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It was my first week at the job and I was hyperventilating, palpitating and if there's a fancy medical word that means about to soil my knickers, I was that too. In mere minutes, I was going to drown the only person entrusted to my care and the entire neighborhood would be underwater like a floodplain, levees snapping like saltine crackers in a horrible, dingy gazpacho of kitchen water.

Life-jackets. I needed life-jackets and a rowboat. Maybe I could construct a raft out of the cupboard doors. Wood floats, right? Unless they're simulated woodgrain plastic like my grandma had in her house...oh crap oh crap oh crap. I should've checked for improvisational flotation devices my first day on the job, in between reading the fire drill floor plans, finding out where to go in the event of tornadoes (the basement pantry) or zombie rhinoceros attacks (also the basement pantry).

My client, Linda B (or, as her intake folder read in earnest alliteration, Belinda Beatrice Burroughs), was a doe-eyed intellectually disabled woman in her late 40s, far too young and full of life to die. Even if she wasn't, as my supervisor promised, a 'huge help around the house'. In fact, Linda B seemed bound and determined to provide nothing but endless, painstakingly memorized (and often uncomfortably bawdy and lewd) Rodney Dangerfield routines. That, and practicing her uncanny ability to sneak up on you ninja-style and suddenly, LOUDLY announce her presence with her ubiquitous, "I GET NO RESPECT!" Sure, having only one client in the house was easier for my first weekend, but I still found myself unprepared, panicky and startling halfway to the ceiling at every sneeze.

Why did I ever think I could do this? I wasn't leadership material in the least. I've never been good at handling crises, always the last one picked for the team, always the underdog, ever the runner-up and now I was about three minutes away from drowning my only client and making the front page of every major Midwestern newspaper. Maybe I'd end up in prison, maybe they'd reinstate the pillory just for me, throwing rotten tomatoes as I squirmed--

"Uh oh, that's not how the dishwasher works."

I spun around, stunned. I almost didn't recognize Linda B's real voice. Unlike her Batman-rasp Rodneyfield impersonation, she sounded decidedly feminine and a bit squeaky. She stepped around me, house slippers sloshing a little in the dishwater puddle. With a quick click of a lever, and gurgling leak stopped. The mighty Mississippi was dammed. I blinked at her, not sure if I was more shocked by the break in her Rodneyfield character or the sudden, miraculous shift of fates. Rays of glorious, golden sun all but emanated from her broad grin as I looked on, eyes wide and ankles soaked.

"You want me to get the mop?"

This spasm of workplace terror brought to you by the good folks at [ profile] therealljidol!
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When I was thirteen years old, I fell in love forever.

His name was Gerald, which is funny now but back then it seemed very sophisticated and demure for a thirteen year old boy, and I was far more concerned with being demure and sophisticated at thirteen than I am at twenty six. He was a sweet boy with eyes like the hue of freshly tilled soil and hair like all the winds over the harvest fields, it I may quote the relevant diary. Which seems to indicate that his eyes were dirt black and his hair was invisible and made your car all dusty. Um! Actually, he was a very nice farm boy with dark eyes and white-blond hair with a little streak of Kool-Aid dyed pink, because even nice farm boys have their rebellious sides.

Gerald drew pictures and looked at the stars. I did what Gerald did.

When he brought out his telescope, I oriented the star maps and waited my turn to look at the moon, which was really the only cool thing you could see from his cheapo scope anyway; the only thing his telescope did for the stars was let you see more tiny little white points of light. And tiny white points of light were nothing compared to the luminous silver-violet magic of the full moon.

When he drew, I drew with him, each in our own little notebooks (his had a picture of a skateboard with day-glo fractals on the cover, mine had a picture of a baby harp seal in outer space). He drew elaborate spaceships, laser cannons and aliens. I drew pictures of my cat, mostly.

One day, I passed my notebook to Gerald to show him my drawing of how my cat sometimes slept (on her back, with her paws flopped over her chest) because I thought it was really cute. He immediately started to page through my notebook, stopping for a few minutes when he got to a page that had words instead of pictures. He started laughing. I was kind of mad, but I didn't say anything. Then he said, "Cat, we should make a comic or something. You write and I draw." He didn't really say it like a question at all; he didn't really ask, but I didn't mind because of course I wanted to make a comic with the boy with hair like all the winds over the harvest fields.

