s in the year 2000 which, through no fault of their own, never ended up getting entered at all:
knifegirl is justly ranked foremost chronologically (and otherwise), but the passage of a year hasn't made finding the appropriate emotional states or the appropriate words for them any easier.
...
following a properly-executed master-level beatbox performance, the microphone should be dripping wet.
in a properly gender-balanced audience, it won't be the only thing.
...
I have been taking care of a friend's pet lovebird, the charming orange/green Maxwell, for well on six months now and will be interminably, pending exchanges, travels and dorm life.
Not a few weeks after accepting stewardship of him, I was distressed by what is now a common and accepted occurrence - his thinking that my fingers are foxy lady birds.
This leads him to engaging in courtship displays, proving his excellence in providing food for young. Regrettably, this manifests in the form of his occasionally regurgitating birdseed on my hand when I reach in to say hello.
...
My cousin emerged from the institution and wrote a four-page letter to my parents thanking them for the $20 they sent him for his birthday, urging that they save their souls before it's too late and asserting that "there is more proof that Jesus rose from the dead than that Napolean ever existed."
I am troubled by the success, and wonder how long it would take for this nut to crack.
...
I spent $40 on a print I sat next to in the Templeton and was immediately enamoured of:
YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE WITTY OR ATTRACTIVE TO FALL IN LOVE.
The artist seemed impressed by my m4d p14n0 pl4ying sk1llz when we met up in The Grind to enact the exchange, but deep down I could feel her probing me to ascertain exactly what type of creep I was. After all, who spends money on things like that?
...
the dead will dance with what is left.
I often pick up things I find on the street and mention them in my day logs, but I rarely hang them up on my wall.
...
She stands on the eleventh-floor balcony of her West End apartment in the stark summer rays - before her, the vast blueth of False Creek. I catch something out of the corner of my eye - a flutter, a flap. A sheet of paper swooshes by at a tremendous clip, zig-zagging past the balcony and out of our frames of vision.
She opens her notebook, calmly selects another sacrifice, cleanly tears it away from the binding, and releases the page to take flight.
I demand to know what she's doing - after all, she has never allowed me to read any of her words, and at this rate there won't remain any for me to someday sneak through.
The rejects, the unsuccessful exercises, the lines she dislikes or is ashamed of - they are being lain to rest in a ceremony not entirely unlike the seabound pyres of the Vikings, and even the lowliest lyric briefly comes to know the kiss of flight.
... except the funereal flights of these pages is anything but brief - a half-dozen lazily spiraling on their way to the ground catch a thermal and rise Lazarus-like to greet and pass us, flippantly floating over the roofs of adjoining complexes and disappearing, flecks of parchment in the pale blue...
... and I wonder what would happen if she ever allowed to fly those words that she felt actually contained merit.
in our last episode... | p_i-logs | and then, all of a sudden...