a breakfast for losers...

Happy Birthday to the dearly departed...



...and the useless eighteen year old with the red socks on.



Although I will begin existing at 3:04 pm. Sharp.

"But then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'" - Jack Kerouac

I've been listening to the radio far too much lately that I am becoming completely attached to it. I've been mainly listening to CBCradio two. I'm in love with this radio station. It plays anything and everything. From opera, to jazz, classical, your oddball band, to the guy who is the champion whistler. And speaking of music, I've also grown a liking to Jim Guthrie. He's very soothing. That's all I have been doing for this past month -- listening to music. Since all of those flesh-walking things have disappeared. I think you refer to them as...people ?

Perhaps it is my fault. I don't know how to pick up a phone is all.

So I'm usually on the computer, upstairs with my ear against the speaker, reading a book or doing yoga. That is what my days consist of. Really. I'm not joking here. Do you see me laughing? Of course you don't, but it would be nice if you popped your head out of this shiny screened object and said "hello" from time to time. It would be greatly appreciated.

My birthday is coming up in four days. As well as Man Ray's, and Mother Teresa's. The three of us are going to have a hell of a time. Yes, yes! Praise the lord, and lets seduce women with our camera lenses. Because you know, Mother Teresa with her Christ-like imitation, and May Ray with his camera..and women..and anyhow. I have nothing planned for my birthday. What else is new. Jennifer said she would make me sloppy joes. What a way to spend your 18th birthday. A sloppy joe faced 18 year old. Now that's a sight to see. This is when you realize you're nothing but a recently unemployed, without a drivers license, failing, without a future 18 year old. And I mean that in the nicest possible way. I swear. This is my sense of humor, and it is very pleased to meet you. If I could have it my way on my birthday, I would be up in Toronto seeing Jim Guthrie and Broken Social Scene explode in my ears live. For free.

Please stand back as I spontaneously combust.

My mother found this in my father's drawer:

Ashley And The Terrible Whatzit
by Ashley H, Grade 3. May 26, 1995.

This book is dedicated to my Dad.

I knew there was something in the attic, Ashley thought. Then she saw her father go up there, and she said "I wouldn't go up there if I were you."
"Why?" asked her father.
"There's a monster with three horns and one eye," she replied.
"I don't believe you," said her father. "I have to get some tools." So up he went.
Ashley waited and waited, but her dad never came down. So she went and got a baseball bat and climbed slowly up the stairs to the attic. She heard a noise and turned back and the door shut on her. The Whatzit was up on a stack of boxes. Ashley said "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH MY DAD!?"
"I can't tell you," said the Whatzit. "I can't tell you."
Then she hit the Whatzit with the baseball bat, and he began getting smaller. She asked, "Why are you getting smaller?"
He replied, "You are not afraid of me!" Then she pulled his ears, and now he was her size. She hit him till he got very small. She said, "Why don't you pick on someone your own size!" So the Whatzit left. She checked in the boxes for her father but he wasn't there. Then she heard a noise in the corner, and she saw her dad. "Daddy!" she said and hugged him. And we both went down stairs to work on my bike together.

The End.

About the Author
My name is Ashley Elizabeth and I live in Flesherton. I am 8 years old and I like horse back riding.

So supposedly I go from third person narrator, and right at the very last sentence, boom!, first person narrator. I'm a pro! I wish I could share the illustrations that follow with this story, but supposedly my scanner doesn't enjoy scanning things. Go figure.

Wow, wasn't this the least bit interesting?

And I don't like horse back riding. I don't know why I put that. I went horse back riding once. I'm a compulsive liar.

I get tired of smiling. But when you have been experiencing a serious lack of human contact, all you can do is smile. Or switch on your black and white television which only possesses two channels that hardly come in. Something about just hearing their voices behind the crackling, fuzzy screen makes it seem like I'm having a conversation with someone: "We simply must accept the fact that Captain Kirk is no longer alive" NO! Not Captain Kirk. What a sad, sad conversation we had today.

Also a lack of human contact makes you bake like a middle aged woman having a life crisis. God bless those women!

It also makes you go for walks, and sit on picnic tables while drawing cartoons who go by the names of Laurence Rosey Rosendale, Eleanor-Penelope, Adam Appleting (he has a very large adamsapple and is a floating stranger, who appears in your daydreams, night-time dreams, and even your breakfast cereal bowls), Oscar Koffenbegen with his mambo bunny, IsinBan and let us not forget dear old Greg and Sheila. And there is another one, who is nameless, but she keeps a heart in a jar. Yes, oh yes she coughed the entire world up in the palm of her hands the other day. They each have a story of their own, and are tightly kept in a book with vegetables on the cover.

Yes, the draw(l)ings look as if a 3 year old drew them...blindfolded.

I've become this hunk of smiling flesh, which really makes me sick to my stomach, and I'm trying so hard to at least frown. I'll hunch my back, let my hair fall in front of my face, and shuffle down the streets, while my hands twitch outward beckoning small children into my oversize trench coat.

I think I went too far with that.

I am supposedly a lot like Larry. So my father says. I lean against the wall, with a newspaper in hand, only pretending to read the words to avoid manual labor. This is what Larry did a lot when they were younger. So I am told. I was reading it, I swear, I swear! Larry has rotting teeth, according to my father, and is a lonely old haggard man. According to my father. Poor Larry. I will throw him a pity party, with little pity party hats. It shall be a hell of a time. Will you come, and won't you bring some flan?

I've been posting quite frequently in this thingamablogger. I must be stopped. And now I will go and frolic in the streets, and climb the trees that are starting to redden.

I am softly giggling like a maniac. And his wheezing disturbs the hairs of his mustache, which then proceeds to brush against his top lip. This is when you can hear that chuckle (which has been lumped in his throat for so long) burst out of his throat with the tiniest movement of his jaw. Oh, he's beautiful. He really is. And even though I worry about his balance, which shakily shifts from side to side, he's better at hopscotch than most people.

(What is with my fascination with hopscotch these days? I would run to the old public school to hop and scotch but it is being torn down. Oh poo. The other night my mother and I made a late night drive, and I wobbly ran to a pile of bricks. I retrieved a brick, and we sped off into the night. A couple of bandits. It is now my door stopper. But a door stopper that's close to my heart.)

I feel all jiggly inside. I consumed chocolatey squares bursting with coconut and oatmeal flakes. They are aboslutely delicious. Quick and easy to make. I like no-bake desserts.

wobble. wobble. wobble.