And Now For Something Completely Different

Dearest Ivy,

                Please accept my sincerest apologies for the lateness of this letter. There haven’t been many opportunities to put pen to paper and document my observations of this strange, wonderful place. You, of course, know of what I speak. It is what we discussed in the days leading up to my departure; this land of lush, verdant forests at one extreme and sparkling waters at the other, untouched by greedy, conniving human fingers. I told you I would find it, Ivy. I know that you believed me senseless when I swore to you I would seek out this world of tree-leaf curtains and sand-gazing stars. I know you were only humoring me, which is why I failed to mention exactly when I would be leaving. You would have tried to stop me.

Wouldn’t you?

               

                Well, no man will ever stop me again, for I have passed my test. I found my paradise, and I shall never part with the sanctity it offers me. The hook-clawed creatures with crimson eyes atop dainty stalks whisper to me as I sift through crystalline sand with smooth, marble fingers. They tell me I am home. The tell me I have completed my eternal quest for peace and salvation. They tell me God has forgiven my unforgivable sins. Well, the big one, at least; the one that had your blue-gray eyes disrupting an otherwise restful sleep. I don’t quite understand, though, how I have been forgiven. I did not beg for the Almighty Creator to save me; did not think it necessary. I only did what I had to, to keep you away from him. I only did what I had to out of love,

For you.

                But, I digress. The gentle lapping of melted glass ocean at my feet and steady rhythm of whooshing wind cause me to lose myself, sometimes, and forget my sense of self. No matter. I no longer have cause to worry about the evil, seeping smog and chasing storms of my old home. I am safe here, the creatures say. The emerald dagger leaves and powder blue smoke clouds will keep out the snow-coated men with their bespeckled sneers and grime-seeking lights. They will find no grime here. For them, the trail ended at the tip of your viper’s tongue. If only they had learned to listen to your silent clues. But, I suppose the masters with their upturned noses never considered teaching them that two clicks on a right nostril means that the grandfather clock holds the mangled remains of a passionate ending.

                Again, I digress! You must forgive me, dear Ivy, for I never aspired to sound so bleak. I am quite happy here, really. Surely, I miss the steady monotony of your ticking heart, but I do not lament, for I still have it here with me, and occasionally unveil it so that it may enjoy the velvet blanket of sand and metallic taste of pure sea air. It does not relish in the balmy climate as I do, however, so more often than not, I keep it in its caged-in cavity, and hope that it feels safe and loved. An occasional tremor would be comforting, yes, but I try not to ask for much, and be satisfied that I at least have this small bit of you here to keep me company when I’m feeling dull or dissatisfied.

Yours,

Xavier Leonard Covington, champion of the beaten and the damned

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I thought it was time for (all three of) my faithful readers to get a taste of the sort of stuff I write when I'm not failing at being humorous and clever. I actually wrote this for Eye Vay for Valentines Day (I guess the cat's out of the bag as to her real name) because she made me a flippin' sweet card, and I was so moved, I decided to write her a totally fucked up love story. 

In case you didn't pick up on it, our dear Xavier murdered darling Eye Vay and hid half of her remains/a clue to his whereabouts in a grandfather clock. Heart-warming, no? THIS is the kind of thing I want to see on the ELOVE channel, not some shit about a sinking ship or Rachael McAdams cheating on her doting fiance with some drunken wastrel who is this close to being a registered sex offender. At least they both die in the end, that's all I have to say. 

Just in case anyone decides that they give a flying fuck about my more serious poetry/prose, I will provide the URL to my totally bitchin' deviantART here: http://www.vagabond-arcadia.deviantart.com

L8er, 6!+ch3s.

You're Mother's A Whore. Yeah, I Just Said That. What, You Wanna Go? Let's Go. Yes, Right Now! Oh, Seriously? Whoa, I Was Just Kidding, Man. Take It Easy.

Well, happy goddamn Valentine's Day to you, too. Nice to know SOMEONE cares about me.

If there's one thing I hate (besides rich people, rednecks, politics, cottage cheese, mayonnaise, National Treasure, the sun, mouthwash commercials, and stinging insects of any type), it's Valentine's Day. Besides the fact the the anniversary of my mother's death is the day after (rest in peace, Momma A, and how does it feel to be 16 years dead?), it also encourages the buying and selling of affections. I don't understand why the hell some creepy guy giving me expensive jewelry is supposed to make me love him forever and ever and marry him and have babies with him and live happily ever after with him even though one of our kids is actually his best friend's and I'm cheating on him with my yoga instructor.

Eh, who am I kidding? My yoga instructor is a woman, and I can't say honestly that I possess a fondness for children. Silly me.

