Have you ever secretly unwrapped a gift before the big day?
Submitted by Red Pen.
Naughty. It was a coloring book and a box of Crayolas that had 48 colors.
How do you take your tea or coffee?
Submitted by Vasquez.
Coffee with milk or cream and sugar. Usually two lumps.
Depends on what kind of tea, sometimes I take it plain, usually with milk and/or sugar.
Woohoo. Wasn't that exciting?
I forgot all about Reveal Your Blog Crush Day which was yesterday...
Then again, I don't think I have a blog crush.
Mm... I'll think about it first, and then I'll post it if I can think of anyone.
Who's your blog crush?
I shamelessly snitched this one from Paperheart, although I remember receiving it years ago as an e-mail forward. I'd normally write these things off as transcripts of someone's pity party and file them under Misery Loves Company, but at the end of the day I realize that for a lot of people—including me, I'd have to admit—there is a grain of truth in there somewhere or that it does hit the nail on the head. It's one of those Things that make me a little sad and pensive when I read them.
This is my tribute to the nice girls. To the nice girls who are overlooked, who become friends and nothing more, who spend hours fixating upon their looks and their personalities and their actions because it must be they that are doing something wrong. This is for the girls who don't give it up on the first date, who don't want to play mind games, who provide a comforting hug and a supportive audience for a story they've heard a thousand times. This is for the girls who understand that they aren't perfect and that the guys they're interested in aren't either, for the girls who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance, whisper, touch, because, somehow, they are able to keep alive that hope that maybe ... just maybe this time he'll have understood. This is an homage to the girls who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts and sweats and combat boots, who care more than they should for guys who don't deserve their attention. This is for those girls who have watched other girls time and time again fake up and make up and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying a word. This is for the girls who have been there from the beginning and have heard the trite words of advice, from "there are plenty of fish in the sea," to "time heals all wounds." This is to honor those girls who know that guys are just as scared as they are, who know that they deserve better, who are seeking to find it.
This is for the girls who have never been in love, but know that it's an experience that they don't want to miss out on. This is for the girls who have spent their weekends sitting on the sidelines of a beer pong tournament or a case race, or playing Florence Nightingale for a vomiting guy friend or a comatose crush, who have received a drunk phone call just before dawn from someone who doesn't care enough to invite them over but is still willing to pass out in their bed. This is for the girls who have left sad song lyrics in their away messages, who have tried to make someone understand through a subliminally appealing profile, who have time and time again dropped their male friend hint after hint after hint only to watch him chase after the first blonde girl in a skirt. This is for the girls who have been told that they're too good or too smart or too pretty, who have been given compliments as a way of breaking off a relationship, who have ever been told they are only wanted as a friend.
This one's for the girls who you can take home to mom, but won't because it's easier to sleep with a whore than foster a relationship; this is for the girls who have been led on by words and kisses and touches, all of which were either only true for the moment, or never real to begin with. This is for the girls who have allowed a guy into their head and heart and bed, only to discover that he's just not ready, he's just not over her, he's just not looking to be tied down; this is for the girls who believe the excuses because it's easier to believe that it's not that they don't want you. This is for the girls who have had their hearts broken and their hopes dashed by someone too cavalier to have cared in the first place; this is for the nights spent dissecting every word and syllable and inflection in his speech, for the nights when you've returned home alone, for the nights when you've seen from across the room him leaning a little too close, or standing a little too near, or talking a little too softly for the girl he's with to be a random hookup. This is for the girls who have endured party after party in his presence, finally having realized that it wasn't that he didn't want a relationship; it was that he didn't want you. I honor you for the night his dog died or his grandmother died or his little brother crashed his car and you held him, thinking that if you only comforted him just right, or said the right words, or rubbed his back in the right way then perhaps he'd realize what it was that he already had. This is for the night you realized that it would never happen, and the sunrise you saw the next morning after failing to sleep.
This is for the girls who have been used and abused, who have endured what he was giving because at least he was giving something; this is for the stupidity of the nights we've believed that something was better than nothing, though his something was nothing we'd have ever wanted. This is for the girls who have been satisfied with too little and who have learned never to expect anything more: for the girls who don't think that they deserve more, because they've been conditioned for so long to accept the scraps thrown to them by guys. You're looking for a quick fix, a night when you can pretend to have a connection with another human being which is just as disposable as the condom you were using during it. You're looking at a nice girl in whore's clothing—we might say we like the attention, we might blush and giggle and turn back to our friends, but we're all thinking the same thing: "This isn't me. Tomorrow morning, I'll be wearing a tee shirt and flannel shorts, I'll have slept alone and I'll be hung over. See through the disguise. See me." You never do. Why? Because you only see the exterior, you only see the slutty girl who welcomes those options. You don't want the nice girl... so don't say you're looking for a relationship: relationships take time and energy and intent, three things we're willing to extend... but in return, we're looking for compassion and loyalty and trust, three things you never seem willing to express. Maybe nice guys finish last, but in the race they're running they're chasing after the whores and the sluts and the easy targets the nice girls are waiting at the finish line with water and towels and a congratulatory hug, hoping against all odds that maybe you'll realize that they're the ones that you want at the end of that silly race.
Find them while they're still nice and before they decide to grow horns and scales and thorns like roses, because eventually people get tired and they find ways of defending themselves from the things that make them bleed.
And to those nice girls out there, take care of yourselves. Love yourselves. Nobody else but you would know how to do it right.
This picture freaks me out, but I can't stop looking at it in this Tragic Accident sort of way.
It makes me think of a fat six year-old in a rabbit suit.
Thanks for the picture Lynn. I think I'll have bunny nightmares tonight.
Seriously, though, it's freaky in a funny way.
If you came with a warning label, what would it say?
Submitted by chris.
I'd stick this to my forehead.
Make your own at Warning Label Generator.
Thanks for the link, dbc.
I'm back! But since I'm a bit too tired to write anything coherent yet, here's something I ripped off eatreadbemerry:
- Grab the nearest book. *
- Open the book to page 123.
- Find the fifth sentence.
- Post the text of the next three sentences on your blog along with these instructions
* 'nearest' means you can't rummage around for a 'cool' or 'intellectual' book. Really, whatever your hand falls on first. Let's hope it's not porn. (Or should we hope it is?)
Luckily, the book I have here won't make me look dumb. Yay.
On page 123, it says:
There's firewood stacked up in the back so use the stove if you get cold. It gets pretty chilly in here. I've even used it a few times in August.
Thank you for saving my face, Haruki Murakami!
This also reminds me of something that involves being cold. In this case, though, I didn't use a stove. I bought myself a Gap Kids fleece hoodie (it was on sale and it fit!) and took about two big glasses of red, red, wine.
My, my, my, aren't we crafty these days.
This could potentially be better than the Flying Spaghetti Monster crown. A nice eyeball wreath to decorate your house with while waiting for the neighborhood kids to come trick-or-treating! I doubt it gets any better that this!
If only the kids in my neighborhood went trick-or-treating.
Since I won't be around on Halloween, here's my advanced contribution:
How to make your very own Flying Spaghetti Monster crown!
It's pretty appropriate in an odd Rorsach inkblot test/free association kind of way since I've been eating spaghetti for the past three days, I think it's only natural that his noodly appendage would come to mind.
Go forth and proselytize*, pastafarians!
And enjoy your Halloween!
..........
* big word courtesy of deaDbraiNcellS, whose brain cells certainly are alive and kicking.
