The Speck. My hometown. Blink and you'll miss it. It consists of a post office, a library, a gas station, a junk store, three churches, and a bunch of run-down smallish Victorian-style houses. Back in the olden days, when the railroad still came through, it was a busy place. Lots of artists, I've heard. People still sometimes find drawings and things in their walls once in a while. The river, which is haunted by an Indian chief according to legend, runs through, twisting Southward. The Speck is squished down in a valley, tree-covered hills swooping up on either side. It's beautiful in the Fall. In Summer...
Well, let's just say, it's quiet.
But where I live, a few miles outside the Speck, it's like time is frozen. Right now, nothing is going on. NOTHING! I'd give anything for something to happen, anything just to lighten the load of this never-ending BOREDOM! PLEASE GOD, MAKE IT STOP!
And yeah, I know I'll be missing the stagnant relaxation of August once September rolls around and the drama starts in again, but until then, I'm awaiting the start of school with open arms, if only for the fact that I'll get to see my friends again. They all live in the Speck, so I can't just walk down the street and pop in whenever I want. The only times we see each other is at school and on AIM. I've seen Venom once or twice, but Jaybrams doesn't even have an AIM. We haven't talked in months.
And yes, we have telephones. I just have an unnatural mistrust of them. It's... hard to explain...
So, to all of you awaiting the end of Summer with dread and nostalgia, I say, Pfft! It can't come soon enough!
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
PWNed by Dead People
Anyone who knows me knows that I am one of the most uncoordinated beings to ever exist. Even hand-eye coordination is out of my range. Sports? Forget about it. I have issues walking. Not to mention, sporty things are just as boring as HECK to me.
So, while my brother, cousin, and grandma went off to do something sporty a few days ago, I was left to wander my Grandma's large-ish, creepy-ish house all by my lonesome with three hyperactive dogs. Me and the brother had been exiled there once again, not that it was much of an exile. Grandma Patti would let us get away with murder. And parental advisory CDs.
Fifteen minutes later, I stepped out of the shower and glanced to my right off-handedly, where a stack of towels rested on a small table. But I noticed something odd, and did a double-take. Squinting closer, I saw that yes, smack in the middle of the top towels was a wet handprint, fingers spread apart. Um... o-kaayy... I definitely did not randomly reach out and pat the towel on the back. Good job, towel. Keep on sitting there. And it wasn't there when I got in the shower, either. Besides that, when I spread open my palm and laid it across the print, the print was bigger than my hand.
Whoop whoop whoop. Paranormal alarm going off here. I got dressed and got the fuck out of there -- Fast.
(Background info: The house is pretty old, and the previous owner, Fred, actually died there a few years back. This I did not know until the next day when I told my Grandma about what happened. She's mentioned some strange things happening to her there as well.)
Anyway, I scampered back down stairs, leapt up on the couch and sat there, unmoving for a few minutes. It's the frog philosophy. If you've ever been near a pond with bullfrogs in it -- We have two -- If you get close, they don't move. You can even poke them sometimes without them hopping off. If... I... Don't... Move... They... Don't... See... Me... I guess it's sort of like little kids hiding under the covers.
I finally decided I would try to read something to calm down, and went into the dining room, where my grandma kept the hidden treasure: FIFTY THOUSAND FUCKING JAMES PATTERSON BOOKS.
Oddly enough, I had read most of them.
But anyway, I found some sort of thick old paperback behind all the J.P. A little something by V.C. Andrews.
When I read, it's hit or miss. Sometimes the ADD wins and I can't read more than half a page before I'm off somewhere else again. Other times, I enter a Book Trance.
A Book Trance is a sort of semi-concious state in which I'm only aware of what's going on in the book. A fucking nuclear war could break out around me and I wouldn't notice. And even if something does manage to get my attention, I feel like I'm one wavelength removed from everyone else for a while afterwards. Muffled, you know? I went into a Book Trance with the V.C. Andrews book. It was done in four hours.
Now, apparentally, V.C. Andrews has reputation for writing some strange, disturbing crap. This, I did not know when I unsuspectingly picked up the paperback. By the end, I had gone WWWWHHHAAATTTT THHHEEE FFRRRIIIIICCKKKK!!!! several times, but what really made me go WWWWHHHAAATTTT THHHEEE FFRRRIIIIICCKKKK!!!! was found when I flipped back to the VERY first page in the book and found something I had not seen before, some sort of note from "The family of V.C. Andrews."
They basically told me that V.C. was dead (Common knowledge, though not to me) and that they had not actually written this book at all -- No, in fact, V.C.'s family, NONE OF WHOM were mentioned by name had penned the entire thing theirselves, along with the help of another author, ALSO UNNAMED.
My first thought? Who in the hell would write a book and put their dead family member's name on it?!