So we did. It was something about time traveling killer whales and pirates teaming up to stop Christopher Columbus from discovering America. I don't know why they wanted to stop Christopher Columbus, it was never explained in the comic and I don't think either of us really knew.

When I was thirteen years old, I fell in love forever.

We broke up a few months later, and we barely acknowledged each other for the entire rest of our school years. He moved across the country to go to a college in Washington and I haven't talked to him since.

I still have the comic, but I haven't looked at it since we broke up.

I imagine it covered with ashes for a millennium. Archeologists will find it someday, dig it up like Pompeii and marvel at the tokens of that weird space between my girlhood and womanhood --Lisa Frank cosmetic bags and candy flavored Lip Smackers, Seventeen and Sassy magazines that I never really liked. Like earthenware pots or the remnants of an ancient irrigation system. Like a message from yesterday.

But when those archeologists come, and the anthropologists and historians behind them, I hope they don't forget. The girl with the room full of unicorn posters and an extensive scratch and sniff sticker collection didn't make that comic about killer whales and pirates.

She made it with the boy she fell in love with forever, who plastered his walls with posters of Cameros, Cindy Crawford and the solar system.

And she made it with the boy she fell in love with forever because she was too shy to say she thought she had a better idea --one that didn't have anything to do with stupid Christopher Columbus. And she was too shy to say she had a better idea because she'd learned to be a polite girl. And she'd learned to be a polite girl because that was how ladies behaved, day after day after century. Just as Gerald learned to love spaceships because his dad was an amateur science fiction writer and it was okay to like spaceships if you're a boy.

For better or worse, there is a comic in a box in my closet that I will probably never look at again.

For better or worse, I will love Gerald forever.

Because he, as every single person I've ever spoken with or commented to or emailed or even waved to on the street, are a part of me. Because I am not me, I am an inseparable whole of my experience, just as you are of yours.

Earthenware pots and silly comics are infinitely greater than the artifact you can hold in your hands. Should I ever dig up a Pompeii myself, I will try to remember that.

This post brought to you by [ profile] therealljidol and the letters P and Q.
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The Secret Life of the Very, Very, VERY Hungry Caterpillar

A little white egg sits on a big green leaf with a moon in the sky

In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf.

what do you 'spose it could be!? )
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By Mythological Mimi

Dear Mythological Mimi-

Not long ago, my dear Great Aunt Betty passed away. While I wasn't particularly close to her, we did share a love of rainbows, puppies and sparkles. I assume this commonality was behind her reasoning to will me her beloved collection of unicorns. However, I find myself completely at a loss when it comes to what to do with them. I don't have any flaxen haired maidens at hand, nor any honorable knights searching for quest. I'm completely at a loss! Should I bite the bullet and toss them in the thrift shop bin?

Nonplussed in Nantucket

Dear Nonplussed,

Unicorns, long since known for a top notch source of antidotes, aphrodisiacs, and dragon defense have sometimes been considered quaint, outmoded or even imaginary in today's world. Well...bah on them! Here, I have collected just a few modern and everyday uses for unicorns:

an image of a pink unicorn at a carnival with rings being tossed onto its horn

Ring Toss!

a girl with cowboy boots and a cowboy hat flying a unicorn over a balding boss man, who looks very impressed and has stars in his eyes

Impressing your boss!

a unicorn in a martini glass with a green olive impaled on its horn

Cocktail Pick!

the same girl riding the unicorn but this time an old starry eyed lady is watching

Impressing your grandma!

a unicorn underwater wearing a narwhal fin while a boat of whale watchers point from a ship

Narwhal impersonation!

the same girl riding a unicorn but this time a starry eyed yellow dog is watching

Impressing your dog!

Readers with more helpful unicorn tips may write (delivered by owl, fairy or intergalactic starcraft only please!) to:

Mythological Mimi
777 Cottingley Way
Ham-on-Rye, Opensmouth 12345

This post brought to you by [ profile] therealljidol!
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The Whine of the Phoenix

Let me tell you this: immortality ain't all it's cracked up to be. Trust me. I'd trade a few thousand years and a couple of ancient scarabs that'd make the director of Smithsonian wet their knickers just for a few days with opposable thumbs.

Take the lock on my cage for example. A half-witted baby chimpanzee could figure it out. Turn the latch like so just a hair to the left, then twist that doohicky to the right, slide open the thingabob, and bam. Freedom, baby!

