An excersize in red.

I miss the desert and it's wide streets. I miss spending hours running in place and then driving home to the smell of sweat and creosote. It's so beautiful with red dirt and Mediterranean palm trees. The frogs in the courtyard and creeping over 90 before 6:00 am. And all the mornings I woke up to kitty yawns and drank my coffee on the stairwell smoking illicit cigarettes that I had to pay $160 to banish all over again. But in the mornings in Arizona, looking over the blond rocks and small amphibians, slashing through my notebook in red Sharpie dictating every which way my life could go.

But I wouldn't rather be there now. Cause I wasn't kidding when I said "Home is where my Giant is." So all these white skies and wet leaves, the red brick that trades in the dirt and the lack of summer that saw me sleeping in a stolen hoodie every night in August, it's all home and it's where I belong. And I'll wait it out, the absence of kitty yawns, cause he feels more like home than anything else and it's only time. I've already traded in time and it's an easy choice when you know exactly who you want and why.

I go there sometimes. Close my eyes and smell the sweat and the creosote. I remember driving back from central Phoenix late at night and feeling the pull to drive to Roswell just to eat at that diner and then circle back all the way home. I walk through ruins here and spread roots through everything I touch. They split and turn cause they are of two minds.

I'm at home here, but every day I still miss the desert. 

Impending doom and the Australian problem.

Sooooo. I have been playing with shiny, pretty things and not sleeping. But I've also been sucking at taking photos of shiny, pretty colors so you will get no good evidence of such tonight. You can have this, but it's all messed up and the colors are really far off.

 I am a little irritable about this, but whatevs. I'm crampy and I'm whinny and you will just have to deal. Or, you know, go on not caring. Which is also fine.

 

I already feel a little bit random tapping shit out on here. Cause, you know, narcissism and what not. Still. I like it, so I'll keep it. May as well. And sometimes there's nagging bits. Today there has been nagging bits. Cause now when something in the world explodes or erupts or washes everything away, I just think about distance and how much it unsettles me. Cause if I'm gonna get all paranoid about impending apocalypse, I'd really rather do it in the presence of my giant because, lets face it, without him I'm unsettle enough without a pandemic or legion of the undead spreading across the globe knocking out my interwebs and leave me more alone.  And generally when I'm scared or nervous or beat over the head with nagging feelings I either sit around in bunny ears until I feel better (not working-maybe I should just take them off) or I go to sleep (which is easier said then done). 

 

 

I look settled here, don't I? I'm not. I'm just faking it for the camera. I don't know. Shit just needs to stop fucking up before I can reach out and touch him. Cause I'm all brave, and stuff and I'm still the girl who dropped the bum with the kidney shot when he grabbed my hair in the dark, but I breath better when my giant's about so I'm sick of him not being about. *sigh*

 

AND I remembered that I don't have a steady zombie escape plan here. I've never really had to think about it here, cause I'm generally not around long enough to care, but it was brought to the forefront tonight that in case the zombies descend and try to eat up all of my brains, I have no f'ing Costco. Nope. All I have is stupid Walmart. I am unhappy about this. Stupid Sam Walton. And I can't imagine being holed up with the general population here. I'm pretty sure they'd toss me to the zombies as bait at their first chance. To be fair, I would them as well.  

 

And I'm out of Creme Eggs. I'm out of Creme Eggs and we don't even get the Creme Egg ice cream bars here. It's a fucking conspiracy is what it is! They're over there taunting me like the Australians! The Australians elude me like no other. I heart them. I heart them severely, but the second I'm around, they are suddenly else where. Sometimes I swear they even die to avoid me! INFURIATING! I'm half convinced that when I finally fly my ass over there, the plane will tough down in Melbourne only to discover a mass exodus of every last Aussie has taken place within the preceding 24 hours. I wouldn't put it past them. But John's nice. They'll probably like John. And he's tall, so if I stand behind him, maybe the just won't see me coming...

 

This is the plan.  

The ukulele conspiracy.

So lately Amanda Palmer has been rubbing it in. I mean, she's all over the twitters so I keep being reminded about how she's prancing about Australia when I would really like to be in Australia chasing koalas. (It's on our to do list, for serious.) There's that, but there's also the ongoing thing where she has a ukulele to play with at random and I am currently ukuleleless. This has been coming up far more often than one would ever imagine.

