Monday, June 30, 2008

We are not romantic people


Yay! My amazing boyfriend fiancee proposed tonight and it was more perfect than I could have ever imagined.

You see, we are not romantic people, I think romanticism is usually fake. So I generally don't believe in it. I feel like, if someone really loves you they shouldn't have to go over the top, their ways should just be romantic in themselves. And his, they totally are.

Of course, I have been a total brat for the last week, because I didn't think that he had taken care of the ring issue... Well he noticed the brat thing and boy did he make me pay. 

Apparently, he was going to propose last Monday, but I was mad at him because he hadn't texted me back all day. Then, he was going to propose on Saturday night but I would not come upstairs because I was being a brat... See a theme here?

So, tonight, when I least expected it, he caught me off guard while I was on my computer and watching tv and all of a sudden, I turned around and there he was on one knee with a little blue velvet box! I could not believe it!

He had tears in his eyes when he asked "Will you marry me?". And... so did I.

And it was so utterly not cliche or over the top or silly romantic and so totally perfect!

So... I'm a retard and left my camera at my office so now all you people out in the blogosphere will have to wait patiently, just as I did, for pictures of the perfect rock.

And so, *drumroll please* I am officially engaged! I cannot believe that it actually happened and I'm so excited to start planning! Suggestions please!

Friday, June 27, 2008

Creative Writing Prompt #6

So here is the prompt so you understand the poem:

So your assignment is to write a poem to God.  Make it untraditional: a tirade, an outburst, a slanderous harangue.  Let yourself go.  The television series The West Wing did a great job of this in the season finale from the 00/01 season, when President Jed Bartlett talks to God in the Cathedral, and in Latin, no less.  Other options, if you've got an issue with an assignment like this: write a poem in God's voice, explaining, refuting, denying, defending, complaining, whatever.  Make it a monologue or a conversation, whatever you want.  Make God a manicurist, a traffic cop, a rock star, anything.  The sky's the limit.  Whatever you do, remember that this is a persona poem, so there has to be character there, specific character with specific voice.  And one more rule: use at least one cliche, but turn it around so that it's got a fresh spin.  For example, Sheryl Crow sings "I'm standing in the desert, waiting for my ship to come in."  That's a fresh take on an old line.  Try it. 

No More Conscientious Objectors

What the hell do you mean it’s your will? My will 
Is smarter, better, faster, and much more powerful. 
I can lure these sin-eating mortals with my devious ways. 
You say, Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but not if those eyes 
Are ugly. Like mine. 
Red and wicked. My horns will get them. They will 
Give in. Succumb to my powerful ways. Your silly 
No-fun nonsense will never keep them around. Do 
Good. Be kind. Love others, you say. Can’t you see, they don’t 
Want to. They want it my way. It’s your way 
Or the highway, you say. The highway to hell. Well, they won’t listen. 
The highway to the fiery pits is paved with 
Fool’s gold. Temptations and deceit will entice those mortals into 
My arms. Sins of the flesh, sins of the 
Godless. They will march down the highway in droves. 
The saints go marching in. Hurrah! Hurrah! 
Your golden rule: Do unto others, as you would want them to 
Do unto you. They don’t believe that shit. You get nowhere in life 
Living by those standards. 
Immorality rules in my world and in theirs. You can’t 
Convince them of anything else. Keep trying 
You self-righteous good ol’ boy! Your ten commandments put ideas 
In their heads. You have given them imaginings of 
Sugar and spice and everything nice but I will show them 
What real little girls are made of. 
My harangues from tongues of snakes will charm and 
beguile them into malevolence. 
What goes around comes around, and it’s comin for you old man. The 
Militia of heathens is going to devour your angels. Have their cake and 
Eat it too. The sadistic war is approaching and your cherubs are 
Enlisting. They won’t be conscientious objectors. 

Do you get who my character was? Do ya? Do ya? 

Yeah, the example that the professor gave was of a mother talking to god, I think mine is much more clever.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Creative Writing Prompt #5

Another Creative Writing prompt... lucky for me, I don't actually have to think to do these posts! Supposed to be just a poem about what you believe. One more week of poetry and then I get to write fiction!!!! YAY!

I believe in wearing short shorts only when your legs fit in them,

In skate shoes with black laces and unsweetened iced tea.

I believe that romanticism is overrated and usually doesn’t have good intentions,

I believe in strong men crying and young women fighting with everything that they have.

I believe in painted toe nails and hot pink gerbera daisies,

In prime rib cooked well done and strong hand shakes.

I believe in using paper plates and plastic cups without recycling them,

I believe that most people know others better than they know themselves.

I believe in driving in a car full of people with no music on,

In breve lattes with extra foam and expensive jeans.

I believe in swimming in water so cold it takes your breath away,

I believe in chocolate cream pie and fried potatoes with onions.

I believe that lies are sometimes ok if they make people feel better,

In clean toilets and brushing your teeth.

