you left a hole where my heart should be

Writer's Block: And the Apple Goes To

Tue, 18 Aug 2009 06:07:55 GMT

Who is/was your favorite teacher in school?

paul w. birt is my favourite prof
hahaha

Writer's Block: Pick and Stick

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 17:07:22 GMT

If you could only eat one kind of cuisine—Mexican, Thai, French, Italian, Indian, Chinese, etc.—for the rest of your life, which one would you choose?

View 503 Answers

Indian!
om nom nom butter chicken, tikka masala, butter chicken, naan

hung like a squirrel. i needed to be angry permanently

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 04:38:58 GMT

everytime i look out my living room window
i see snow
even though it is july
i know that there is snow around my car
in front of my house
with my expanding chipmunk cheeks
and my sunburnt back
reflecting the only thoughts that keep me alive

i am alone
kiss me when you're sober
it's hard to do the walk of shame when the person you want to run away from is driving you around downtown toronto and you have the greasiest face in the world and he just ignores you and pretends he's confused until he goes out with his asian friends who tell him what happened and he's no longer confused but wishes he were invisible and had a time machine and could cut off his own tongue and hands. WHO taught you to be so pointless and so callous and so incredibly cruel.

you're hung like a fucking squirrel. you're nothing special.
CUNT, i would've kissed you sober.

Writer's Block: Listen to This

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 04:15:08 GMT

If a friend asked you for some new music recommendations, what would you suggest?

View 504 Answers

LITTLE BOOTS
the magic numbers
tom jones

Writer's Block: RIP Michael Jackson

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 15:51:57 GMT

In honor of the King of Pop: What is your favorite Michael Jackson song?

Submitted By deathbylies

View 507 Answers

Don't Stop 'Till You Get Enough!
for life.
ever and ever.
i could listen to it on repeat and never get bored

Writer's Block: There Once Was a Girl from Nantucket

Tue, 12 May 2009 17:52:14 GMT

It's Limerick Day! Share a favorite or compose your own humorous five-line poem with an AABBA rhyme structure.

View 501 Answers

there was a young woman from eling,
she had a peculiar feeling.
she laid on her back,
and opened her crack
and pissed all over the ceiling!

thanks daniel cleaver, i.e. hugh grant in bridget jones's diary

Writer's Block: Historian's Choice

Thu, 07 May 2009 18:01:28 GMT

If you could live in any era of history, which one would you choose?

View 501 Answers

the 1960s or 1970s so i could fuck young michael caine senseless

in reality probably the late 15th century, early 16th century so i could hang out with henry viii and get to know his wives. i'm sure anne of cleves had a great personality! ha

Writer's Block: Heart to Heart

Sat, 14 Feb 2009 23:49:34 GMT

Valentine's Day: love it or hate it?

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HATE IT.

Nothing better represents stupid commercialism and the raping of whatever cultural customs western society feels like than "Valentine's Day".

And St. Patrick's Day is ANOTHER story... there were never any fucking snakes in Ireland.

Thu, 15 Jan 2009 02:32:50 GMT

empty.

SO THIS IS THE NEW YEARRRRRRR and i don't feel annnnny different

Sat, 10 Jan 2009 05:57:33 GMT

eins-talk to someone i've never talked to everyday (difficult)
zwei-obviously, lose about 50 pounds
drei-learn more german
vier-learn more welsh
fünf-go to wales
sechs-stop being alone/find somebody tooooooo looooooooooooooooooooooooooove
sieben-take a chance, take a chance, take a chance
acht-go to the garlic festival in k-town

hopes and dreams

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 06:18:10 GMT

i want to feel the sun on my eyes

smile again
make bad jokes
slap my knee

and then watch the trippy scene in space odyssey.

but
bowl.
mostly, bowl.

it doesn't feel like christmas, charlie brown.

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 08:06:20 GMT

The snow's coming down
I'm watching it fall
Watching the people around
Baby please come home

The church bells in town
They're ringing a song
What a happy sound
Baby please come home

They're singing deck the halls
But it's not like Christmas at all
I remember when you were here
All the fun we had last year

Pretty lights on the tree
I'm watching them shine
You should be here with me
Baby please come home
Baby please come home

They're singing deck the halls
But it's not like christmas at all
I remember when you were here
All the fun we had last year

If there was a way
I'd hold back these tears
But it's Christmas day
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Baby please come home

Sat, 29 Nov 2008 03:32:41 GMT

hahahaha.
how true

currently

Thu, 13 Nov 2008 04:06:21 GMT

Symptom Recital

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do ~~not~~ yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the simplest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick. I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore:
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men.
I'm due to fall in love again.

