ayla_april

Listening to Ministry. . . nursing a quiet drunk. . . this evening is nice.

Mmm. I got awful sleep because I slept in clothes.
Dad woke me up by coming in and kissing my forehead and saying, "Hey, I really do love you and Clay, you know. Both of you, very much."

I feel grimy. I want to spend the day DIY-- fixing my sweater and fixing up a new one-- and packing and listening to music. I leave tomorrow. Eghh!

Oh for God's sake. I have to find out through fucking FACEBOOK that my brother broke up with Danielle. Looked at my profile and it just said "Married." I just called her and she said, "Wait-- nobody told you? It happened a few days ago."
No, fucking, nobody told me. Clay didn't tell me.
She didn't call. I don't have a problem with that, I'm actually just surprised I think.
But. . . Clay was really making her miserable and so I guess she recognises that intellectually and is. . . working. . . through. . . that.
God damn it. God damn it! She. . . she is something else. I love that woman. God damn.
I don't understand how anyone could leave her.
She makes so much sense.

Dad blew a fuse on the way home. It was really interesting. In the car on the way home, he'd said something about the instrument Clay made and how it was cool, and he sounded absolutely sincere about it-- I don't know if it was 'cause Damon was there or what, but it sounded like it was something he actually appreciated.
And then, as we were talking more, I was turning onto Mexico, he made some comment like, "I don't know what Clay's fascination with bands and musical instruments is."
And I said, "I think it's cool. It makes him happy."
And dad goes, "COOL. Yeah, it's real cool when his car breaks down and I'm fixing it. Everyone should wear cowskins and play music, that's COOL. And he can go ahead and be happy and do all that while we're paying his rent."
And this is when I noticed this huge rift in what he'd been saying earlier, in the car, and what he was saying now.
So I say, "Look, I just think that it's important because he cares about it, and I think that it's important that he cares about SOMETHING."
Which was probably the wrong thing to say and I kind of knew it, I was just pressing a button because I had a problem with the rift between what he says in front of company when I ask, and what he says to me privately when I am quiet. (Well, not quiet. I'd thanked him for ticket's I'd gotten, told him the concert went well, asked him if playing afternoon-evenings got repetitive.)
And he just goes real dark and he says-- repeats, really-- "yeah, it's COOL. I'm fixing his car and he's upstairs making some fucking banjo." And at this point we're pulling into the drive and I get really quiet and I just say,
"I just don't want to see the life go out of him, that's all." And that really is all, I mean that, I mean everything about it. Clay's happiness and interest in something will ALWAYS be more important to me than most things about him, that's the kind of person I am. I care about that. I don't care about money because I'm his sister and not his mom. Which, I see is impractical, but fuck you. I care about how he IS.
And dad just gets out of the car before it really stops and says, "Yeah, well you'd better just hope the life doesn't go out of ME, or you'll get nothing."
And that was it. He hasn't spoken to me since.
I don't have as much a problem with his opinions of things than his disingenuous. . . comments prior. Although I guess I put him on some sort of spot, asking about Clay in front of mixed company. I still have a problem with it; how it could seem so sincere and then turn into a fire.

I. . . aside from that and a few other things about my Dad (various inconsiderations this evening, although I'm sure they almost match my own), I had a glowing night. Morning, afternoon, evening, night. All of it, it's been marvelous; full of Patrick Swayze, and good sleep, and coffee, and Len being in a sparkly mood, and great fucking company, and corned beef sandwiches and ice cream and Charlie Chaplin. So many good things in one day.

Bad ones, too, a few. A few bad things.
But I feel like caring more about the good ones.

My classes got canceled! I have the whole day off, and I can't figure out quite what to do with it.
I got horrible sleep and woke up furious, so I'm considering going back to bed. . . at the same time, though, it's nine thirty and I like being up early, and Clay is also up early, and I am more likely to go to bed early rather than sleep now.
I met a nice stranger on the lightrail. He gave me a light, and then also three packages of Orbit in an opened package and some hot cocoa packages. He told me that I was "joyful" and that he thought and hoped I would go far in life and be blessed. It was really sweet and put me in a better mood.