But no. Ra, in all of his infinite, heliotropic wisdom, figured I wouldn't need a way to finagle my way out of a hole-in-the-wall, not-particularly-legal exotic pet shop. So I'm stuck here with a bunch of twittering cockatiels until another cooing old lady pokes her finger at me and says "I think I saw this one on Wild Kingdom."

Sure lady. You saw me on a television show. Me, the legendary avian symbol of eternal rebirth. In fact, I bet you saw me burst into flames right next to a hyena's den.

"Say, what's the lifespan of this breed?"

I've been pooping on newspapers since before you were born, darling. I've seen the assassinations of Archdukes and the great stock market crash all from under my tailfeathers. I've outlived half a dozen of you grannies.

"What a lovely birdy."

Sure, I could incinerate my current incarnation and be born anew in the ancient City of the Sun, but do you know what a headache inter-dimensional and pan-chronistic travel is these days? If someone sees you, you're liable to be hunted down by loonies and stalkers. Look at poor Yeti.

Or worse, I could be trapped by a bunch of scholars who have nothing better to do than to poke at me all day and fill up thousands of detailed scrolls on my behavior and physiology. Took centuries to live down, last time that happened. Good riddance, Library of Alexandria!

Sure, they sell the immortality thing pretty hard around here. Be a good person, live forever. But trust me, it gets old. Real old. In fact, you're practically the only being that doesn't get old. But at least the food's decent. Spray millet beats sacrificed Sphinx meat any day. And after a few millennia of adventuring with mythological heroes, it's kinda nice to just perch on a rod and peck at your own reflection for a while.

In fact, forget I ever said anything. It's cool. I'm just a pretty bird from South America, Africa or thereabouts.

Take me home and call me Polly. They'll even throw in a free bag of seed.

Like most of my posts these days, this is brought to you by [ profile] therealljidol! >>;
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Not so long ago, one of my dearest pals went to Japan to teach English. She is having a great time, meeting tons of awesome people and getting to see a ton of jealous-making sights all over Asia.

She's also become my personal importer of kawaii socks, cute stationary, delicious Japanese candy and Engrish.

Engrish, if you don't know, is one of the best things to happen to translation evar.

It's what happens when poorly made translation software is depended on by people who don't really speak English very well. A lot of it happens in Japan, but it's kind of a global phenomenon! It even happens in English speaking countries, when people get tattoos or wear shirts of languages they don't speak. Heck, there's also a website for Engrish-in-reverse --people who don't read Chinese trying to use it because they think it looks cool.

Since I very much heart the funny and odd things bad translation does to English, I had to try my own! So a few English proverbs and a few run-throughs of Babelfish (sometimes to Japanese and back to English, sometimes to Japanese and then to Italian and then to Greek and then back to English. Whatever it took!) later, and I have me some mangled proverbs ready to be embroidered into your favorite dish towels.

An embroidery hoop with the saying Morning shift hen will get worms stitched on it.
Original: The early bird catches the worm.
Engrishified: Morning shift hen will get worms.



This post brought to you by week eleventysomething of [ profile] therealljidol!
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A woman looking thoughtful as an easter bunny, a pot of gold and candy canes float above.
Your Future - Fictionalized!

So you're thinking of becoming a Fictional Mascot.

In today's economy, job stability is a key factor in planning your future. As professionals representing the field of Fictional Mascotry, we can proudly state that we've not cut a single position for nearly two centuries. Indeed, demand for our services is growing in these uncertain times. In the last quarter alone, wishes for pots of gold at the end of rainbows saw an increase of 23.4%, requiring the most ambitious Leprachaun recruiting effort in over eighty years. Cupids the world over have been logging overtime as singles everywhere realize they'll never be able to afford that mortage alone. Indeed, as long as there are starry-eyed lovers and children with wiggly teeth, Fictional Mascotry will flourish.

A Place for You

When most people think fictional mascots, it is often the highly competitive career paths, such as Santa Clausology, that come to mind. Intimidated by the thought of eight years of study at North Pole University, most do not further consider exploring the field. While we always welcome highly qualified applicants to our Doctor Of Christmasology programs, Clausology is hardly the only career path within in our wide field. If your interest happens to be egg painting, reindeer grooming or even the nocturnal collection of baby teeth, we have a position for you! The only qualification is that you love working with people. Or scaring the pants off them.

Our Commitment to DiversityA crowd of diverse people.  Including a jack o lantern, Krampus, a tooth fairy and a large bunny!

