:[] I have no talent for holding my tongue. But that much I imagine you already know.
Yesterday at cell, after everything was done and everybody was chilling and chatting, a friend picked up Jo's violin and started playing. I imagine she hadn't played in a long time from the sound of it. Anyway! She started playing 'Twinkle twinkle little star' and nothing else over and over again. And at some point I blurted out, completely without thought or tact,
"That star is dying."
Merde! And I can't say that I am even repentant for it.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Skulls and Ducks
I hardly ever dream at night (day dreaming would be another matter entirely, but we shall not speak of those things now). ANYWAY! I had the most screwed up dream last night.
I had dreamt that I was going to get a tattoo. Not as random as it sounds I assure you! For a while now I've been admiring them, especially those that adorn the entire arm or half the body. Certainly not the half assed gay butterflies that wussies get or the ho-tags :[] and especially not your lover's name on your arm or ass or on whatever appendage you seek to adorn said name with.
Alright! I'm in this old mansion (oddly enough, not a tattoo parlour) which has been divested of all of its furniture, sans a dentist's chair in the middle of an open room. (HOW DODGY IS THAT) This is sounding more and more like a horror scene about to happen. It is late evening at the golden hour, where the sunlight is warm and orange, casting everything in its golden glow. So we're good...for now. UNTIL THE SUN SETS AND THEM GHOSTS START COMING OUT. AND THEN YOU'RE TRAPPED IN THE MANSION ALL NIGHT WITH NO HOPE OF SURVIVAL. Pfft. Haha. Anyway.
I climb into the chair, and oddly enough, my arms are already stencilled in (but hey, its a dream, so what happens just happens) and I have yet to see my tattoo artist. At that moment she waltzes through the door in all her glory.
And lo and behold. Its my. ....Godmother. Like WHAAAT. How screwed up is this dream. I remember eyeing her suspiciously as she settles down to work, about to make this a very expensive and permanent mistake on my part. But she is all confidence and experience as she gets to work on my arm. As the needle breaks skin and I wince from the pain I realize it is no where near as painful as I had imagined it to be or heard it described. It feels like a trip to the dentist, where fear makes everything seem so much worse. So I think my predecessors wussies and crybabies, then in a semi lucid moment, realize that this is a dream, and I would probably be crying like a wussy/crybaby if it actually happened. She finishes inking in my arm, and then moves to my face. And I'm thinking, I don't remember my face being stenciled. Maybe it was and I just didn't know it. The tattoos on my arm look incredibly awesome, and I'm thinking I must've gotten a Maori tattoo for my face (honestly what else would you get, if not a tribal pattern for the face or ink it like a skull like Rick Genest did). The sweet old lady I have for a tattoo artist is finished and tells me I can go see her finished work in the adjoining bathroom. She takes her leave, and I wonder why she doesn't just hand me a mirror.
I get up off the chair and walk to the bathroom, eager to see what my face looks like. And BEHOLD! I stare in horror at my face.
AN ANGRY DONALD DUCK. SMACK IN THE MIDDLE OF MY FOREHEAD. The absolute horror! My face pales and I'm thinking how expensive it will be to get this removed, and how painful it might be and how if I don't laser it off, that I'll have to wear concealer on my forehead for the rest of my life.
And mercifully I wake up and sink back into the bed and realize it was all a nightmare. And that I never have to live with donald duck on my forehead. Ever.
I shall never look at that damn bird the same way again. I can only ever be filled with loathing for it. If this nightmare wasn't a sign from God to never get a tattoo, I don't know what is.
I had dreamt that I was going to get a tattoo. Not as random as it sounds I assure you! For a while now I've been admiring them, especially those that adorn the entire arm or half the body. Certainly not the half assed gay butterflies that wussies get or the ho-tags :[] and especially not your lover's name on your arm or ass or on whatever appendage you seek to adorn said name with.
Alright! I'm in this old mansion (oddly enough, not a tattoo parlour) which has been divested of all of its furniture, sans a dentist's chair in the middle of an open room. (HOW DODGY IS THAT) This is sounding more and more like a horror scene about to happen. It is late evening at the golden hour, where the sunlight is warm and orange, casting everything in its golden glow. So we're good...for now. UNTIL THE SUN SETS AND THEM GHOSTS START COMING OUT. AND THEN YOU'RE TRAPPED IN THE MANSION ALL NIGHT WITH NO HOPE OF SURVIVAL. Pfft. Haha. Anyway.
I climb into the chair, and oddly enough, my arms are already stencilled in (but hey, its a dream, so what happens just happens) and I have yet to see my tattoo artist. At that moment she waltzes through the door in all her glory.
And lo and behold. Its my. ....Godmother. Like WHAAAT. How screwed up is this dream. I remember eyeing her suspiciously as she settles down to work, about to make this a very expensive and permanent mistake on my part. But she is all confidence and experience as she gets to work on my arm. As the needle breaks skin and I wince from the pain I realize it is no where near as painful as I had imagined it to be or heard it described. It feels like a trip to the dentist, where fear makes everything seem so much worse. So I think my predecessors wussies and crybabies, then in a semi lucid moment, realize that this is a dream, and I would probably be crying like a wussy/crybaby if it actually happened. She finishes inking in my arm, and then moves to my face. And I'm thinking, I don't remember my face being stenciled. Maybe it was and I just didn't know it. The tattoos on my arm look incredibly awesome, and I'm thinking I must've gotten a Maori tattoo for my face (honestly what else would you get, if not a tribal pattern for the face or ink it like a skull like Rick Genest did). The sweet old lady I have for a tattoo artist is finished and tells me I can go see her finished work in the adjoining bathroom. She takes her leave, and I wonder why she doesn't just hand me a mirror.
I get up off the chair and walk to the bathroom, eager to see what my face looks like. And BEHOLD! I stare in horror at my face.
AN ANGRY DONALD DUCK. SMACK IN THE MIDDLE OF MY FOREHEAD. The absolute horror! My face pales and I'm thinking how expensive it will be to get this removed, and how painful it might be and how if I don't laser it off, that I'll have to wear concealer on my forehead for the rest of my life.
And mercifully I wake up and sink back into the bed and realize it was all a nightmare. And that I never have to live with donald duck on my forehead. Ever.
I shall never look at that damn bird the same way again. I can only ever be filled with loathing for it. If this nightmare wasn't a sign from God to never get a tattoo, I don't know what is.
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