No matter how skeptical or ambivalent I am about attending a show at the Wasteland, I never have a bad time.
Last night was marvelous. Honestly. I had a beer or two and hopped in the car; Clay, Mouse, DJ, 12, Rhiannon and I booked it to the venue and dicked about outside until nine-thirty, when they opened doors. Caught Sin Dios and Handcannon, two local punk bands; DJ got sick and we took her home. The other Danielle was there, drunk as a. . . some simile or another. Came back, and the DCP kids were there, which was nice. Caught the Braskies and slammed around with Brazil and Mason a bit, danced with Chris and Anya and also Brazil, had my fist in the air. Fell a few times. Got covered in that textbook beermud. Bought a few 2-buck PBR drafts. Watched the A-OK's set up; they put on a killer set, even though Matt was out of town and the solo during You're A Bomb was. . . lacking. Ha.
It was nice. I made better friends with Mason, which I've been meaning to do for a while; we're always at the same shows. He treats me like a little sister, it's nice. Chris tried to kiss me like five times and I kept shoving him off of me. He was really wasted. I felt kind of bad but, seriously, Chris, fuck off.
"Are-- who are you dating? Can I kiss you?"
"No, dude! Come on, get up, go dance!"
Chris is real brain-dead. I feel bad. I'll have to ask Madeline if he's always been that much of a spacecase
.
I traded bandanas with Brazil, and I miss mine. Mine was an object of comfort. I liked the way it smelled. I liked how it was covered in MY blood and MY sweat and MY smoke. I liked how it smelled just enough different from me that I could recognise that it was different. I liked how it was fraying at the bottom and I'd tied it together; I liked how it wasn't starched; I liked how it was threadbare and stained.
Brazil's is smaller, ALMOST as soft, and it smells exactly like Micah used to. It's a smell that definitely comforts me, but not in the same way at all. Actually, no. Comfort is not the right word. "Familiar" is. At first, it sent me into an emotional shock; mostly I just like that by wearing it, I'm starting to associate that smell to something directly indicative of good times and a complete lack of emotional attachment or pain. THAT is definitely a comfort. Also, it's red; off-red. Spicy.

Jerebob took some great pictures last night; can't wait until he puts them up.

DJ was really sick. I was the one on the couch comforting her between songs, with my head in her lap. Something about that bothers me-- Clay should have been with HER, not taking care of the other Danielle. ALthough I do have a respect for that, also. Just not. . . not comparatively, not circumstantially.

I got slammed around a good deal. Caught some kid's jacket in the pit-- he came at me and my neck caught a couple centimeter spikes on his jacket. Knocked the fucking wind out of me. My knees are colorful; my back and hips are too. It's nice.

It was a good night. Such a killer line-up. GREAT fucking bands, great kids, great show in general.

We're going to keep this short and sweet (Frank and birthday vgifts will be back next week). You've probably seen the updates to our main menu. Don't be alarmed. You'll find everything you need, just in slightly shifted format. Just so you know, we based these changes on input from both experienced and new users who were not familiar with LiveJournal. Our goal was to reduce barriers to usability and make LiveJournal more accessible and easy to navigate. Please note that this is a work in progress. We welcome your detailed suggestions in feedback. We thank you, in advance, for helping us improve your LiveJournal experience.

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Thanks again for joining us. Frank and company will be back next week!

I had creepy dreams last night, a truly remarkable evening, and I want to go to a concert on Wednesday night at the Wasteland, and. . . . grruughh.

Danielle told me a story once about two friends of hers who would go out to super expensive restaurants and make reservations, eat all they wanted, get really intimate, and eventually work up to having sex in the booth/on the table so that the restaurant owner would ask them to leave and they didn't have to pay.
Jesus, that's all one sentence. Who the fuck am I? Virginia Woolf? Fucking Faulker? Oooh snap, lit reference. Too bad that's actually how I happen to think. I relate everything back to books, authors, literary themes. It drives my boss nuts.

Len likes the fact that I wear summer dresses and combat boots together at work. That's why I'm so stoked on the fact that my boss is awesome.

Poor Ms. Dubrava, with her broken wrists that look more like baseballs. She is a fragile lady. I'm glad to see Ms. Clark is going to be around more, though. She has less of a sensitivity towards my interest in working in the breakout room, though. I don't think she knows that it's my senior project.

I have dejected and removed poetry flashing around in my head and I can't put it together into anything right now.
I have teeth marks on my knee, also. And my arm. And some bruises that have been on my legs a while but not long enough for me to have attributed them to a concert. I can't think of what I have been doing that would have spotted my legs, except for maybe falling on ice.

I only like it when people like Christina and Domenic express, "Bummer." You know how they do that? They're the only people who do it right.

"Wait, are you going to be up later?"
"I don't know, it's lookin' that way."
"Well, hey, I'll just call and try not to wake you up. Do you remember that time I woke you up?"
"No, not at all, what happened?"
"You thought that you had called me."
"What?"
"No shit. I woke you up and asked if I woke you up, and you said, 'No, I called you!' and I just said, 'no you didn't, honey,' and told you to go back to sleep."
"Oh, wow, no, I don't remember that at all."

I'm telling you, I have the weirdest conversations when people call me in the middle of the night. I always hear about them later and they're stupidly outrageous.
How could my brain think that I called someone else in sleep? Weird.

I feel beautiful. Today is a beautiful day. I'm cleaning right now, but the second I am done I am going to spend all day outside!