End rant. I know, it was one of my shorter ones, but what can I say; I lack a long enough attention span to keep a rant going for more than a paragraph or so.

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Since I know you all care SO much about me, and I greatly enjoy talking about myself, I have decided to compose a post within a post, entitled "Things Heather Loves/Things Heather Hates".

Things Heather Loves/Things Heather Hates:

We'll start with the things Heather loves, because she wants it that way, dammit.

Books: Harry Potter (of course), Eragon, As I Lay Dying, Me Talk Pretty One Day/When You Are Engulfed In Flames/Dress Your Family In Corduroy And Denim/Anything else by David Sedaris that I've forgotten, Sphere/Prey/The Terminal Man/State Of Fear/Anything else by Michael Crichton that I've forgotten, The Silence Of The Lambs, Hannibal Rising (I didn't care for Hannibal, sue me), The Great Gatsby (I know, it's cliched), The Aeneid, dot dot dot et cetera et certera

Movies: Monty Python & the Holy Grail, The Matrix, Better Off Dead, Moulin Rouge!, Mulan (the ONLY Disney movie I will EVER admit to liking), Airplane!, Mallrats, The Wedding Singer, Wayne's World, Back To The Future

Television: It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia, House, South Park, Monty Python's Flying Circus, The Colbert Report (it's the only reason I know ANYTHING about current events/politics), Tosh.0, SNL

VIDEO GAMES HELL YEAH: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Fallout: New Vegas, Dragon Age, Fable II & III, Mass Effect (I debated putting Two Worlds, just for the "it's so bad it's good" factor, but ultimately decided against it)

It's just occurred to me that I've basically already given a complete list of the things I hate, as those are what I complain about on a daily basis. It would therefore be repetitive and redundant to list them again.

Now, see, don't you feel better knowing all this pointless shit about me? No? Well then, why the hell are you still reading this? Idiot...

Heather Sucks Because She Can't Write Anything Worth Reading Without First Handwriting A Draft, Then Transferring It To The Computation Device

I am officially nerdier than my father was in high school. I never thought I'd see the day.

So, who watched the Super Bowl yesterday? Just kidding; I don't really care. I, for one, did not. I was far too busy playing Magic: The Gathering with my wizard mates: Eye Vay, Tanner "The Pants" Hyde, and Alexander the Mediocre (Partial pseudonyms have been used). It was pretty flippin' sweet, if I do say so myself. Such topics as how much being a mage in Dragon Age sucks, the merits of Fable II vs. Fable III, and our shared excitment about the release of the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim (FUCKYEAHNOVEMBER11THBEYOTCH) were discussed, and the night concluded with an obligatory viewing of Donnie Darko. Sure, Eye Vay and myself have seen it about fifteen times already, but Mr. Pants revealed that he had never seen it, and we decided that just wouldn't do (Side note: I like your boobs). 

And there was much rejoicing.

I won't go into any more detail, except to say that Eye Vay apparently has some major incest issues in her family.

Well, now I HAVE to go into more detail, don't I? I can't just leave that last statement without any explanation...

The scene: Eye Vay's living room. Tanner is lounging on the sofa, I am standing, trying to get Tanner to quit his lounging so I can sit down, and Eye Vay is sitting on the edge of the coffee table (Alexander has already gone home for the night).

The story: I don't remember exactly what we were talking about, but basically, Eye Vay was telling Tanner and me a story about how her brother once rubbed his feet all over her head, and she's been scarred ever since. That in and of itself is not so noteworthy. What is noteworthy is how Eye Vay described her thoughts at the time of the foot-rubbing. It went something like this...

"And I wanted to scream, but I just kept telling myself, 'Big girls don't scream!'"

The rest of the story doesn't really matter much. In fact, I don't even think we heard it, as both Tanner and I were practically falling over each other, we were laughing so hard. We generally have a lot of fun at Eye Vay's expense, but that doesn't mean we don't love her!

So concludes my epic Magic: The Gathering adventure. It was oodles of fun, and I hope to do it again soon (as long as Eye Vay tells us more stories about her brother molesting her with his feet, because she doesn't, I'm out).

Eye Vay's blog: http://www.donniedarkospants.blogspot.com

Want To Hear A Funny Joke? Women's Rights.

I failed my very first Discrete Math test today. I'm not to be blamed. How can I be expected to study when I spend all of my time thinking of smart-ass answers to the test questions?

