Posts tagged my life updates.
Last weekend and the beginning of this week has been a whirlwind of moods and feeling. And there HAVE been tornadoes reported, especially not far from where I work, albeit pretty small ones and not really threatening: A few uprooted trees and collapsed billboards falling on some poor guys’ cars. My wife told me that her friend—or I should say our friend as I also know her and actually we were doing something together a while back, but she and wifey are, y’know, closer—was again beat up by her now-former bastard boyfriend who as it turns out is already married. Yep, again, meaning she had suffered from this kind of treatment from her boyfriend before this bastard. I don’t know what I exactly felt really when my wife told me this. I know anger was there, for that bastard, for sure. Bu, I mean this nice girl was thrown into this situation again. WTF? And she didn’t report this bastard. Okay, he’s a fuckin police officer, but I’m pretty sure there are decent people in the force who can help her. Right?
And, the wife of one of my wife’s uncles (er..yeah that, you know) files for a divorce. They have such two such lovely little children (almost five and almost four). Man, that quite annoyed me. Really, it did. Okay, my wife’s uncle is not exactly a bleeding This Year’s Husband: He does not have a job; he does odd jobs and just recently he got conned of quite big amount of money, so I guess he’s pretty dumb.
Aaaand, I am buried with this copywriting, translating, a bit of writing articles and stuff, and was caught in the rain last night, hence, my staying home now (me nose somewot runny and shit) and rants.
Bear with me?
Why is it that everytime I’m in the middle of a BIG rain (such as now), I’d start humming peter Gabriel’s Here Comes the Flood?
Once upon a time it was ‘Rhythm of the Rain.’ Jason Donovan’s cover.
Here I am typing leeiik a bauz and I have to type ‘hierarchically’. It sounds so stoopid, idk
There are only 24 hours in a day, and I need mah boooooteh sleep.
She was asking about my availability in this project of hers—and God knows I could use the extra dough after what happened to my kids’ bedroom last week—and it seems txt messaging or talking on the phone just won’t cut it.
Should I then step into the second decade of this century, and get myself a BB?
Do cats shit grass they once in a while graze?
I need to reblog this.
So, I was on this commuter train, going to my place of work. I had my notebook and some other stuff in my backpack. I HAD the backpack with me most of the way, and put it on the compartment above me only about three frickin’ minutes from my stop. I had Suicidal Tendencies blasting from my headset.
Now, I know that hot piece of music isn’t any way responsible for the thing about to come down—‘cuz you know, it’s the goddamn SUICIDAL TENDENCIES is what this is—but, hey, it makes this note somewhat longer, so there you go.
Anyway, the train arrived at this big-ass station, and it was my stop, though I don’t usually get off here: This train’s final stop is not the one where MY commuter train ends its journey at, but the train had been the one ready to leave and I hadn’t had time to wait for the commuter train I’d have prefered to take.
Well, so I got off the train and walked like a boss to north exit of the station because that’s where I take the public minivan to my office. Upon reaching the spot where I’d wait for my ride, I realized that I LEFT my fricking backpack on the BLASTED train!
So, I ran, like an ass, back to the station, rushed to the Station Master’s office, and, while trying to catch my breath, told the people there that I was an ass, with Suicidal Tendencies blasting. A few phone calls later, the good people at the office told me the backpack was found and was secured and that I should just hang in there and chill and wait for the commuter train to return to the station, which should not be not more than 40 minutes (The train has only two more stops before reaching the last station and commutes back, really).
So, here I am, sitting on a bench at the station, writing this. With Suicidal Tendencies blasting.
I’m missing waiting for my kids’ coming home from school
I’m missing looking at my kids on the floor drawing
I’m counting the minutes when I can be with them
Yes, minutes as those are all we have together
I’m missing coming to them, instead of having them come to me
I’m missing jumping down onto the floor to them, and not having them drag me down instead
I’m missing their carefree ignorance to the world ready to bite your head off and spit you out
No, they’re not part of that world for they feel
And they see me as they want to hear me
And they hear me although they soon lose interest in me
They go after me yet they are so ready to ditch me for a new set of plaything
They want to play with me so they can beat me again and again
I miss them for that
And I want to go home having them eagerly waiting for me but will it mean they have been missing me?
I pray that they do not miss me ‘cause it hurts to miss
June 9, 2009
So, this is from my old facebook note once upon a time (June 9, 2009 to be exact)
I feel like putting something somewhat wordy on my tumblr blog but I’m lazy, so I copy-pasted this. Yeah.
The “Occupy” movement, whether displaying itself on Wall Street or in the streets of Oakland (which has, with unspeakable cowardice, embraced it) is anything but an exercise of our blessed First Amendment. “Occupy” is nothing but a pack of louts, thieves, and rapists, an unruly mob, fed by Woodstock-era nostalgia and putrid false righteousness. These clowns can do nothing but harm America.
“Occupy” is nothing short of a clumsy, poorly-expressed attempt at anarchy, to the extent that the “movement” – HAH! Some “movement”, except if the word “bowel” is attached - is anything more than an ugly fashion statement by a bunch of iPhone, iPad wielding spoiled brats who should stop getting in the way of working people and find jobs for themselves.
So, Frank Miller is dead to me. I love his 80’s and 90’s works: DK1 and DK2, Sin City, ninja-drenched Daredevil runs. But, after this… well, sure I’ll always reread those comics of mine, but it would be like listening to Jimi Hendrix, a dead genius (then again, Jimi Hendrix was never an asshole, well, unless if you factor in his drug abuse).
Fuck you, FM.
Now, let’s see if anyone wants to… Damn, I’m just not one to self promote (And I write advertorials to make ends meet)
Some Suicidal Tendencies sound so fuckin legit right about nowlkadabl;fd;
sorry i’m feeling shitty
xoxo and all that