- Dorothy Parker

Sun, 26 Oct 2008 08:17:58 GMT

now, we are not the best versions of ourselves.

Wed, 03 Oct 2007 01:21:09 GMT

that there
that's not me

i'm not here

this isn't happening

i'm not here

in a little while, i'll be gone
the moment's already passed
it's gone

you have made the life i lead foolish too.

when i was seventeeen

Mon, 06 Aug 2007 05:24:53 GMT

Roman

I

On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans.
- Un beau soir, foin des bocks et de la limonade,
Des cafés tapageurs aux lustres éclatants !
- On va sous les tilleuls verts de la promenade.

Les tilleuls sentent bon dans les bons soirs de juin !
L'air est parfois si doux, qu'on ferme la paupière ;
Le vent chargé de bruits - la ville n'est pas loin -
A des parfums de vigne et des parfums de bière....

II

-Voilà qu'on aperçoit un tout petit chiffon
D'azur sombre, encadré d'une petite branche,
Piqué d'une mauvaise étoile, qui se fond
Avec de doux frissons, petite et toute blanche...

Nuit de juin ! Dix-sept ans ! - On se laisse griser.
La sève est du champagne et vous monte à la tête...
On divague ; on se sent aux lèvres un baiser
Qui palpite là, comme une petite bête....

III

Le coeur fou Robinsonne à travers les romans,
Lorsque, dans la clarté d'un pâle réverbère,
Passe une demoiselle aux petits airs charmants,
Sous l'ombre du faux col effrayant de son père...

Et, comme elle vous trouve immensément naïf,
Tout en faisant trotter ses petites bottines,
Elle se tourne, alerte et d'un mouvement vif....
- Sur vos lèvres alors meurent les cavatines...

IV

Vous êtes amoureux. Loué jusqu'au mois d'août.
Vous êtes amoureux. - Vos sonnets La font rire.
Tous vos amis s'en vont, vous êtes mauvais goût.
- Puis l'adorée, un soir, a daigné vous écrire...!

- Ce soir-là,... - vous rentrez aux cafés éclatants,
Vous demandez des bocks ou de la limonade..
- On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans
Et qu'on a des tilleuls verts sur la promenade.

29 sept. 70 Arthur Rimbaud

I
When you are seventeen you aren't really serious.
- One fine evening, you've had enough of beer and lemonade,
And the rowdy cafes with their dazzling lights!
- You go walking beneath the green lime trees of the promenade.

The lime trees smell good on fine evenings in June!
The air is so soft sometimes, you close your eyelids;
The wind, full of sounds, - the town's not far away -
Carries odours of vines, and odours of beer...

II
- Then you see a very tiny rag
Of dark blue, framed by a small branch,
Pierced by an unlucky star which is melting away
With soft little shivers, small, perfectly white...

June night! Seventeen! - You let yourself get drunk.
The sap is champagne and goes straight to your head...
You are wandering; you feel a kiss on your lips
Which quivers there like something small and alive...

III
Your mad heart goes Crusoeing through all the romances,
- When, under the light of a pale street lamp,
Passes a young girl with charming little airs,
In the shadow of her father's terrifying stiff collar...

And because you strike her as absurdly naif,
As she trots along in her little ankle boots,
She turns, wide awake, with a brisk movement...
And then cavatinas die on your lips...

IV
You're in love. Taken until the month of August.
You're in love - Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends disappear, you are not quite the thing.
- Then your adored one, one evening, condescends to write to you...!

That evening,... - you go back again to the dazzling cafes,
You ask for beer or for lemonade...
- You are not really serious when you are seventeen
And there are green lime trees on the promenade...

---

With the lull of summer, I found this refreshing.
But I wonder how much is lost in the translation...
If only my French reading were higher than a first grade level!
-Mt

-Arthur Rimbaud.
--Translated by Oliver Bernard.