insanity looks good on you.

Says the pot to the kettle.

Oh wait. No. The pot said the kettle was black, proofing once and for all that kitchen-ware can be just as racist as people. Bad kitchen-ware! Though if I spent my life getting my butt burned, I'd be cranky enough that I'd begin spewing racist, homophobic, sexist comments too.

Fortunately, I'm human.

Where was I..?

Oh yes. I think my family is a pretty good looking bunch. That's not me being vain. Okay, it is a little. But I'm a shallow person, and I like pretty things and good looking people - and I'm pleased with the way my family looks. Spending a long weekend away with them may have further damaged my fraying sanity (remind me to write about the elaborate "jokes" we play on each other.) but it made me come to one conclusion..

Insanity suits my family.

All hectic and arms and legs flailing every which way, evil cackles and booming laughter, and the occasional brat running away from (yet another) fuming brat. Ninja Gramps photobombing the grandkids, cackling as he slowly hobbles past, cane in hand. Grandma being unintentionally hilarious. No adults present. Ever. Because no one in my family can be described as 'mature' in the normal sense of the word.

The Clan is awesome.



Unfortunately after editing the pic to show just how much I love The Clan.. the faces became hidden. NO MATTER! Take my words at face value - we're a good lookin' bunch.

This is what happens when my extended family gathers..

Arrrr!

Was supposed to be playing with 2 year old niece, but my lil' cousin (who's actually going on 12 and shooting up into a gangly teen, ergo not so "lil" anymore..) and I decided it would be fun to play T-Rex vs. Ptereodactyl.

And since I didn't want to loose, I stuck an extra block on her Ptereodactyl and declared that it had a tumor. (I'm so mature.)

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY NINJA GRAMPS AND NAN!

Much love,
Le Silly Grankids.

sometimes I don't remember writing things down..

But then I find a .doc file saved in my folders and I read words that sound completely alien to me. This.. was a file titled 'Death', from April of 2011.

Not sure if 'enjoy' is the right word to use here..

---

Cigarette in hand, bleary bloodshot eyes struggling to stay open and a head full of ideas that just won’t go away. She doesn’t know when she last had a shower, the very stereotypical image of a writer too immersed in her art. She’s even writing about herself in third person, and the stupidity of the situation isn’t lost on her.

But the words have been held in for too long, and she can’t stop them from spewing out. Endless incoherent ideas, and half formed thoughts. Fragments of conversations, whispered by the phantoms occupying her, a thousand faceless characters she dreams of.

They scare her sometimes.

She tried to suppress them, but they scratch at her from the inside, and it was starting to hurt. Her imagination kicks into overdrive and she sees her body as a shell, barely containing an army of gruesome hybrids of... things. Half solid, half phantasm, long claws and sinister cackles. So close. So close to the surface.

She feels as if she’s fighting a losing battle. And soon they’ll be out.

The monsters that lurk in the darkest recesses of her mind.

Her reality and their reality collide, and the already blurred lines fade into obscurity.

Blood. Hands. Death.

Mere words. The blood she sees on her hands, a poetic rendering of her over active imagination.

And outside the sirens blare.

Kinda floating on by

Like a plastic bag wavering, going wherever. Flighty and weightless.

And finally.. Finally feeling 'happy' instead of just 'content'. I liked my job, but some people and some aspects of it just sucked too much out of me. It cut into every aspect of my life, leaving me drained and irritable and prickly. I didn't like who I was becoming.

So I quit. And now..

Hopefully now I can start working on the things I've neglected for a while.

It's Feb again!

This is the year that I turn 26. It's a bit scary but somehow uneventful.

I'm not the most mature person out there, and birthdays usually make me giddy with expectations of fun, fun, FUN things (that I planned for myself). But this year I'm kinda down in the dumps.


Fingers crossed I'll be happy on the actual day. ^^

- word barf 2 -

She doesn’t want to forget. But she wonders if she’ll remember her own writing.

“People write song about girls like you.” Is the first thing she writes. She remembers his over confident face, ruined by unfocused eyes and the heavy reek of alcohol that seemed to physically waft around him. She walked away with a smile, shaking her head at his pick-up line. She looked back once and saw his crumpled face, disappointed and dejected, as his friends surrounded him, laughing pointing good naturedly. On impulse she strides back towards him and kisses him, fast and hard, before walking away once more. Laughter and whoops of encouragement from the strangers that would one day become her friends accompanying her walk.

She wonders if her diary will read like a novel. She wonders if she’ll ever really understand how important those first words were for her. If she’ll remember her own misery that night, and how he made her laugh.

She writes carefully, chronicling every moment of their life together. Pen on paper, as physical evidence.

She doesn’t want to forget.

- word barf 1 -

You don't know if it is a good thing that she stopped screaming. Because now she's working her way through the pile of magazines that sat at the end of your bed. Tearing each page calmly, methodically. A serene smile gracing a face so at peace that it doesn't quite match her disheveled state. You tried to hold her hands earlier but a flicker of intelligence in her eyes stopped you. Just let me be. They seemed to plead to you, nary a word spoken. So you sighed, and stroked her hair gently.

"I'll be right here." And you wonder if this time... You wonder if this time she'll come back to you.