I've found that I get some sort of sick satisfaction out of failing math tests. I enjoy making it very clear to my math teacher that I do not give a shitting shit about his class. For example:

Q. What is the multiplication principle of probabilities?
A. When an event is likely to occur, said event may occur.

Technically, that answer is not incorrect. It is, indeed, true that an event may occur when an event may occur. Redundant, yes, but still true. If I say that a rocket ship carrying Anthony Hopkins (wearing his Hannibal Lechter mask, of course) may come crashing through the roof at some unspecified time of day, I can not be considered wrong. It is possible that this may happen. Not plausible, perhaps, but still possible. I mean, hell, anything is possible these days, what with the gene splicing and the test tube babies and the frogs with the glow-in-the dark eyes (Side note: CREEPY). I'm sure that some "scientist" somewhere has considered observing what would happen if he were to strap A. Hops to a rocket and launch it into outer space. Why wouldn't he? That would be friggin' awesome (assuming he doesn't die).

And yes, I do default to the pronoun "he" when referring to a situation in which the gender of the subject is unknown. I'm sexist against my own people.

Hey, what do you tell a woman with two black eyes?
Nothing; she's already been told twice.

Gasp.

Oh my God, Heather, you can't just say stuff like that. Domestic abuse is a serious problem in the world today.

You know what else is a serious problem in the world today? Leg hair thicker than Will Smith's afro in "Fresh Prince". Go learn to use a razor, Liza Minelli.

Wow, I wasn't expecting to go off and start ranting in this post. Sorry, it's just that "feminists" make me really, really angry. Notice the quotations. They are to show that I'm referring to Facebook feminists. You know who you are.

I understand the whole "womens' suffrage" thing; that's all find and good with me. I like that I'll be able to vote in the next election and make a name for myself in a profession other than nursing or homemaking (as I would be completely useless in either). What really gets my goat are the self-righteous, hypocritical "pseudo-feminists" who are omnipresent in the "Discussions" page on many Facebook groups. Really? You're just making yourself look like even more of an idiot, if that's even possible. Do some research, learn the difference between "their" and "there", turn off Hannah Montana, and come back when you're able to form a cohesive argument. Also, learn the meaning of "sense of humor". You obviously know your way around the Facebook and the Twitter. It's time to become acquainted with another marvelous website, known to most moderately intelligent people as Dictionary.com.

I wish I had some way of knowing how many people actually typed "sense of humor" into the Dictionary.com search bar.

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Okay, that's the end of my rant for the time being. To lighten the mood, I will share with you an acrostic poem of epic proportions. It is entitled, "My Life Is Meaningless And I'm Going To Take This Knife And Slit My Wrists Because I Like It, Part II" or as it is more commonly (un)known, "DEATH":

Damn all the phonies who try to make me "see the light". The only light I need is the one at the end of the tunnel, and even then I don't want it, because all I want to do is descend into darkness.

Every single time I see a happy family, I set up a tripwire and watch them break their necks, one by one. Except for the children; there's still hope for them. I at least owe them to the chance to see just how meaningless their existence is.

At the meeting place of depression and anxiety lies a knife engraved with my initials. I bring it up to my wrists, then forget what I was doing in the first place and use it to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Ten times a day AT LEAST, I like to think about my sickness and how much better it makes me than everyone else, because how else would I write beautiful, provocative poems such as this one? That's right. I wouldn't. And then all the other phonies with their crappy, angsty poetry would never see how much better I am than them, and they would never know to bow to me, and make me their leader.

How on God's green earth have I managed to write this Pulitzer Prize-worthy poem in under five minutes? The world may never know. It can't be because I'm just using cliches I found in 20,000 other poems in my life and sticking them together like a grade school research paper. No. It can't be that...

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You're welcome. 

The Pontification of Curly G/Existentialism and Its Significance in Modern Society/A Study of Those Fluffy Collar Things the British Elite Used to Wear

As you have probably already noticed, the name of this blog is misleading. Highly misleading, in fact. If you came looking to bang some hoes and smoke some weed, you may as well just leave now, because you will find none of that here.

Also misleading is the title of this blog post itself. I will not much be lingering on Curly G's pontification, nor will I be exploring the wide and generally disrespected world of modern existentialism. As for the collars, I think we all know what their purpose was. Obviously, they were meant to ward off Daedra. Duh.

For those of you who don't know what a Daedra is, a description can be found here: http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Daedra

I won't lie to you; I have no idea what sort of rumpus I'm going to be causing on this here blog of mine. Will I seek to usurp the power of the evil demon, Michael Savage? Attempt to save Darfur (Even though I have no idea where Darfur is, much less how I would go about saving it)? Set up a Nigerian scamming business? Post suicidal poetry about how hard it is to be a teenager? Likely, it will be a combination of all these things, and much, much more. Minus the suicidal poetry. I grew out of that a long time ago, thank you very much.

Look forward to more wholly directionless and politically incorrect statements/blog posts/music videos/ideas for my best-selling novel. Believe me, there will be plenty.