…aaaaaaaaaaaand it’s back!

Hey look, Meilin took the lock down on her blog!

I know, scary isn’t it?

I even put the theme back to the old theme because I liked this one better and, one day, one day soon, I’d like to learn to make stuff actually look nice and not like crap. For now, this works.

So, how have I been?
Miserable. Thanks for asking.
Why?
I don’t know, chemical 6y in my brain decided to fuck off in my pancreas which made chemical 43q run around in my left pinkie toe and caused an influx of chemical depression. Or something like that.

In short, I’m utterly miserable, but that also means my muse decided to throw the rock she’s been hiding under to the side and be all, SO I HEAR YOU CRY YOURSELF TO SLEEP, SO LETS DO LESS SLEEPING AND MORE WRITING.

Yeah.

I’m gonna try to focus on the whole ‘story’ thing as best I can, I mean, surely there will be game nonsense and the occasional shit post, but, I’m gonna try real hard to focus on the whole, and, wait for it…

Kidnapped
by
a
Story

part of the blog.

In other words, I’m going to have textual mind vomit in an effort to stop this horrible, horrible depressive funk I’m wallowing in.

It is SO ordered. 

No union is more profound than marriage, for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family. In forming a marital union, two people become something greater than once they were. As some of the petitioners in these cases demonstrate, marriage embodies a love that may endure even past death. It would misunderstand these men and women to say they disrespect the idea of marriage. Their plea is that they do respect it, respect it so deeply that they seek to find its fulfillment for themselves. Their hope is not to be condemned to live in loneliness, excluded from one of civilization’s oldest institutions. They ask for equal dignity in the eyes of the law. The Constitution grants them that right. The judgment of the Court of Appeals for the Sixth Circuit is reversed.

It is so ordered.

An Ode to my Bicycle, part the second.

Fuck you you fucking piece of fuck.

I’ve ridden you in the rain. It’s getting warm and I get to work so drenched in sweat I might as well just jump in a sprinkler on that last turn before work.

My thighs hurt like hell.

I hate everything and everyone. I hate the assholes who honk at me like I can move any closer to the curb. I hate the idiots that I wave past me cause I’M ON A GODDAMED BIKE YOU MORON, MAKE YOUR TURN. I like the bus driver who waves at me and keeps the STOP sign up a little longer so I can get around the bus easier. I hate everyone at work who comments on how ‘strong’ I am, how ‘dedicated’ I’m being.

No, fuck everyone and everything.

I hate this contraption.

MY THIGHS.

At least in 25 more days, I get to hope I can get my fiancee/husband to run with me or else I’ll get lost in the Canadian wilds and get eaten by a moose.

Fucking joy.

I cannot wait to cut you in half, you piece of shit.

MY THIGHS WILL DANCE IN GLEE.

An Ode to my Bicycle.

You are a rusty piece of shit, old friend.

I too, am a rusty piece of shit.

So we’re going to endure the next month together. We’ll go to work, Monday through Friday, at 8:40 every morning and hope we get there by 9, because really, we don’t care if we keep this job anymore.

And somewhere between 3:10 and 3:15, we’re going home, after you’re parked behind a warm dumpster all day because my cunt of a boss wont let me park you in the shed we don’t use.

This entire process will suck. I am more suited to my computer chair and I’m sure you’re better suited to a junk heap. You are a single speed, baby-brake, piece of rusted out junk. I’ll drop you off, sweaty and out of breath, every morning wishing I just listened to NPR for five minutes instead of this.

But…

One of us will unrust and be less of a busted up piece of shit and turn into something that runs better.

I have a feeling it’ll be me.

Unless it rains, on those days, you’ll be a wet, rusting piece of shit, and I will be dry and in my car.

Love, Mei.

The trying tale of Sir Pine of Apple.

My mother has a terrible habit of buying delicious fruits and letting them rot away before I can taste their delicious innards. It makes me crazy, and almost makes me want to brave my own knife skills so I can eat the wonderful bits.

(My fingers thank me from not acting on these silly ideas.)

So, alas, when I spied a pineapple sitting on the counter three days after it’s purchase, I cringed. I could see the delicious tropical fruit becoming mush as the days passed on, and nobody likes a squishy pineapple.

Because I’m a weirdo, I composed a letter to my mother, explaining that I wanted the pineapple cut. Except I wrote it as the pineapple. His name was Sir Pine of Apple and his only desire in life is to be beheaded, skinned, and eaten. Talk about a vorarephilic pineapple!

While the letter did crack my parents up, still, Sire Pine of Apple lived on. I added a new note, this time, a blunt “kill me”, and left it in his slowly browning hairdo.

When I returned to the kitchen, Sir Pine of Apple had been stabbed, yet he still breathed! A common kitchen knife was sunk into his succulent yellow flesh, yet his head was still attached and his skin far from flayed off.

So, before I left for school, I added “Harder! With more feeling!”

I arrived in the kitchen last night to find Sir Pine of Apple missing from the counter.

I brought his flesh to work with me today.

He was delicious.