Second thought: Is this even legal?
Third: Who in the hell would write such a sick, disturbing book and put their dead family member's name on it?!?!
It was only on my fourth thought when I realized that I had been PWNed by a dead person -- Twice.
In one day.
Oh, life. Why must you always poke me annoyingly?
I -- well, it should be obvious by now that I believe in ghosts and such. Unhealthy Ghost Adventures obsession and all. If a normal person hears a noise at night, they think "Burgular!". If I hear a noise at night, I think "HOLY SHIIITE GHOSTS! CALL ZAK BAGANS!"
But it wasn't night when I heard a noise, it was morning. So instead of running to the Travel Channel, I just had a minor heart attack, then burst into song. I'm no Amy Lee, but I have an okay voice. Sort of a Christina Perri-Sara Bareilles-only-not-as-good voice. And I have fun singing. So whenever I'm alone, I usually just burst into song at random moments. Much to the chagrin of whatever unsuspecting dogs are within hearing distance.
While the dogs stared at me in alarm and I warbled "BRRRIINNNG MEE TOO LIIIIIIFE!", I walked up the stairs and decided to take a shower.Fifteen minutes later, I stepped out of the shower and glanced to my right off-handedly, where a stack of towels rested on a small table. But I noticed something odd, and did a double-take. Squinting closer, I saw that yes, smack in the middle of the top towels was a wet handprint, fingers spread apart. Um... o-kaayy... I definitely did not randomly reach out and pat the towel on the back. Good job, towel. Keep on sitting there. And it wasn't there when I got in the shower, either. Besides that, when I spread open my palm and laid it across the print, the print was bigger than my hand.
Whoop whoop whoop. Paranormal alarm going off here. I got dressed and got the fuck out of there -- Fast.
(Background info: The house is pretty old, and the previous owner, Fred, actually died there a few years back. This I did not know until the next day when I told my Grandma about what happened. She's mentioned some strange things happening to her there as well.)
Anyway, I scampered back down stairs, leapt up on the couch and sat there, unmoving for a few minutes. It's the frog philosophy. If you've ever been near a pond with bullfrogs in it -- We have two -- If you get close, they don't move. You can even poke them sometimes without them hopping off. If... I... Don't... Move... They... Don't... See... Me... I guess it's sort of like little kids hiding under the covers.
I finally decided I would try to read something to calm down, and went into the dining room, where my grandma kept the hidden treasure: FIFTY THOUSAND FUCKING JAMES PATTERSON BOOKS.
Oddly enough, I had read most of them.
But anyway, I found some sort of thick old paperback behind all the J.P. A little something by V.C. Andrews.
When I read, it's hit or miss. Sometimes the ADD wins and I can't read more than half a page before I'm off somewhere else again. Other times, I enter a Book Trance.
A Book Trance is a sort of semi-concious state in which I'm only aware of what's going on in the book. A fucking nuclear war could break out around me and I wouldn't notice. And even if something does manage to get my attention, I feel like I'm one wavelength removed from everyone else for a while afterwards. Muffled, you know? I went into a Book Trance with the V.C. Andrews book. It was done in four hours.
They basically told me that V.C. was dead (Common knowledge, though not to me) and that they had not actually written this book at all -- No, in fact, V.C.'s family, NONE OF WHOM were mentioned by name had penned the entire thing theirselves, along with the help of another author, ALSO UNNAMED.
My first thought? Who in the hell would write a book and put their dead family member's name on it?!
Second thought: Is this even legal?
Third: Who in the hell would write such a sick, disturbing book and put their dead family member's name on it?!?!
It was only on my fourth thought when I realized that I had been PWNed by a dead person -- Twice.
In one day.
Oh, life. Why must you always poke me annoyingly?
Random AIM Lifestream #2
Jessyka McFly
We have kidnapped Jessyka and are holding her hostage until someone gives us 200 Snickers bars. We're hungry. Feed us next time. Sincerely, Everyone Who Lives in the Attic, Dimensions One Through Five.
Jessyka McFly
Earth without art is just "Eh."
Jessyka McFly
Please disregard the previous Lifestream update. We are scrolling PicSauce while waiting for our Snickers bars. It was funny. She is still ourhosgyahge. Sorry, it is hard to type with hooves sometimes.
We have kidnapped Jessyka and are holding her hostage until someone gives us 200 Snickers bars. We're hungry. Feed us next time. Sincerely, Everyone Who Lives in the Attic, Dimensions One Through Five.
Jessyka McFly
Earth without art is just "Eh."
Jessyka McFly
Please disregard the previous Lifestream update. We are scrolling PicSauce while waiting for our Snickers bars. It was funny. She is still ourhosgyahge. Sorry, it is hard to type with hooves sometimes.
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