Fictional Mascotry has long since been a forerunner in diversity --in this field, we have strong record of multicultural leadership. We come from all walks of life: men, women, rabbits and even anthropromorphized, candle-lit gourds. Whether you are jolly and white bearded, ginger headed and pointy eared, buck-toothed and cotton-tailed or simply an Eastern European demi-demon with a penchant for frightening children into behaving, we have a position for you.

Perks Galore
A veterinarian holding a rabbit and listening to it with a stethoscope.  Behind him is a poster for vaccinations for 'Seasonal Egg Flu'. In addition to job security, a career in Fictional Mascotry offers ample perks.
  • Generous vacation time. Many of our positions require only a 1-2 day work year.
  • Second to none health-plans. We are a leader in fay-based in-home dentistry.
  • An unlimited supply of of fun-sized candy bars, and fully razorblade-free candied apples!
  • Many positions include the use of a company vehicle, be it enchanted sleigh, cherub wings or a ghostly black horse appearing only after midnight upon the lonely roads of Sleepy Hollow.
Interested in further exploring opportunities in Fictional Mascotry?

Make an appointment with your career counseler today and allow our attached quiz predict what career path would be right for you!

This week for [ profile] therealljidol , I was paired up with the...well, we all already know how awesome she is!  [ profile] zia_narratora  !!
She'd love to give you a tour around Cupid College!
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The visual description is here! Scroll past the pictures!


huge yet adorable pictures behind here! )

This week, I've worked with one Mr. [ profile] alephz who has written a stirring and basically awesome ode to SCIENCE! right here!

Aaaand many many special thanks go out to [ profile] zia_narratora, without whom this entry wouldn't have even been possible! ♥
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The first thing you learn when you move to the midwest is how to drive in the winter. The roads get bad there, they tell you. Slick as an ice rink on a rainy day. There'll come a time when you need to get through it. To make that appointment, to get to work, to drop the kids off. They don't close the schools here too often.

So you learn where to buy your snow tires and you learn to change gears. You learn to carry cat litter in your car, to sprinkle under the tires when your car won't budge. And against all your better judgement, you learn to turn into the slide. Let it take you. If you try to fight it, a simple skid will put you into a spin-out. Land in the ditch, or worse. Remember the rules. And never, ever panic.

This winter's a real killer, they say. The plows can't keep up. It all just blows back onto the highway. Just moved here this summer? There's some ugly luck. Don't worry, though. The first one's always the worst one.

When they finally close the roads, you live in a glass-domed snow globe. A cute little village house nestled in drifts of frost-capped pines. The swirl of plastic snow bits, sloshed about by an angry god or maybe just a slightly bored child. Nobody's getting out for a while.

You turn on your porch lamp and the string of Christmas lights you've still not taken down. They blush like halos in the white-out conditions, the only lights for miles. You can't go anywhere. There's no cars on the roads. Only snow and the deer with their nervous, graceful step.

The only channels you can get show reruns and old movies. Clint Eastwood on one channel, earthquakes and wildfires and tsunamis on the other. Eventually, even the phone goes out. You could be the last somebody on earth. And, as far as being the last member of a dying species is concerned, this is absolutely dead boring.

You remember something you heard once, about how the earth is like the baby bear's porridge in Goldilocks: not too hot, not too cold. Just right. For life, for humans, for art and science and knowledge and breath. A tiniest click of the thermostat either way will send us all into peril. Earthquakes, wildfires, tsunamis.

"Some say the world will end in ice."

You look out the frozen windows of your snow-globe home and remember the punch-line to the joke.

"But nobody told me it would be this week."

(My fantabulous partner for this week was [ profile] pixie117. You can read her post right here! And since this is a current events topic, well..XD. I live in the frozen north. This week has been in the negatives and single digits most of the week. And they really do close the roads if it gets too bad! See this article for proof!)
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When Angelique was born, she was no different than any of her mother's other children.

Lips like the early-showing prune blossoms, eyes bright and dark like polished walnut pews, legs long and chubby. )
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This is 12 panel comic, please scroll to the bottom for a panel by panel visual description!  Thanks!

Note: This is a 12 panel comic, please scroll to the bottom for a panel by panel visual description! Thankie! *smile*

free day!! )
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When you are seven and a half or nine and one third years old, your sense of justice is magnified with the exacting precision of an electron microscope.

As is your measurement of the serving size of a particularly delicious homemade dark chocolate birthday cake.

