a breakfast for losers...

I've been typing away in this blog far too much these days, and I can assure you I have nothing remotely interesting to share yet again. But, I've come to the conclusion, which isn't much of a conclusion but instead a rather trite thought, that words are not important because in the end they mean something different to the other person. So, we should replace words with dancing, because everyone understands dancing even if you don't know how to dance physically.

...a lady just came to the door, and in my arms I held onto one of our yappy dogs as I spoke with the lady, and his back paws were pushing down the back of my pants. It was quite awkward.

I like to dance immensely. I danced all today. In hallways, in cafeterias, and in class rooms. It can't be prevented when listening to Bob Marley. It really just can't be prevented in general even when you're not listening to music. I most likely, well I do, look quite funnily when I dance, and so I continuously embarrassed a friend today.

I also thought, I can technically do anything I damn well please, even though someone else's I can do anything I damn well please way of thinking may prevent me from doing what I damn well please to do, but still, until that certain boundary comes along and bops me on the nose, I'll do whatever I damn well please.

That's not possible.

and I'm only kidding myself.

ha.

ha.

My entire day was spent writing a story about a fictious character that I would like to meet. I wrote about a character who goes by the name of Arthur P. Darling. I had created him last month, and decided to fully expand on him. It is terrible, and I have not figured out what to title it as. The rest of my long weekend was spent in Toronto with a friend of mine. The majority of what I can remember was spent on subway trains and street cars. I have this distinct memory (or should I call it a memory, when it occurred only but two days ago. A memory at least has to be a few years old, and collecting dust in ones mind) of an elderly gentlemen who smiled at me while waiting for the train. These complete strangers make these impressions in my mind. Perhaps I'm just obsessive, but I like to see everything around me. I like to notice everything, and make note of it. Mainly I make note of people. It's because they are these fascinating creatures in my eyes, and because I lack a sort of interaction with people that I hold on to these complete strangers who I've never spoken a decent word to. At least I only go as far as making a mental note, and not following them home.

I also became more fond of Montreal, and wanting to live there more and more.

In writers craft our teacher had us do some free writing. We were to basically describe a setting, the characters within the setting, the sounds, particular smells, and so forth. She had us highlight three of our best lines. She then had us read a line one after the other. The idea was to make an entire storyline, and have these lines as similar as possible. Or something along those lines (lines, lines, LINES!). I did not have anything down on my paper. Well, I did, but nothing worth reading. Nothing that should be spoken out loud, because I was not at all satisfied with what came out of this free writing. I never am. And so when she called my name, I replied with "The man's liver fell out right in front of the unsuspecting lady. Right onto the sidewalk. Slipped right down the sewer drain. Like a god damn sewer rat." It reminded me of the time I lost my mind in the sink.

My writers craft teacher calls me "Holly."

( She actually referred to me as "Holly" when commenting on my assignment, even though my name was clearly typed on the front page. )

And she calls Holly "Ashley."

The End.

Balderdash! Poppycock! Rubbish! Baloney! What drivel!

I do not know why I spout such words. But I haven't said anything in here for awhile, so I thought that would be an excellent way to start it off. I have nothing to say. Nothing to peak an interest at least. Today I could not open the door, because I was pushing it on the wrong side. It's one of those tricky doors. And the gang of people sitting in the corner near the door stared at me with grins on their faces. So I laughed to myself, twirled around, presented them with a curtsy and out the door I went. From there I collapsed on the grass in front of my friends, and shook uncontrollably like a leaf.

There is a boy. Who has a stylish rat tail. His glares curse you. Supposedly he does not own a voicebox. We do not know his name but we call him by the name of Hank. We are infatuated by such a creature.

My day involved that particular old record smell combined with body odor. A man who resembled Bill Murray. He smiled at me and mumbled something. I believe it was "how are you?" But the typical "how are you?" that you don't exactly respond to. You just smile back as you slide by the person in the tight quarters you have found yourself in with them. It was a rather pleasant five second encounter nevertheless. And a day of wearing sneakers without socks, which proceeded to worsen the blisters on my heel that were already caused by sneakers without socks. My mother yelled at me for dragging my feet on the pavement, and in return I began to limp, just to ease her ticking time-bomb frustration. Kaboom!

That was my day. How was yours? Please do share.

Le Fin.