I believe in a good stick of chapstick and mean little brothers,

I believe that video games don’t make kids dangerous, bad parenting does.

I believe in brown hair with blue eyes and faith but not religion,

In coffee ice cream milkshakes and ponytails.

I believe in young love lasting forever, the twelve steps and black mascara,

I believe that although our parent’s example is what we follow, it may not always be right. 

PMS: Please Make me cry Syndrome

So, I don't remember on whose blog that I was stalking reading, but I saw Mama Milton comment that June was a funk month. 

Wow. I could not agree more. I feel like I have had PMS the ENTIRE month. Maybe that should stand for something different. Like Pissy Me Syndrome. Or Please Make me cry Syndrome. I don't know. But Premenstrual Syndrome just doesn't do it the justice it deserves. 

Here are my symptoms this month:

-I cry at the drop of the hat. Or not. It really doesn't even take the drop of the hat.
-I yell and scream at everyone for no damn reason (Even if I thought there was a reason, there wasn't).
-My throat aches.
-My body throbs.
-My nose is congested and my tonsils feel like they might pop out of my neck.
-I make up reasons in my head about why I should be my mad at my boyfriend/soon-to-be fiance, who still has not proposed even though he asked my dad over a month ago!  (It's just a Fucking Fish, Stuart!). That's about how I feel about that issue.
-I'm hungry all the time, which leads to a vicious circle of hunger and anger. Awesome right?

Yeah, poor Adam. 

Maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis. Yeah, just crisis, probably. 

Possible reasons for these symptoms:

-Adam's dad is in the hospital with an infection in his foot, which couldn't heal because he has diabetes, so they had to amputate his toes... and now Adam had to drive to Denver again because now the stitches aren't healing... so they might have to take more of his foot.
-I still don't have a fucking ring on my finger, and I am the most impatient person in the entire universe.
-We entered our application for employee housing, which means we have to sit and wait patiently for two weeks to find out that oh, I guess your name didn't get pulled out of the FIFTY FOUR fucking person lottery. (I'm going to live in one of those bouncy houses, I've decided. At least we would always be in a good mood).
-Umm... well... there must be some other reason...

OK so I'm really just a big whiner. And really all I need is a big does of patience. 

I don't think they prescribe those at the doctor....

Or do you know one who does?

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Creative Writing Prompt #4

One More Hit

His eyes glimmered in the sunlight the deep

Blue that only I seemed to notice. The kind that

Kept you watching, waiting for more. Expecting

To be sucked in. But always left out to dry. There I was

Standing with him, but feeling completely solitary, as if I was the

Only person left in the entire universe. My heart

Throbbed as if it would never feel right again. Like a headache that

Took over your entire face, made you

Blind to the world, to all reality. That’s what those eyes did to

Me. And yet all I ever wanted was more. Addicted.

Aching, yearning, craving, more of

Him. He took my hand and stared into my eyes.

I felt it

Again. Except this time, I could tell it was the last. His words

Wanted to seem genuine, like he might really be coming

Back. But I knew, in my core that he was not. Not

This time. I sensed the love in those deep sapphire

Eyes, but it was not the same. He was

Gone, the man I once knew, was gone. My addiction

Stolen by false highs and obsession, embezzled by the

Hunger for one more hit. And just like that, my heart

Dropped, as he flicked his Marlboro on the ground

Stamping the red ember into the dirt. The flame was

Out and so were my emotions. As he walked away, I blinked,

Expecting tears to carry me away, but they didn’t


Wednesday, June 18, 2008

A stolen prompt from Cheri

I just found out what all the PromptTuesday blogs were about. And found the prompt.

Yay for me.

Here's this week's prompt from Deb and Cheri:

Today’s PROMPTuesday keeps it simple.

Read this poem (one of [San Diego Momma's] favorites):

Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock
by Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather.

Meditate on it for a minute. Then write whatever comes to mind.

Here are PROMPTuesday’s rules:

* You must write your entry in 10 minutes. This encourages top-of-mind, primal thinking before the ego and judgmental brain kicks in. Just set a timer, make your kid count to 600 slowly, whatever. It’s an honor system. And I trust you.
* Keep to 250 words or less.
* Please have fun. Don’t put pressure on yourself. Together, let’s rediscover the simple joy in the writing process.
* Post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine something pretty. Something happy. Anything. All she wanted was sleep. She wanted to spend an hour, maybe two, thinking about nothing. Clear her mind of all the bullshit. The fucking bullshit that had engulfed her, her entire life. She imagined herself lying in bed at home when she was six years old. Trying to please him. Keep him off of her. Anything to keep his mind off of what he always so desperately wanted. Touching her, gratifying himself. She always wished the tigers that were on her little red footsy pajamas would jump off the fabric and bite him. Rip his face to shreds, or even worse, rip apart the thing that he thought made him man. She would quietly slip away to her room, praying that he would not hear her and follow her in. But he always did. He would stomp down the hall, and the hair on her neck would stand straight. The shakes would start and she would begin the prayers for morning.

