Sleep Before Waking

Ever have a song come on the radio, (or on Pandora, in my case) that instantly sinks into your very bones and digs in to remain there for the rest of time? That happened to me the other day, and despite my best intentions, I forgot it and let it go. And yet, the song would NOT go quietly.

I turned on Pandora today while I cleaned, something I do every time. (And I have been cleaning, a lot.) The song came on again, this time, first.

“Speed of Sound” by Coldplay

The progression of those first few notes just plays some hidden chord in the very center of my spirit and I go somewhere…not here.

This has happened a few times before in my life, one of the best examples is the first time I heard “A Sort of Homecoming” by U2 (my favorite band). That song called to me like a captain to the sea. It stayed with me until it almost felt like the song was playing a part of me I could only experience when I listened to it, or when I was in Ireland. Yes, Ireland…for some reason.

Well, it happened again. I see Ireland when I hear this song. Odd, since I am going to Ireland this New Year’s and instead of just envisioning this existance; standing in a field on a hill with this song playing, instead of just letting that visual exist in my mind, I am GOING to make it happen. I am bringing my iPod, headphones, and a very understanding friend. I may cry. I’m not sure.

I’ve had a similar experience once before. “Lucky Man” by the Verve inspired an image of standing on the Great Wall of China. I did that very thing, and I turned on that very song…it wasn’t quite what I saw in mind, given that they brought us to the most unhappy and hateful staircase on the planet; 2400 steps straight up into the ether. I made it less than halfway…not quite how I’d dreamed it.

This time around, I’m going full tilt. The field, the song, I claim the experience now. No one can take it from me.

No one.

I’m in the computer lab, wasting my time on Facebook and the interwebs, trying to keep the tendency to fidget at bay. It makes me feel a little redonkulous to be facebooking in the computer lab, but that isn’t half as bad as the guy next to me doing research on Kanye West, so I stand righteous.

Man I need to go potty.

Good god, that Nubian Goddess has the most badass blonde hair I have ever seen.

Did you know that Shakespeare is responsible for a good deal of the phrases regular schmoes say? It’s true. An example of such is NOT forthcoming because, as the title of this blog states, I’m not an overachiever. I don’t need to prove my statement to you! I just to pass the next 50 minutes without losing my mind.

Oh…and find the bathroom. At some point.

I am truly patient with children’s entertainment.

Well, I would like to be. I’ve seen everything from Sesame Street Live to the Toe Jam Puppet Band and in all honesty, I’ve thought, “Wow, this was rad for the wee ones. Look at them, I feel like I’m at a Beatles Concert right now.”

Then this new show came on Nickelodeon. The Fresh Beat Band…

I want to kill each and every one of them.

Now, it isn’t the music. The music is spectacular. Catchy, less than completely obnoxious, by NO means Barney caliber, but the banter? Oh dear god, the banter between musical numbers literally makes my eyelids melt with the fury of my eyeballs rage at having been forced to witness such a thing.

Now, I know kids don’t think twice about banter being a bit too cheesy for even the dankest deep dish, but at some point, she will be old enough to realize that normal people don’t get into these sorts of situations and if they did, they’d be committed to some lunatic asylum within a fortnight. As a result of this show, I have started contemplating rooftop machine guns and Anthrax. Ok, not so much.

I might be on a government list now because I mentioned Anthrax.

……Anthrax.

They say Queen Elizabeth I said that, but it is most likely not the case.

I SAID IT!

Anyway, my apologies to all who sauntered here for a bit of a read the past month. I am now a full time college student at UMASS Lowell, I was cast as Cookie in Neil Simon’s “Rumors,” I am a photographer, an aspiring honor student, I’m writing a novel, AND I have a life. Therefore, the blogging has taken a mild side seat to the rest of my world, but I do still have thoughts. Overwhelming, all encompassing thoughts… on how to best live your life. I will tell YOU how to live your life shortly, if you give me a chance. (I’m kidding. I’m no Pisces. OH, the zodiac humor. I’m a geek.)

A war with casualties to challenge even the French American War, the battle between these seemingly simple and commonplace Confectionery toppings claims innocent lives by the thousands. Do not be fooled by their facade, for a man who underestimates the glee derived by these mortal foes from killing random Ice Cream Parlor patrons is as good as dead. Sprinkles bring nightmares to put Pennywise to shame.

Now, to aide you in your attempts to survive the accursed battlefield of the Sprinkle/Jimmie battalions, I bestow upon you this timeless, necessary knowledge -

SPRINKLES

VS.

JIMMIES

- did you catch that?

Let me clarify, if you wish to survive an onslaught of ravenous fury from an avalanche of murderous Sprinkles, you will learn you some sense, right now!

To the left you see RAINBOW SPRINKLES.

To the right you see CHOCOLATE JIMMIES.

Get it right, survive the night.

