Meat

Like the English degree wielding wench  I am, today I have been theorizing. About meat. Drag your minds back from the dirty place, I am actually talking about the food. I like meat. Yum.

The meat of the animals we most commonly consume is usually referred to by a different word than we use for the animal itself. Examples: pig=pork, cow=beef, deer=venison. My theory here is that we give meat names different names than the animal in order to distance ourselves from the act of killing and eating real live breathing things. Even if they are delicious.

Chickens are, of course an exception. When I'm going to eat a chicken I say "Hey! I'm going to eat a chicken." There's no tiptoeing around it. Because chickens are annoying poopy creatures whose only purpose in existing is to be eaten, preferably fried in delicious breading and hot sauce. HOWEVER!! The other primary exception to my brilliant award-winning theory is fish. Why? What did fish ever do to us? Nothing. Jaws is pure propaganda, probably funded by Nazis. But the truth is fish are just cute little bubble blowing swimmy things that we kill and eat without even the courtesy of trying to mask the act with a simple word.

So my suggestion is that we insert a new word into the English vernacular, a word that means fish meat. Somebody get on that.

Knitting Will Save You

I enjoy knitting. Knitting good. Knitting make Rachel happy. And here's why I'm telling you this: you should also knit.

First off, if you knit something pretty, (you can send it to me) you'll then have something pretty to make you happy, or to give to somebody else (me) and make them happy (Me. Therefore making yourself happy. Unless you have the wintry soul of a bitter old bitch, as many of us do. In that case, throw it at a small child and laugh in evil glee). Second, knitting is pretty zenlike. Zenous. Zenny. You can just drift off and think about anything while you knit: fish, disco, global warming. You'll be relaxed and possibly solve some major world crisis. Like how to keep fish alive inside of the chunky heel of the most awesome boots ever (and then send them to me). You can do it! I believe in you.

If you're a writer (and don't kid yourself, everybody's a writer (you're not special, I don't care what your mom and your elementary school guidance counselor said.), you could find inspiration for your next book while knitting. Seriously. Or at least figure out the next scene, or work out that piece of dialogue you're stuck on. Okay why the hell is the word dialogue not in whatever spellcheck from hell I'm using? AND WHY IS THE WORD SPELLCHECK NOT RECOGNIZED BY A SPELLCHECK PROGRAM? Fucked up. That's all I'm saying. Anyway. Knitting is a lot like those last few minutes before you fall asleep. Your mind is just wandering all over the place, and sure you usually get weird crap like "I'm a linx! I have laser vision and you will be my alien slave," but surprisingly often, something brilliant will just pop in there for a split second to say hi and maybe ask for a crumpet. And then you'll be all "Are you shitting me ambiguous politically correct deity, I'm twenty seconds away from glorious slumber and now I have to choose between getting up and finding a post it note so I can write this brilliant idea down that could quite possibly win me the Nobel prize, or relinquishing it to oblivion in the name of rest?!" But when you're knitting and inspiration occurs, it takes way less discipline to properly record your awesome, Nobel prize-winning ideas. Plus if you're feeling brain dead from writing the same sentence over and over again, cursing yourself for ever starting your story (book, poem) in the first place, remember the Zeniness of knitting. Purl your way to oblivion.

One more thing: knitting needles can be used as weapons in a pinch. Zombie Apocalypse? Good thing you're still working on that scarf you were going to give your boyfriend five years ago when you were still together, because now you can fend off possible brain-eatage with a good stab to the glassy eye of the nearest zombie. Go you!

I'm Baaaaaaaaaack!!

Okay, so the fact that I already have disappeared (after one fucking post no less) is probably not a good sign for the future of this blog. Are there any good signs for this blog? No. No there aren't. *emos out for 5 minutes*

Well I've moved from parentsbasementland to crapihavetopayrentland. It's a nice change. Being broke I mean. And the diet. Who needs the food pyramid? Ramen, that's what the people need. And vibrators. The world would be a happier place if everybody had a vibrator. And a sexier place. Hey look, I referenced my blog title! With subtlety. Speaking of ponies, I want one. Somebody get on that. (Shut up, that totally made sense.)

On to the actual reason for this post: I'm jealous. I'm very, very jealous. Recently, thanks to a jazz concert and a visit from my gigantically talented best friend (too talented. Thanks for the inferiority complex), I have realized that my life is pretty much devoid of doing the thing I love most in the world, the thing that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and complete inside. That thing is writing, if you were wondering. This doesn't count. Because the ugly truth about that amazing, orgasmic, joy that comes with doing the thing you love, is that it's a million times better when other people see how happy you are. Really. I don't think it's just me. But I really want to rub my happiness in people's faces. I want people to see me being so happy that they can't sleep because they keep thinking "Where did I go wrong in life, why am I not as happy as she is?" But right now I'm the person who can't sleep at night, because I keep seeing other people being happy doing the things they love to do. And the truth is, when I was watching the trumpet soloist at that jazz concert and he brought me into his love for blowing into a cold piece of metal until his lips go numb, I thought "His world is so big right now." Our world grows so incredibly big when we share it with other people.

So this post is just to remind anyone who stumbles upon my blog and actually reads this: please, please, please, be happy. And then taunt all the people surrounding you with said happiness. Unless you know me. If I went to high school with you and you're now in a band or playing football professionally: fuck you.

Ugly?

I've never blogged before. And I'm not going to advertise this page much to my sophisticated already bloggerly friends, because quite frankly I think I will be intimidated out of posting if I think people are actually reading this. So if a random person stumbles across this blog, hey you! Hi.

The reason this blog doesn't have a header is because, much like in life, I have no idea what I'm going to focus on in this blog. I don't even know what I'm focusing on in this post. I know that's bad. I'll work on it. It's difficult though, because all this internet porn is really distracting.

So, I'm a writer. It's pretty much required writers have blogs these days. Especially since I've been a nonpracticing writer since I moved back to my hometown. One could say my most time consuming practice is that of nonpractice, ho ho ho. I have long been a nonpracticing Catholic. Other things I'm nonpracticing at: nudist, s&mer, rock star. I am all these things, I'm just not working on them per se. Some of them I nonpractice more than others, i.e. nudism (I have recently worn socks in the shower), s&m, and rock starring. Of course, since these are the things I'm nonpracticing, it stands to reason that I do practice everything else. Except anal. It just doesn't do much for me, okay?!

Well I feel that I have sufficiently rambled for my first blog post. Maybe even too sufficiently. Plus (and here I shall reveal the dirty truth about why I'm even blogging in the first place: procrastination), I have to go pack because I'm moving in the morning. Random guy who was searching for porn and found this blog (and probably didn't even read until the end), hey you! Bye.