Balarat was. . . Balarat. Didn't care much for or against it this year. Senior year is weird. I have been up there five years out of the six we've gone, and I always cared a little more for it those times than this time. It was nice. Not as much bonding went on, mostly just a lot of goodbyes from and between the nine seniors. Pretty sad stuff.
We did workshops for the younger kids and everything, it was nice, it seemed like some of the sixth and seventh graders liked it (we never get to work with them! Especially since we didn't do any workshops at the Divine Science church this year. Jesus Christ those things are tiny. They are SO SMALL. I don't remember being that small six years ago.)
It was. . . cool.
The kids in that program, ESPECIALLY the middle school kids, are so fucking talented. They blow me the fuck away. Most of those kids are twice the writers I have ever been-- it's really beautiful, it's really great to hear them. That's my favorite part, the sharing on the second day. Ninety kids, and they ALL have to read something they'd written up there, and it's just. . . even some of the ones who are TWELVE FUCKING YEARS OLD are INCREDIBLE. God DAMN it. That program really must do something. You can tell that they have this acute understanding of language, even at that age. It's really incredible.

The Room was funny as hell. I can't even. . . I. . . I'm glad I went. Sean came, too, which was awesome. I'm glad I got to see him one more time before he leaves.

Suki is one of the few people I can spend three straight days with and not want to murder. In fact, I enjoyed every second of it. (I love you, you know.)
After we got back, we both took showers and walked down to the DazBog, then wandered around Cheesman for a while and talked. Two or so hours. Went back to the house, got ready, went out to sushi with her mom, which was also REALLY NICE.
Came home from that and she watched Skins and I fell asleep until about ten thirty, and then we got our ass together and went to The Room, which was seriously fucking hilarious. It wouldn't have been NEARLY as funny if the dynamic had been any different in the theatre, honestly.

I should finish cleaning and put on pants and go outside.

We're finishing up a few odds and ends before our next major release. Our mighty Ops guys continue to slay spambots and balance load times on a highwire without a safety net (which is kind of tough dressed in full ninja gear). Down on solid ground, we're celebrating this week's virtual birthday party with a warm toast to pants. If you can rearrange the letters of your favorite city, state, and/or country (feel free to combine these elements) to spell one of Frank's favorite treats (e.g., pants, wire, paper, etc.), he'll send you over a can of whipped cream to top it all off (provided you return the empty can for his midnight snack)! And, with that, let the word scrambling commence!

Stuff you should know:

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Help is on the way!

We're pleased to announce the winner of our first charitable vgift poll, Doctors without Borders / Médecins Sans Frontières, which provides critical medical care to under-served populations around the world. Priced at $2.99, we'll donate 100 percent of the proceeds we raise from the sale of this vgift (we'll cover credit card fees). We invite you to start recommending nonprofits for our next fundraising drive at ljnewscontests. We'll take suggestions through the month and post a poll in the news during the first week of April to let you choose the recipient. We thank you, again, for your passion and generosity.

We've crowned a header

Congratulations to ohterlus for submitting the winning header, which will go live next week and keep us leafy through mid-April! You can submit designs for our next header contest at ljnewscontests now until March 31st. We'll post a poll in the news to let you decide which header will sit at the top of LiveJournal from mid-April to mid-May. All artistic interpretations are welcome. The winner will get a $25 LiveJournal gift certificate. All other contributors will receive $5 gift certificates. Our heartfelt appreciation for sharing your talent and creativity!

For this week's winning photo and more adventures with Frank & Meme, we'll catch you under the cut!

( Read more... )

Today is not the first time that I have witnessed my boss talk to a customer for an hour after close when they needed an ear, even after habitually or repeatedly expressing irritation with them. It's cool to see, the way he wants to be there for anyone who might need him. He is terribly available. I really love it.

Dad went out to dinner with Clay, tonight. That's really. . . it's really nice.

I feel nice today. Good, today. Caught sushi with Sean for breakfast.
Today has been really fucking. . . warm.

I have good friends. I have fucking great friends. There are good people in this world, you know.

1.)
It would mean the world if you did this:
CLICK HERE. Vote for Sentry. Who is Damon, of course.
Out of all the damned fucking good reasons to do anything. Christ. (You should watch the video, it's great.) But vote for him.
--

Balarat on Thursday and Friday is going to kill me. There's nothing I want more than to spend a couple of days writing, and also SMOKING AND DRINKING, neither of which I can do in good conscious up there. Fuck. Fucking. Fuck. I should take a fucking vacation instead. To my own mountains, in a tent, with my books and my cigarettes and my booze. Moreover, alone.

I bought twelve fake flicker candles for the breakout room today. You want to know how much it cost me? Six dollars and forty-seven cents. Which is a third of what it cost me for that many at work. After digging for the fucking box.

Len left me a note today that said that my ampersands faced the wrong way and that it would get me in trouble in life one day.

Our store is a fucking fire hazard. Russel Stover displays out the wazoo, shoved in the ceiling. God bless that place.

I have nothing to say right now.