I'm bored...I'm boring...is there a difference?
My chapstick is so potent it makes my eyes water. Is that a good thing?
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Would it be traumatizing to name one’s children after literary figures, setting them up for ridicule? I really want to name someone Holden, or Emerson…maybe I’ll just get a dog. I knew a girl named Sonnet once. You probably can’t imagine what a Sonnet might look like, but she fit it perfectly. Do we grow into our names or is it pure coincidence that they fit?
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The teacher that hit the students yesterday said good morning to me, in English. I wanted to smack him, storm out and slam the door, but what did I do? I cordially greeted him back. However, in retrospect, that might have been the best move. I don’t want to fuck up the remaining nine months with animosity. I’ll just kick him before I jump on the plane back to the states.
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My neighbor was burning her trash this morning on her front porch, right by my house. I had all the windows open, now my house smells like Holocaust aftermath. Occasionally burning trash smells sweet, like roasting marshmallows, but most times it smells like burnt flesh and hair…and believe me, I’ve experienced enough kitchen fiascos to know that smell. It’s not pretty.
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Would it be traumatizing to name one’s children after literary figures, setting them up for ridicule? I really want to name someone Holden, or Emerson…maybe I’ll just get a dog. I knew a girl named Sonnet once. You probably can’t imagine what a Sonnet might look like, but she fit it perfectly. Do we grow into our names or is it pure coincidence that they fit?
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The teacher that hit the students yesterday said good morning to me, in English. I wanted to smack him, storm out and slam the door, but what did I do? I cordially greeted him back. However, in retrospect, that might have been the best move. I don’t want to fuck up the remaining nine months with animosity. I’ll just kick him before I jump on the plane back to the states.
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My neighbor was burning her trash this morning on her front porch, right by my house. I had all the windows open, now my house smells like Holocaust aftermath. Occasionally burning trash smells sweet, like roasting marshmallows, but most times it smells like burnt flesh and hair…and believe me, I’ve experienced enough kitchen fiascos to know that smell. It’s not pretty.
posted by Chishiki Lauren at 7:57 PM
2 Comments:
My ex and I had entertained the idea of naming our hypothetical little girl Brontë, but K was afraid that the girl's schoolmates might call her Brontosaurus. And she straightaway vetoed my idea to name our son after my favourite fifteenth-century painter. I thought Hieronymus would be a great name, Hieronymus VanderVeen. I like the sound of that ...
Reminds me of this time, a few years ago, I wanted a cigarette but had no lighter. It seemed like a good idea to light it on the stove. I walked into the kitchen, bent down, started up the burner, not thinking about the fact that I had hairspray or gel or some other damnable product in my hair. A giant flame went up from the cigarette to my head instantly. Luckily for me, my catlike reflexes kicked in and I jumped backward and only singed the very front of my hairline. I looked a little crazy, but no worse for the wear. The burnt hair smell was nasty, though.
Nice blog, by the way.
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