Wicked Wanderings: 11/01/2006

An old Indian Grandfather said to his grandson who came to him with anger at a friend who had done him an injustice.

"Let me tell you a story. I too, at times, have felt a great hate for those that have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do. But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It is like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times."

He continued...

"It is as if there are two wolves inside me; One is good and does no harm. He lives in harmony with all around him and does not take offense when no offense was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way. He saves all his energy for the right fight.

But the other wolf, ahhh!

He is full of anger. The littlest thing will set him into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is helpless anger, for his anger will change nothing. Sometimes it is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of them try to dominate my spirit."

The boy looked intently into his Grandfather's eyes and asked...

"Which one wins, Grandfather?"

The Grandfather smiled and quietly said...

"The one I feed."

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

je ne sais quoi

I have nothing, sorry.. try again later.

Friday, November 17, 2006

Cause of and solution too...

I speak of whiskey. And a confession.

Either school or this damn cold drive me to drink whiskey. I personally think it's both.

Having said whiskey in my system for the past week has had certain pyschological effects. I am assuming that these little foibles are just enhanced by the Irish friend I keep near me and not created by.

One in particular though is the desire to corrupt young men. Am I turning into a dirty old woman? Or have I been predestined to eventually turn into one by the learned behavior from my mother? Is it just the whiskey whore let loose?

Case in point.
Tonight after work I stopped off at the Uptown Liquor store. The clerk was not anywhere near 25 yet. And in his cute, round faced innocence, I caught the sheepish blushing and coy attempts at flirting. The wicked woman in my head went into predator mode, and I had to try and remain composed and not laugh at the situation, or the poor guy I was thinking about sinking my teeth into, and the surprise at my own thoughts.

And it's not because I look at the guy and say wow, he's hot. It's the thought of how my umm expertise would blow this young tender man into whole new realities. The thought of the act of corrupting them is what gets me going. Not the carnal act.

So my solution? Stays with me, and one other, and he better be ready for some wickedness.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Somethings amiss

Either my attitude, or my classes.

It seems that the desire to learn anything flew away with those last hot, sunny days of summer. Gone is the will to write any more papers, or study for the midterm (that should have happened last week!), or amuse myself with verb conjugation in another language. Instead, I want to sleep and stay up late drinking coffee and smoking ciggarettes.

I feel so lazy. I hope it's just a phase.

My google how-to of the day

How to Get Rid of Spider Webs - WikiHow

Ya.. I use Jake, or the shop vac. No pussy footen around with paper towels and duct tape on brooms. I sure as hell hope these writers aren't getting paid for their advice.

My fvaorite line however is this:
If it’s a really big spider hold on to a rail because with flat bottom shoes you can slip and fall once you squish it.

I keep laughing everytime I read that.

sniffing

If I choose to read my history book in the presence of the yellow dog, she must always sniff it twice and lick it three times. No exception.

Sniff
lick
lick
sniff
lick

I tried it...but I'm not picking up any hints of spilled coffee, tea, or weird smells that are similar to that of the leather case I carry my books in. And now that I think of it, I don't know why I would want to subject myself to what horrors that could entail; except perhaps to bond with her without tossing the bald, slimey, split tennis ball across the room.

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