"But Moooom, Cat got a bigger piece than me! I'm older, I should get more!"

So the cake fight (or the pizza fight, or the cookie fight or the shared bedroom fight) goes down, in home after home, sibling after sibling. Endless variations on that ol' the grass is greener theme. The creativity of children when it comes to claiming personal property is nearly unfathomable. In their social wrangling, kids pull out age, height, hair color, eye color, t-shirt color, toy preference. Anything to get an edge, no matter how itty-bitty microscopic it may be.

Because really.

1. The last time we went to Pizza Hut, she got the last slice of pizza. Not only that, but the slice had approximately three more green olives than any other slice.
2. Matty was turning six. That was closer to my age. Ergo, I should get the bigger piece.
3. Green was my favorite color. My sister's was orange. Most of the cake, being of an jungle safari theme, was green. Need I go on?

Anyway you (wait for it...) SLICE it , my older sister had a moral obligation to surrender this tasty bit of cakey real estate --even if the difference was a few millimeters. Even if the difference was so monumentally minor it wouldn't even register to an adult brain, nothing escapes a seven and half year old's sense of personal justice.


Nineteen years later, I don't remember who got the bigger piece of the cake, but I remember the fight. It's the bitterness that stays in my memory, not the sugary deliciousness I was after when I was seven years old. I don't remember getting our photos taken, arms round each others' shoulders, all party hats and warm grins. Forever preserved in sleeves of the family album. I don't remember the good bits, but I do remember that it was a green cake, darn it.

Nineteen years later, I sit with my sister on the living room couch. We talk about the big things: the sadness and silliness of war and international disputes. We pretend to watch thanksgiving football as we share a few bottles of our dad's homemade microbrew. We couldn't care less who gets more, yet we insist on sharing each bottle rather than having our own.

Nineteen years later, little Matty (who is now rather tall Matthew, with a handsome beard and broad shoulders) tells his older sisters to kindly shut up because he's got money on this game. And besides, war ought to be settled on the football field.

Nineteen years later, we giggle over our shared bottle because maybe Matty's right, after all. Nineteen years later, we're nineteen years wiser and we couldn't care less who got the bigger half because everything tastes better shared.
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It is a picture of evil Cat, with a goatee, a crown and an evil upside-down smile.  Fear her!


the madness, it burnnnns! )
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pure joy )
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I thought I'd try something a little different this time. Lotsa pictures, but there's a visual description at the bottom, too!

Please scroll to the bottom for a visual description...thank you!
the realer world )

Thanks or mebbe apologies go to a softer world, where I blatantly stole borrowed the beautiful format. And to Family Old Photos where I got most of the photos. Nope, the pictures aren't me, so that's even bearing false witness too, right? XD

Plus the photos are mostly from the 'unidentified' if you see somebody you recognize, lemme know, I guess? X3

Last but not ever least, this entry is brought to you by [ profile] therealljidol, which is filled with much awesomesauce and cream filling.
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A little red tin box with a smiley face on it

This may look like an ordinary tin of chocolates (not that any tin of chocolates is particularly ordinary!) but really? It's the ultimate mood-lifter, the ancient secret of cheer Nirvana, and a super clever idea of one Mrs. Mays (no relation to Billy, except mebbe by sheer awesomeness), sixth grade home room teacher extraordinaire. Yes, this is a SMILE PILE.

You can bet it made a heck of a lot of 12 year old kidlets grumble and roll their eyes as she handed out a little white box and a sheet of paper to each of us.

"I want each you to write one nice thing about everybody else in this class. At least one sentence. That's twenty-eight sentences. You can write more if you want, but at least one sentence with at least seven words for each person. "

"Like Valentine's Day in elementary school," a boy added with as much disdain as he could muster for somebody who'd just started junior high a few weeks ago.

She smiled. You know those people who can quiet a room down with a look? Mrs. Mays could do that with a smile -- the warmest, sincerest, hot chocolaty-est grin ever. "Yes, like Valentine's Day in elementary school. Write your name on the box and decorate it however you want. I'll be collecting the box and your papers on Friday."

She called the boxes our Smile Pile, taped them to our homeroom desks and told us to not open them or take them from the classroom. Throughout the school year, she'd add little things to our boxes --bits of wrapped candy, stickers and those cool fruit shaped erasers all teachers seem to have in their desks. Every now and then, she'd have us write something nice about a classmate, and other classmates would do the same. We'd fold them up and slip them into the boxes, unread by their recipients.

