emperor Zombie is played by David Hyde Pierce, one of my favorite voice actors (and, for that matter, actors) of all time. But really, I'm just digressing again, because I don't know how to end this. I don't know why I'm even writing this post. For that matter, I don't know why I'm even here in the first place. Other than, of course, publishing random posts that don't have a point on my personal blog, which doesn't have a point itself, because I'm just writing pointless things about my life, which doesn't have a point, and eventually this sort of logic sends me into a downward spiral of doom, which can only end in a padded cell and doctors shaking their heads over me.
So, in order to distract myself from these never-ending what-is-the-meaning-of-LIFE debates in my head, I write in here. Because, you know, padded cells and whatnot aren't exactly my primary ambition in life.
Spudge at 10:17 PM
Sunday, July 1, 2007
One Paranoid Poker Shark, Coming Up
Wow. It's been so long that I'm having a hard time just starting this one off. Like when you meet an old friend again, after not hearing from him for a long time. After the initial exclamations and hugs, you back off and lapse into an awkward silence, broken by hesitant dialogues about where you've been keeping yourself all this time or whether you've heard from So-and-So recently, floundering about until eventually you find a glimmer of your old friend in this stranger and use it to break (or melt, as the case may be) the ice.And yet, it hasn't really been all that long. Less than a month. Perhaps it feels so much longer because my life has gotten very boring lately. And by "lately," I mean in the last couple of weeks. Before that, it was all stress about my brother's wedding. Which, when it finally came off, was absolutely beautiful, to everyone's vast relief.
So now Joel's married. Becca's off in Prague, where we're not really sure what, if anything, she's actually doing. She's a mite vague when it comes to communicating her plans. But who wouldn't be, given our parents? They do have the tendency to fall to pieces at the slightest hint that something, somewhere, might be going wrong. For awhile, I was living in a haze of Post-Wedding-Stress-Let-Down, but that's degenerated into general summer boredom.
A boredom enhanced by the fact that I have no social life whatsoever, and therefore nowhere to go, other than the Bookstore That Won't Kick You Out No Matter How Many Hours You've Spent Reading Comics There That You Clearly Have No Intention Of Buying Because You Have No Money. Occasionally some creepy old man will proposition me. Damn it, I can't seem to find a guy who isn't at least forty years too old for me. Why can't I ever get a young guy? Preferably about twenty, slightly nerdy and intellectual, with good taste in music. But no, the nerd-boys keep their distance from me, like frightened bunnies. But let's not concentrate on my lack of success with the opposite sex, shall we?
Also, the only comic I'm really interested in right now is Astro City, which apparently isn't mainstream enough for that bookstore to sell. So I browse about for a bit, then give up and leave, making sure to take as many pointless detours and drive down as many cul-de-sacs as possible, in order to stave off the inevitable return home for just a little bit longer. At least long enough to finish whatever album I happen to be listening to at the time. And I'll be the first to admit I don't know how to spell cul-de-sac. But that's what spell-check told me. Good ol' spell-check. Saved my ass many a time. Then again, it consistently attempts to make me misspell my own name, like the dirty back-stabber it is. Just goes to show, you can't trust anything. Not even me. Especially not me. Take my advice too often, and you'll end up a paranoid little fucker who sits in a room and shuffles a card deck all day. I'm not even kidding, those cards are actually wearing a blister on my thumb. How's that for pathetic?
One of these days, though, I'm gonna make money off your asses like you won't believe at poker. Just you watch.
Spudge at 4:47 PM