Yesterday a bunch of us were hanging out in McDonalds and I got a bit bored of the conversation so I took out my yarn and hook to work on some gifts for Christmas. (I am WAY behind on my Christmas gift list, on that note.)
Johnny took one look at me, audibly groaned, and said, "Please don’t do that.“
"Why not?” I asked defensively.
“Because crochet to you is like smartphones to normal people in a social situation.”
Skeinz, a yarn store in New Zealand, is calling on knitters throughout the world to knit sweaters for the penguins affected by a massive oil spill that occurred earlier this month. The tiny sweaters, while eliciting aww’s and squee’s, serve a very important function: they prevent the oil-soaked birds from poisoning themselves by preening, as well as keeping them warm before it’s their turn to be cleaned up by cleanup workers. And, you know, who doesn’t want to save the lives of penguins by dressing them in the most adorable way possible?
So I seem to have acquainted myself with the eczema community on Tumblr! :) Hi guys, and thank you so much for the follows.
I think it is so extremely cool that there are others on Tumblr willing to bare their souls on what it’s like to live with eczema, not a shameful thing at all.
It makes my heart sing to know that I’m not alone, that there are cases like mine, that I can draw support from this community even if I’ve never met one of you, and in turn encourage you in any way I can.
7 chapters down, 3 more to go! Then I just gotta go over my revision notes and try to make sense of them, and then I’ll be sort of ready for the exam tomorrow. Sort of.
Yes, I write notes of the notes I wrote throughout my semester so I can read those second notes to reinforce the points.
My personal revision process. Don’t judge me.
Is it so strange to say that I have dreams of becoming a copy editor? ‘Cause every time I mention that to journalists they give me this look, like, Are you aware of how shitty the job description is?
Yes, I’m perfectly aware, but I can’t shake that feeling that it’s just what I’m meant to do. To proofread and to do factual revisions and to transform badly processed thoughts into clear, concise pieces. Not very glamorous, but it sounds like something I’d love to do. Idk. Too soon to speak?
I’m clinging on for dear life, 50 feet above the ground, on a bar and a rope that looks like it could snap at any moment. I wait desperately for someone to save me. On the ground, people are watching me, pointing up, gasping…laughing.
My arms are on fire and my vision starts to swim, but I don’t want to die, so I cling on. I don’t scream out for help, because I know nobody will come, so I cling on.
Out of nothing, a man in a rowboat – balding, with a potbelly – materializes in the air nearby. He drags his oars lazily through thin air, pushing his funny little boat towards me. It jolts me with a bump.
The little rowboat rests in midair next to me, gently rocking side to side on an axis of nothing. I can feel eyes below me observing in interest. The man whips out a cigarette, lights it, and stares at me; one eye blue, the other yellow.
He deliberately blows smoke in my purple face, and along with it puffs out, “I can help, ya know.”
“Well shure, missy. Alls ya got to do is…take off all yer clothes.”
So today we were sitting around the table after lunch just chatting and having some ice lemon tea my little sister made. This fly that had been bugging (pun unintended) my dad throughout our meal suddenly zoomed into her now-empty cup, probably attracted by the sugary goodness of the two drops left of her ice lemon tea.
Without missing a beat, my dad’s hand snapped over the cup. He raised it above his head with a victory war cry (not exaggerating) and began whipping the cup back and forth in front of his face o_______o
Finally he stopped to take a peek inside, chuckled, said, “It’s really stoned right now,” and added two blocks of ice cubes into the icelemontea/insect concoction. He swirled it around a couple of times to make sure the fly was proper soaked.
Then he casually picked up where the conversation had left off.
Are soft, and smooooth. Like, baby bum, velvety powder, satin smooth.
It’s not that I’m bragging. Okay, maybe I am, but they’re the only part of me I have valid reason to brag about. I love my cheeks. I love running my fingers over them because I can’t believe something so smooth belongs to this body, when everything else is gross and roughened and discoloured.
I’ll always appreciate the fact that I’ve had lovely smooth cheeks, even when I’m old and wrinkly (which would likely be in a couple of years, at the rate my skin is degenerating).
I am sunk in melancholy today for the first time in, well, months.
You haunted me in my sleep.
You haunted me on the bus.
You haunted me in songs.
You haunted me in memories.
While canvassing houses today, this little old lady stopped me for a conversation. She was lonely; her husband passed away suddenly three months ago and she has nobody to speak to but the flowers he left her with.
“Fifty-four years we were married. Met at 16. Kissed at 17. Spoke our vows at 18,” she calmly recited to me, and then wiped her face without a pause.
“Sorry, I still get tearful.”
It’s funny how that was the sort of future we saw in ourselves.
In my self-indulgent misery I wonder if there were any two people who hurt as much as we do.