Musings from outside the circle
Sam Vimes: awesomer than you.
Don’t worry, this is probably the last of these. Also, the only reason it’s probably always going to be Vimes is that there never seems to be anything about Moist.
Thank you.
Now read the Discworld books, because otherwise this post is utterly pointless.
I am currently writing two books. One of them is set in the world of Vandermeer, where there are nontups.
I am here to say that the Vandermeer book is not based on my reading of Terry Pratchett at all. No, really. My sense of humor was always like that. Well, okay, maybe a little. I did stick Damp in there. But at least I didn’t create the city of Parody. And it’s not like I’m going to write more Vandermeer books–oh, wait, yes I am. Hmm.
Well, at leadt mine aren’t supposed to be adult books. No deluded teenager will ever read many, many Vandermeer books and then, while obsessively Wikipedia-ing one day, come across this nugget of information and shout, “ADULT books?! Really?!” thereby scaring the cat. And also disturbing themselves with their mental issues.
Or maybe that’s just me.
I plan to add this as an author’s note at the end of the book. Because I’m stupid like that.
My dad has disowned me.
Because I decided not to go to the store with him, he gave me this big speech about how I don’t care about anyone else and I’m a selfish, horrible person and he wants nothing to do with me. So now apparently:
A) I don’t get an allowance anymore.
B) I have to buy my own food, do my own laundry, etc, etc.
C) I am no longer “part of this family” and now I’m their tenant for the next five years instead.
Yeah, he gave me the “part of this family” speech too. It’s sort of his trademark. See, if I don’t hang up my towel or forget to empty the dishwasher or don’t set the table one time, he tells me that I need to start acting like I’m “part of this family” and be a mindless slave child who never questions anything I’m told to do. He also does this if I ask him why I have to do something. Usually this is combined with the “you’re a horrible selfish brat and by doing __________ you’re saying you hate everyone” thing.
Then he gets mad at me when I say similar things to him. He says something about how I should be nice and polite and not yell at people over nothing.
Hey dad, maybe I’d do that if I’d ever had a decent role model, hmm?
I know, I know, it’s not all his fault, but come on. He’s not exactly setting a great example, is he? I have the right to give as good as I get.
So, since I’m apparently a tenant now, anyone want to offer me better housing? This arrangement isn’t working out so well.
Logan’s Run is awesome.
My ears are being destroyed by the screeching noises of my friend Susan. Now I’m going to make her write something.
My rat is trying to eat my toe? Um… Q!!!
Riiiiiiiiight.
Sooo. School is over. Awesomous. Also, tomorrow’s my birthday. Yay.
And…yeah.
Of all the random things I could say right now, I really can’t think of anything… Cherry pie! Ok, but that’s not so random, because you knew I was going to say something random, so you knew something was coming, which automatically makes it nonrandom, thus destroying every single thing I was trying to accomplish in the first place.
…pie rox.
I have awesome friends. Well, except for Lysander.
Hey!
And that’s it.
So. Last night, with a friend at my house, I wrote lots of poems which are apparently good. I don’t believe you, Susan. But I’m going to assault your eyes with them now, so…here goes.
Fall Apart
Falling apart on the inside
It feels true
I can’t control my thoughts
Spiraling away from me
Streams of unthinkable things
Death
Blood
Pain
They haunt me
They taunt me
They help me fall asleep at night
They torture me
I ask
Why
Do I have to feel these things?
I am f
a
l
l
i
n
g
Into the things
That you only meet in nightmares
And I don’t understand
Why
Meaningless
The truth is a lie
And
The lie is a truth
Lies and truths
Definitions are so simple
Words on a page
But much more complex
In reality
They surface again
They are real
And they mean everything
And nothing
The Blue Rock Near The Porch
The blue rock
Near the porch
Has a key in it
I stare at it
Thinking
Deciding
My key is gone
Lost
Missing
But if I take this one
Then when they bring back Ginger
She can’t get in
And I can’t save her
Because they said
That if she couldn’t get in
They would take her away again
And that can’t happen
The blue rock
Near the porch
Has a key in it
They will bring her back soon
She can get in
She will be safe
I don’t know yet who Ginger is. What I do know is that someone took her away from her family, and there’s a key in the blue rock near the porch. I don’t know.
So I lied.
You might remember at the end of The Merits of Hell, where I typed those fateful capital letters. Okay, not fateful, but melodramatic. But, um, it didn’t last very long.
Well.
Now that I’ve admitted it, I guess it isn’t so bad. Just vaguely creepy and slightly disturbing. And weird. But not as much as before. You should have seen that diary entry…ahem. Never mind.
If I hear Duncan make a TV reference one more time, someone will die. Preferably the TV.