EXHIBIT A:

Amanda Palmer playing one of my favorite uke songs. Sure, this is an oldie but she's still dicking around with one-evidence is abundant. Don't believe me? Just toss "Amanda Palmer ukulele" into the youtubes. It's all over the place.

EXHIBIT B:

Um. I wanna watch the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain play "Shaft" live! Duh. I think it should be an inalienable right that if you are to find yourself without your own personal ukulele with which to attempt to play shaft yourself, you should be given the opportunity to go see the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain. Otherwise it's just mean.

EXHIBIT C:

This is John playing his recently acquired ukulele. Now, he is willing to send me videos of him playing the ukulele to me pretty much when ever I demand them. And, yes, I demand them fairly often. And yes, eventually his ukulele will be available for all my ukuleleing needs (of which there are plenty) but right now I CAN'T REACH. This is rude, and this is the outcome:

I think the evidence speaks for itself. There is a conspiracy, and it is aimed at me. The whole world is keeping me from strumming annoyingly at an instrument I have no idea how to play whilst singing aloud at the top of my lungs. And I already have two Nick Cave songs all picked out to ukuleleize too!

So come on, universe. Send me a ukulele. I think I deserve it.

That is all.

HALLO TECHNO SPAZ: I should be so very, very asleep right now.

Facebook knows that I'm getting married and won't stop suggesting weddingly type things to me. It might be sweet if it wasn't so intrusive and weird. Kind of like when I flipped my status and it sneeringly told me that it had to "check with John first", like it had caught me in some sort of desperate lie or something...I was briefly snotty about it, when John caught it and tossed it back approved within seconds. Like "Take that facebook! I tell you about my relationship! You don't get a say in it." But then I was suddenly, simultaneously horrified at the notion that someone, somewhere has not only certainly lied about their relationship status on there (duh), but has also probably used it to propose. Things like that really freak me out. Even though I've been a social networking spaz today.

 

And I really, really, REALLY have been a social networking spaz today. I fell into the twitters and couldn't get out. Real responsibilities be damned! I was mesmerized by Simon Pegg's slightly desperate longing for his wife to wake up and obliterate his boredom with insomnia (I fucking feel his pain. But at least the lucky asshole is in the same country as she is). I sent out my own plea for someone to be awake on the aforementioned twitters to distract me, and then was immediately rewarded by the tweet of a cat owned by someone I've never technically met. (Obviously I had to respond to this foreign kittie's tweet! I'm not a monster!) Proud of myself, I continued shirking said responsibilities while I ran off to facebook to inform my paramour of such shenanigans. Alas, facebook did something to completely fuck up my messaging center and I was left swearing at my laptop for an embarrassingly long time before running off to gmail where I could send a nonsensical email of love, hate, and the murky world of the interwebs that draw them all together. You'd think that'd be the end of it, but it wasn't. (Not only am I web logging about it now) but there was also a splurt of text messaging and kitty video sending that ALSO ended up back on facebook. And this is only my social networking habits of the last hour. Fucking Deity. I'm not even sure what I think of me at this point.

 

But I can't sleep, and I'm not sure my brain is working quite the way it should in order to actually be productive. John is way too far away to ruin yawns for, and I'm still in effing Texas. What else is a girl to do?

 

I'm short on nerdy television to watch, and I'm sure my eyes won't focus on the subtitles for any of the movies I've acquired in the last few days. I didn't really mean for this to turn into a ranty complaint post, but fuck it. It would seem that it has. I think I'm just out of options in the middle of the night on day 8458934758 of no sleep sans gratuitous antihistamine use. But tomorrow, Guiness! YAY! I've been coveting the Guiness of others for weeks now. No, really. WEEKS. I went to a movie, and the girl was drinking Guiness. I glared at the screen as if maybe she'd know and feel bad for me. Didn't work, but was a valiant effort, I assure you.

 

I think my continuing distance from where I REALLY OUGHT TO BE, the random part of this country I find myself in, and the social networking hiatus that has obviously come to a screeching halt but was very real for months and months and months have made me forgot how to be reasonable with technology.

 

*shrugs*

 

I guess I'll leave it there.