On the last school day of the year, Mrs. Mays sent the boxes with us after making us promise we wouldn't open them up until we were at home. Of course, practically nobody listened and the afternoon school bus ended up littered with holograph stickers, Jolly Rancher candy wrappers and by bits of paper scrawled with half-compliments by boys who didn't really want to say anything nice about a dumb girl ('Dear Cat, your feet smell like tomatoes').

'Course, I don't have my original Smile Pile anymore --this is a not-so-faithful replica of the original, started years after I'd nearly forgotten Mrs. Mays's homeroom project:

The same red box from the other picture, opened to reveal the contents.  It contains several bits of paper, folded up letters, tiny toys, bits of candy and other odd things

Really, this Smile Pile is more like a junk drawer of happy things. Nice things that have been said to me, things that make my heart glad, things that make me giggle and taste good, old photos and little trinkets I really don't a good place for, but don't want to toss out. I even have a few jelly beans floating around in there that are at least two Easters old! XD

Homeless little bits and oddments that have captured my heart.

Whenever I'm having a not so fantastic day --or even a drab and mediocre day? I open this little box up and gosh does it ever bring me right back to gleedom.


Now. Here's the important bit. My Not Very Secret Mission is to make everybody who reads this entry to smile. I wanna reach out and connect all of you with a smile, if only for this single entry. A big ol' gleaming toothy show-off.

THEREFORE. I wanna help you start your own Smile Pile.

Everybody who comments to this entry will get a drive-by sprinkle of cheer. It might be an awesome fact, a cute picture or a compliment (if we're friends -- and if not, we should totally get on that, y/y!?). Just something to brighten up your day. ♥

PS: For you visually impaired peoples, did I do the visual description on the pictures right? I put it in the alt tag...I hope I did okay! If not, just lemme know and I'll fix it. :3

This post was brought to you by the awesome [ profile] therealljidol!
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Hey, you kids on Facebook! Yo, you teens on Twitter!
And anybody else with Roomba-iPhone babysitters!

You text and you chat 'till your thumbs get creaky,
Your eyes bug out and your brain goes squeaky.

Youtube's down for maintenance and Gmail's just plain out.
Do your teeth get to grinding? Does your hair pull straight out?

Well, hush up with your whining, and take heed of this ol' vet.
No horrors of a war long past, this is about the internet.

I braved the streets of SouthBayou (/Pier/9092/SpockFan.html)
Armed with nothing but my AOL and my trusty Packard-Bell.

Every morning I awoke to shrill and beeping midis
Embedded in the background of the wretched Geocities.

Stick figures donning hard hats, "Under Construction!" signs,
Guestbooks, counters, webrings (THIS SITE RULES NOW VISIT MINE!)

Lime green text and chartreuse backgrounds, let's add a blink tag here!
You load a page and hold your breath, half in awe and half in fear.

Dancing hamsters, dancing Jesus and dancing babies too.
Animated gifs can do some awful things to you.

They haunt my dreams, the early memes: Mr. T and I KISS YOU!!!!
I close my eyes and find that all my base belongs to you.

56k was the best, way back in those old days
Downloading files, awful --up the hill both ways!

Now newer days have come bringing Wifi, Bluetooth and 3Gs
All that's left of Geocities? Shuttered sites 'n tacky memories.

So next time your dear MySpace or LJ 404's?
Remember for a moment the words of this ol' web dino.

And as you gaze from your high rise on Intertubes Blvd and Lolcat Drive
Be thankful for your Web 2.0, as it wasn't always so
And remember poor Geocities which was barely Web .5!





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This eye-burnery brought to you by [ profile] therealljidol. I'm sorrrrry! XD

visual description )
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This is a true story.

I think. I can be absolutely 110% certain it is true as I write this, but maybe that only means it's true on Thursdays. After all, truth is funny. Like, I might think veggie lasagna is absolutely disgusting and you might think it's the best thing to ever fire off your taste buds. And you can say, "ZOMG VEGGIE LASAGNA IS THE BEST EVER THING EVER EVER EVER" and I could be all "GAAAH DO NOT WANT."

And we'd both be telling the truth, right? I mean, nobody would really call either of us liars, even if we're saying two opposite statements about the exact same thing. Sometimes, truth is a matter of perspective. Or opinion.

But that's not what this is.

This a true story, (at least on Thursdays) but it starts with a lie.

Read more... )
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