It’s not the TV that’s at fault, of course not. The TV can, in fact, be very useful (Hello, Yellow Submarine?). So really, it’s simply the TV shows that should die. After all, only TV shows could be so unrelentingly crappy. Oh, some are all right. I will willingly watch iCarly, House, and AFV. But that’s it.
Movies are a different matter. Most movies are meant to be enjoyable, whereas TV shows are designed simply to keep your 6-year-old occupied while you operate heavy machinery (etc.). Yet it blows my mind that any 6-year-old, especially mine, can possibly enjoy this crap. (Then again, Sarah Anne likes to watch Chowder, and she’s 12 or 13. One of those.)
And if it weren’t for the cable, I wouldn’t have to deal with my pet first-grader constantly saying things like “What if Chowder’s first name were Clam and his last name were Chowder?” and then giggling at me. Really, it’s so freaking stupid it makes my mind explode. (My…brain…hurts!)
The worst thing about this whole thing is that the most stupid of shows is so attention-grabbing. I have actually managed to get the Phineas & Ferb theme song stuck in my head. I mean, what the hell? I have about 193 Beatles songs stored in there and this infantile ditty blocks them all out?
And all of these shows are on cable. So next time you buy a weird shirt, don’t get one that says “Kill Your TV” (My mom has one of these). Get one that says “Kill Your Cable Box”.
This is probably going to be my only serious post for a long time, and I got special clearance for it, so pay attention please.
I have learned a lot during the past month and a half. Some of it I learned from others, some from myself. But now I’d like to say a few things that I learned, because I feel like it.
I learned that acknowledging that I look good in certain clothes does not make me a stereotype.
I learned that it is okay to be good at things.
I learned that your friends won’t kill you for messing up, and not just because they’d go to prison.
I learned that cats have very sharp claws.
I learned that it’s fun to look stupid in public…most of the time.
I learned that I don’t have to go out of my way to be different.
I learned that it’s okay to talk.
I learned that people listen.
I learned that no matter what happens, someone is there to help.
I learned that you only live once.
While I’m at it, I’d like to say the following:
I want to thank Peyton, who is one of the awesomest people ever to walk the earth, for being my friend.
I want to thank all of CAYA for being spontaneous, goofy and “hella sacred!”
I want to thank my mom for making me laugh and ruining my self-righteous anger speech.
I want to thank my cats for running into mirrors, sitting on printers, attacking feet, and generally brightening my day.
I want to thank all the people who are nice to me when I don’t deserve.
I want to thank Terry Pratchett for writing awesomous books, even though he won’t see this.
I want to thank my imaginary crew, and I don’t have to tell them why.
And above all, I want to thank everyone who bothers to read my ramblings. You make me feel all fuzzy.
Just to give you guys something to think about, I leave you with this poem.
No Fun
I was a socialite but it was no fun.
All of the people talking away,
No time for thought
No time for rest
Just time for parties and talking all day.
I was a recluse but it was no fun.
No one to tell the important things to,
No time for friends
No time for life
Just time for brooding and sleeping away.
I was normal but it was no fun.
Doing things just like everyone else,
No room for change
No room for strange
Just room for following every new trend.
I was an outcast but it was no fun.
Changing just for the sake of change,
No room for cool
No room for trends
Just room for oddness and dull to no end.
Then I was me and I liked it much better.
Surrounded by archetypes, I was unfettered
No time for molds
No room for cliques
Everything I want to be, no more and no less.
What do fish have to do with anything? I don’t know; I only know that they’ve shown up in most of my dreams about the Beatles. Except the ones with the spaceships and the intestines…but never mind. The point is, obviously the Beatles and fish have some kind of deep subconscious relationship.
Or maybe I’m just crazy.
The first dream, which I have never told the full details of, started with me swimming in this awesome lake. Then these people came out into the water holding what were probably blocks of wood covered in fish, and scraped the fish into the water. The fish then came to life. I continued swimming in this disturbing situation for a while, and don’t remember stopping.
Later, I was in some kind of mall with someone who was my dad and yet wasn’t, and–you guessed it–the Beatles! From Yellow Submarine, of course. And for some reason they were all really tall. Anyway, then there was the elevator bit. This was when, as far as I can remember, the Beatles were in an elevator, and Ringo came up with the idea of standing on top to get to the next floor sooner. He was the only one who did this. After the elevator stopped we had to go pull him out. The other Beatles came out of the elevator first, of course. And they were singing something.
The thing I can’t stand is that I CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT THEY WERE SINGING! Damn. And then I woke up with “Nowhere Man” stuck in my head, and no, that wasn’t it.
And so that I can shut up and talk about something else, enjoy this:
It’s the evil volcanic toilet! Dun-dun-dun.
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