I want to leave the house. I have a strange urge to just go out somewhere, to a club or something, and people-watch.
... how very odd.
Figures this mood strikes at 1:30 in the morning.
Yeesh, I've got a bunch of online comics to catch up on reading.
Better than sleep!
BlackGriffin15: sorry about that jenni
BlackGriffin15: my computer fucked up
Jenni the Odd: mine does that all the time
Jenni the Odd: it hiccups, sort of.
Jenni the Odd: if by 'hiccups' you mean 'stops functioning like a proper machine'.
Everyone seems to be saying goodbye tonight.
We've got a fucking week of school left, people. Save your goodbyes at least a few more days. yeesh.
I suppose, in retrospect, it would have been beneficial for me to get some sleep.
Or to finish painting my mother's day present. My mom is obsessed with birdhouses and birdfeeders and gardeny type stuff. I got a plain white birdfeeder and I am painting it. It will either wind up being all kinds of pretty or all kinds of hideous. We shall see.
I have a birthmark on my face. On my right cheek. My mother wants me to get it removed because:
(a) Skin cancer runs like wildfire in our family. We're a cancerous lot, on both sides.
(b) Apparently it is not helping my looks, which need all the help they can get
(c) I am told it will also continue to grow until it takes over my face and eats my eyeballs or something equally frightening. *yawn*
But she is worried because it will leave a scar.
I told her I didn't care. Mistake.
Apparently not caring about scars (specially prominent ones on your face) is a sign of low self-esteem!
Oh, how observant my mommy is. Well, actually, I don't blame her at all. We don't discuss anything that would give her any sort of insight into my self-loathing-ness, and she doesn't know of this journal's existence, or ML's existence, and I have avoided purposely showing her any of my artwork (and REALLY avoided showing her any written stuff) for years now. So she really has no idea why I laugh so damn hard every time she says that...
But it still amuses me to no end.
Went to church needlessly, apparently, as my aid in the toddler classroom was unneeded. Mom sat in the choir (she is one of our church bell choir members. Poor woman. They say when something good happens, 'an angel gets his wings'.... well, when our choir plays, that angel rips 'em off and uses them to plug his poor ears) and was once more not Mother of the Year. I honestly think she deserves the title as much if not more so than any woman in our church, but since she's managed to produce four independent thinkers, two of whom (Nicole and I) are quite vocal in our disapproval of most of the youth minister's and church's activities in general, I doubt she'd get it if I nominated her.
Delivered flowers first to our 'adopted granma', Mrs. Gibault next door. Sweet little old lady. Then took flowers to Abuelita's grave with Mom and Emma. Mom was teary-eyed, Emma does not quite understand the whole concept of 'death is supposed to be sad' and I just sort of looked around, raising an eyebrow as my mother forgot that I rarely, if ever, cry.
I love cemeteries.
No, I was not bludgeoned with the Goth Stick. Put down the pitchforks and torches. I just happen to love cemeteries. Think about it. I don't fear death in the least, it's quiet, peaceful, and the people there are fantastic listeners. All right that was horrible. But they're open to interpretation. You can see whose families remember them and miss them, who perhaps has no family to visit their grave, or whose relatives cannot bear the pain of coming back to see them. I saw small children and single parents visiting the grave of - most likely - the missing parent. I saw little old men putting roses on the graves of their wives. I saw teenagers awkwardly returning to a grave, sometimes with an adult, sometimes by themselves, and place flowers on it, unsure of what to do. I saw tiny trinkets left on the grave, little angels and dolls. Necklaces strung by the hands of children with gaudy, brightly colored plastic beads mingled with ones that spelled out "we love you" and "daddy". Pictures of the families, or perhaps of the one buried. There was one section of the cemetery marked 'Baby Land', which is a deeply disturbing name for some reason. There were a few couples there, and I saw some families gathered around tiny graves. For the first time in many months I began making up stories about people I did not see, who I would never see. Imagining thoughts and motives for the ones I did. It was refreshing. I think I shall be going back often; I like talking to dead people but was unable to do so on a holiday when everyone remembered to come back to see those left in the ground. That and I think my mother would have me institutionalized if I began talking to the markers. But given my habit to prefer conversing with inanimate objects to people, it stands to reason that talking to the dead would be the perfect thing for me. And I'm sure they don't mind; I bet they're sick of hearing from no one but their families anyway.
Then I came home and laughed heartily as the cat made the weirdest sounds I've ever heard from him at a bunch of chattering squirrels. He knows they are mocking him and all he can do is make noise back at them because he lacks front claws (he fought my mother's upholstery, the damned couches won. Much to my dismay. I'd rather get scratched up every now and then than have to see him unable to just be a cat).
Sometimes (like tonight) I want to marry each and every writer for SeaLab 2021. I do.
Hehehe. Martian law.
Oh god, I love that show sometimes. SO much.