“No!” She screamed. She sat straight up in bed, the goosebumps taking over her body. She glanced at the clock. One in the morning. It had been two hours of sleep. Sleep that was always haunted by his eyes.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Creative Writing Prompt #3

The Unseen Beauty of Five o’clock

Stop, go, stop, go
The cars, in their straight lines, begin the dance
Of five o’clock
Brake lights flash in a repetitious fashion
The rhythm makes me want to tap my fingers
Upon the plastic of my steering wheel
I attempt to create a song in my head
Lights singing a disjointed song
Of silly beats
Red, green, red, green
Yellow, yellow, yellow
Slow down?
Or speed up and run the light?
All cars deciphering meaning through colors
The woman next to me sings with her radio
Her lips moving
But I hear no sound
She’s smiling and laughing at herself
And I laugh also
Flipping fingers at fellow drivers
Out of anger and frustration
It’s like a silent movie
The cars all moving in between speeds
Cop ahead!
All brake lights turn red
As the actors realize they are in danger of
A speeding ticket (God forbid!)
Windows down, and windows up
Or in between
The cars weaving in and out
Of eachother
Like a braid on a little girls head
Blonde hair woven together
To create a complex length of rhythm
Red, green, yellow, red
Stop, go, stop, go
Slow, slow, slow
The dance of five o’clock boogies on.

Friday, June 13, 2008

The Past is Only Ashes

Creative writing prompt #2... Write a poem that compares two usually very different situations using concrete images.

Don't you wish your blogging was as easy as copying and pasting your assignments from some silly college course?

Yes you do. Don't lie.

The Past Is Only Ashes

My heart pitter patters as I see you
Coming near
Your hand touches me at the small of my back
The breath sucked out of me
Like a back draft of a fire
The story I read in the paper said
A cigarette in a flower pot
On the deck of the first floor
Left still smoldering
The wind blustering through the railings
Igniting the miniature ember
Bursting into a ball of blistering flames
And with no one’s knowledge
Creeping into the building
Stalking the wood, ready for detonation
At any moment
Destruction, complete and utter devastation
To all things that went before
The women and children rushing
Scurrying along, fearing for life
Paying no attention to the direction they were headed
Only trying to get out
Absence filled with a new flame
A new beginning only starts from a bitter end
And suddenly nothing matters anymore
Burnt to the ground
Your love
Amidst the ashes of past flames
Flourishes a new blossom
With roots firmly planted in the fertilized ground
My heart pitter patters
As you get down on one knee
My mind jolts to the future that is upon us
Grown out of a fury of flames and ashes
Where nothing is left.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Every. Single. Day.

Apparently in my two weeks off from the wonderful world of college classes, I thought it was unnecessary to post any new blog entries. Oh well, I highly doubt anyone noticed. It's not like I have a huge following like katydidnot  

So, here you are... the first Intro To Creative Writing prompt. Write a poem about driving to a place that you love or hate. You have to start, end, or both with a question. You have to make reference to at least two road signs. And you must have a list of concrete items. Sounds fun right?

Please if you feel so inclined, do it too. Now. 

Every. Single. Day.

Is Frying Pan two words ma’am?

Yes, two words.

Just like the pan you fry fish in.

Frying Pan Road


Driving home. Every. Single. Day.

Twenty three miles from town

From reality

Fills my car with things

One flip flop, jumper cables,

Spare coffee mug

Three sweatshirts, a jug of water

“You can never be too prepared”

My mother always claimed.

Twenty three miles

Fills my head with thoughts

Thoughts wandering

With the river

Meandering down the valley

My car traveling against the flow

The engine struggling against

Little oxygen and steep hills

Strawberry rock to my right

The waves crashing against the red dirt

Freezing lungs gasping for air

As we hurdle into the river

Frying Pan River


Falling Rock

The yellow sign claims

As I turn my my tires around

The red sharp rocks

That have fallen in the road

Cliffs slowly eroding

Only to pop my rubber tire

Just a minor stall in my drive

Seven Castles jutting overhead

Firey orange in color

Sharply contrasting the blue sky

Hidden Driveway

Another yellow sign

It must be magic, since it’s hidden.

“Watch that corner, black ice”

My mother muttered as I learned to drive

The thought that always crossed my mind

Around. That. Corner.

Slowly accelerating up the dam

Coming around the corner

Sparkling sun rays on the lake

Nothing like that first view.

Spiraling around the reservoir

My eyes droop with exhaustion

Almost home,

I tell myself

Thinking all the way

Anything to keep my mind

On the road

Frying Pan Road


The blue mail box

With creamy yellow stars and moons

Painted on the side


Relief from driving,

The long day,

Too many thoughts

Relief from reality

Ma’am, is Frying Pan two words?


Two Words

Many memories

One home.