Fail to comply and awaken to the searing pain of being flayed alive by millions of homicidal Jimmies.

Now there are many in the country who would claim that the word Jimmies is racist and was commonly used as a slur to describe people of darker skin tone. Well, get it straight, in New England we had enough class not to use such ridiculous and offensive words as insults, so IN New England, Jimmies is not a racist word, it is a fucking Sundae topping. So shut your mouth.

But you know what IS a racist word?

COLORED.

Hence the aforementioned RAINBOW Sprinkles. If you order your Black Raspberry Chip with Colored Jimmies, I will kill you. I absolutely, cannot request such a thing as Colored Jimmies on my ice cream. The word Colored catches in my throat like I tried swallowing a switchblade. Yes, it is true, 90% of the populace is accustomed to the word Colored and would have no reaction to ordering such a thing as Colored Sprinkles on their ice cream, but somehow Jimmies is just out of fucking line.

Jimmies may have been offensive in Talulah, Mississippi, but Colored was derogatory and offensive EVERYWHERE!

Straighten up and fly right, people! And get my Mint Patty with Chocolate Jimmies, please? Thanks.

I once shot a yellow labrador retriever in Reno, just to watch him die.

Second round of school declaration. (I like to keep you all involved in my day to day discoveries, because otherwise, what would you know of me?

Nothing.

Well, you do know nothing of me, that’s beside the point. I rather like it that way, but I digress…

The first assignment for Shakespeare 101 was to read Richard III. (A play I hate due to my own well versed knowledge of the War of the Roses and the deaths of young Prince Edward and the Duke of York. I loved the play and the language is breathtaking, but everybody dies. Everybody! Watching them as characters makes their deaths all the more disturbing when you know the details.)

So, the bastard was a hunchback sociopath. Point taken, but the play had one of those epic scenes that made my teeth sweat (and inspired my inner director. I knew exactly who in my life I would cast as the characters, instantly).

I share that scene for fun and frolic…and because I feel bad I haven’t posted in so effing long.

I am trying to catch up, I fear.

ENJOY!

I’m gonna ‘unlock my wordhoard’ here people.

I have often contemplated changing my name to Hildegard, but never so much as when my first class of the semester began last Thursday.

Old English Language and Literature was the name of the class, one of the four options for my English Degree’s Linguistic Requirement (yes I have to take two semesters French, but on top of foreign language, I must also dissect the ever living shit out of my own language. I love linguistics, but god damn I do NOT want to sit through Modern English class. Hell no).  The class name itself won me over, given I love that era in history, but upon settling in for our first lecture, we found out Literature had very little to do with this class.

The name of the class SHOULD be:

Anglo-Saxon 101

Yep, I’m currently cramming Anglo-Saxon vocabulary into my notebook for future quizzes and translations. I’m so chuffed, there aren’t words to describe the fury of my lust for further exploration. The Professor is contemplating teaching “Anglo-Saxon 201″ next semester, (The Beowulf Workshop, which will be entirely composed of learning the language of and translating Beowulf. Do you know me well enough to know I want to take that class?)

Anyway, my point!

This is what I am learning to read, speak, and understand:

“þa weras ðæs deað brohton.”

To translate the above phrase from our first excercise; “The men brought the death.”

That’s my kind of sentence.

FRUIT FLIES!!!

As you may know from a previous post, I had them in my room despite finding no cause for their appearance. They made me lose my freakin mind.

Up in here, up in here.

My response to the burning hate rage I felt was to hunt them and kill them on a daily basis. I was finding one or two a day, smooshing them into the yellow painted walls of my bedroom, then heading on my merry way to my day. I thought I was destroying them at a good clip, but apparently they were just biding their time. After a week of this system, thinking I had the upper hand, I woke up to find no less than ten of them parked on my bedroom wall. I went ballistic.

ANSWER TO FRUIT FLIES:

(This information comes from my days in Biology class when we approached them from the angle of purposeful breeding and harvest)

Kill the breeding generation.

Kill them all, let God sort them out.

(This method is for geeks like me who enjoy science experiments and killing their enemy with close-up satisfaction.)

1) Get a Zip loc Bag. A big one. With a zip top.

2) Slice a peach and place a good chunk into the bag.

3) Place just slightly open peach bag in room with flies.

4) Walk away. Leave it for hours.

After a day of work, running errands, and tomfoolery, come home to said bag and

5) Quickly close the slight opening and zip bag shut.

6) Watch the fuckers flitting about inside their plastic prison.

7) Laugh maniacally.

8 ) Squish the little buggers one by one screaming, “I sacrifice you for Queen and Country!”

9) Restore the fruit fly trap with fresh peach slices (the fuckers will have laid eggs in the first)

Repeat until there is nothing left to lure in with juicy flesh of fruit.

DESTROY! In the name of all that is holy!

And think of me while you do it. I got a strange satisfaction from the hunt and destruction of those fuckers.