As you may have cleverly inferred from the title of this entry, I've been working all day on an article for my friend Kaje's magazine (she doesn't OWN the magazine, although that would indeed be cool, and I would relocate to be assistant editor-in-chief, and totally make the interns cry and pretend I was Anna Wintour), and it's coming along nicely, but very slowly, for a few reasons.
A) My brother has no school, and it's raining, so every five minutes he runs down the stairs and screams/hits me/farts/asks me horrifyingly inappropriate sexual questions that no ten-year-old show know.
B) The dog is cooped in because of the rain, and is working off his frustration by jumping on me and scratching the shit out of my neck. My brother actually commented that my neck looks like a vampire tried to give me a hickey but I moved away just in time, leading me to wonder A) if this is the universe's revenge for me making merciless fun of the idiocy that is Twilight, and B) exactly when did my little brother learn about hickies? It's such a strange disparity - the kid still thinks girls have cooties, and yet he's running down here asking me questions about blow-jobs and nipples. At his age, I knew not of such things, and I don't think I was slow or repressed. HAS THE AGE GAP WIDENED SO MUCH? GET OFF MY LAWN!
C) My mother keeps running down the stairs to ask me how the article is going, which is really not helpful when you're trying to work, as it either distracts me from my train of thought, or scares the shit out of me, since my mom is apparently studying to be a ninja, and keeps leaping down the stairs like she is a second away from snapping my neck like a brittle twig.
D) Since it's raining, and my brother recently learned about Secondhand Smoke, smoking is kind of hard.
But it is coming along, and I enjoy writing anything, particularly something I'm assigned, so I'm not complaining about the work itself (after all, I will never complain about working. I've been unemployed (except for freelancing) for nearly a year now. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE INHERENT TRAGEDY THERE? True, I went to Europe for a while, and a few members of my family tragically died, and I had to move home, and there were a lot of FACTORS, but it's hard to explain that to a potential employer without sounding like I'm a complete nutjob. Which I'm not. Usually.) but about all the little things keeping me from the work.
And changing the subject completely and utterly, I have found the scariest freaking toy in the history of the universe:
OK, the picture may not fully capture the horror of this toy. First of all, it talks. In a shrill British accent that reminds me of nothing so much as Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire. And asks you to do things, like tear it open and put tiny people in its fully decorated interiors. Its eyes move, and it KNOWS what you're doing with its furnished insides. Yeah, yeah, you can tell me the toy sings pretty songs and teaches you lessons about hygiene, and manners, and morals. But for real: what the hell does a house know about hygiene? Clean gutters and no wet spots on the rug? And manners? Where does this bitch get off telling me about manners? If the house doesn't collapse on you, it's polite. So if I don't fall on top of people in public, I am a model of genteel behavior.
Also, the pastel coloring makes me nauseous.
Also, I keep wondering what happens when the tiny people inside her learn that Mrs. Goodbee has actually EATEN them, and that they have precious minutes to learn manners and rock the crying baby before her stomach acids eat through their tender flesh.
This is why I shouldn't leave the television playing on Nickelodeon when I'm working. Her voice distracted me enough that I had to write this entry. There were weird toys when I was growing up (Troll dolls and Alf in all his incarnations, among others), but at least they weren't the demented granny of the house in Poltergeist.
OK, back to work.
- LV
PS How do you like the new layout?
PPSS My blog is getting a bizarre level of hits, and not that I'm complaining AT ALL (in fact, I thank you sincerely), but from whence did you come?
PPPSSS I know I misspelled 'stories' in the poll on the side, with an extra 'e' thrown in for shits and giggles, but I can't edit it, so we're all going to pretend it was intentional, because it irks me every time I look at it. Stop mocking me.
A) My brother has no school, and it's raining, so every five minutes he runs down the stairs and screams/hits me/farts/asks me horrifyingly inappropriate sexual questions that no ten-year-old show know.
B) The dog is cooped in because of the rain, and is working off his frustration by jumping on me and scratching the shit out of my neck. My brother actually commented that my neck looks like a vampire tried to give me a hickey but I moved away just in time, leading me to wonder A) if this is the universe's revenge for me making merciless fun of the idiocy that is Twilight, and B) exactly when did my little brother learn about hickies? It's such a strange disparity - the kid still thinks girls have cooties, and yet he's running down here asking me questions about blow-jobs and nipples. At his age, I knew not of such things, and I don't think I was slow or repressed. HAS THE AGE GAP WIDENED SO MUCH? GET OFF MY LAWN!
C) My mother keeps running down the stairs to ask me how the article is going, which is really not helpful when you're trying to work, as it either distracts me from my train of thought, or scares the shit out of me, since my mom is apparently studying to be a ninja, and keeps leaping down the stairs like she is a second away from snapping my neck like a brittle twig.
D) Since it's raining, and my brother recently learned about Secondhand Smoke, smoking is kind of hard.
But it is coming along, and I enjoy writing anything, particularly something I'm assigned, so I'm not complaining about the work itself (after all, I will never complain about working. I've been unemployed (except for freelancing) for nearly a year now. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE INHERENT TRAGEDY THERE? True, I went to Europe for a while, and a few members of my family tragically died, and I had to move home, and there were a lot of FACTORS, but it's hard to explain that to a potential employer without sounding like I'm a complete nutjob. Which I'm not. Usually.) but about all the little things keeping me from the work.
And changing the subject completely and utterly, I have found the scariest freaking toy in the history of the universe:
OK, the picture may not fully capture the horror of this toy. First of all, it talks. In a shrill British accent that reminds me of nothing so much as Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire. And asks you to do things, like tear it open and put tiny people in its fully decorated interiors. Its eyes move, and it KNOWS what you're doing with its furnished insides. Yeah, yeah, you can tell me the toy sings pretty songs and teaches you lessons about hygiene, and manners, and morals. But for real: what the hell does a house know about hygiene? Clean gutters and no wet spots on the rug? And manners? Where does this bitch get off telling me about manners? If the house doesn't collapse on you, it's polite. So if I don't fall on top of people in public, I am a model of genteel behavior.
Also, the pastel coloring makes me nauseous.
Also, I keep wondering what happens when the tiny people inside her learn that Mrs. Goodbee has actually EATEN them, and that they have precious minutes to learn manners and rock the crying baby before her stomach acids eat through their tender flesh.
This is why I shouldn't leave the television playing on Nickelodeon when I'm working. Her voice distracted me enough that I had to write this entry. There were weird toys when I was growing up (Troll dolls and Alf in all his incarnations, among others), but at least they weren't the demented granny of the house in Poltergeist.
OK, back to work.
- LV
PS How do you like the new layout?
PPSS My blog is getting a bizarre level of hits, and not that I'm complaining AT ALL (in fact, I thank you sincerely), but from whence did you come?
PPPSSS I know I misspelled 'stories' in the poll on the side, with an extra 'e' thrown in for shits and giggles, but I can't edit it, so we're all going to pretend it was intentional, because it irks me every time I look at it. Stop mocking me.
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