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Somewhere in Antigua

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Hater [Apr. 20th, 2006|12:44 am]
Somewhere in Antigua
[mood |Forcing Myself]
[music |to Write.]

He is a very big man. Huge. And he's angry.

We're sitting in my Echo, and I'm driving fast, unconsciously trying to speed away from him, even though he's in the same car. (I do funky shit like that. Once, Deborah was whispering something in my car, and I tried to make her louder by turning up the volume on my stereo.)

He has a large red and black can of Sobe No Fear. It is empty. As he's talking, he gets angrier. The angrier he gets, the more his large fists clench the empty drink. His words are punctuated by staccato shrieks of abused metal. By the time I drop him off, the round can will have become square.

"That Jennifer," he hisses, "she's a snake. High maintenance, don't get me wrong. Women that age don't be turning up their noses like that. Makes me want to hit her in the face."

He pauses.

"Sorry, sorry. You know what I mean? I never hit women, but I'm just saying. She's a snake."

I make a non-committal sound while unconsciously moving from 77 to 80 mph. I'm not afraid of Al, but he annoys the fuck out of me. Normally, I wouldn't put up with his shit.

But I need the money.Collapse )
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No, seriously [Apr. 18th, 2006|04:05 am]
Somewhere in Antigua
Dear my 54 friends,

I am giving you the opportunity to drop my sorry, non-updating ass with no hard feelings, no strings attached. Seriously, if you don't read my (REALLY OCCASIONAL) shit, and you feel like you want to tighten up the old f-list, do it. I am soooo okay with that. With extra ooooo's even.

I am at the (BI-ANUAL) point in my life where I feel like re-grouping and writing a bunch of shit. If you would like in on this bunch of shit of which I speak, you are more than welcome. However, you know the drill. Most likely, I will update like a freaking fiend for about two weeks and then drop off the face of the earth for a long while. If you are okay with this, I applaud you! I promise to be an active LJer starting tomorrow, replete with comments and awesome posts. But how long will this last? One, in the words of the infamous Mr. Owl, may never know.

So. Drop me if you wanna! I'm about to make a friends cut, and this would totally help! Otherwise, expect grand, if perhaps temporary, things f-list. Grand things indeed.

I'm going to edit my list for people I no longer read or who don't update, (MUCH LIKE ME) but if you wouldn't like to be cut, please let me know.

-K
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I wish I wrote this [Apr. 4th, 2006|08:05 am]
Somewhere in Antigua
The way she talks, you’d think she was bulletproof.
The way she walks in the rain, you’d think she was waterproof.
All her plans are foolproof, and her blood is 80 proof.
She’s so cool she thinks she’s safetight from everything;
I mean, her kind of cool isn’t even a theory,
it’s a mathematical proof.
And there’s just one thing she never counted on.

…And I know I’m supposed to say “me” or “love”
But believe me, she’s totally loveproof
And she won’t let me within a hundred yards of her.
No, the only element she isn’t counting on
is squirrels.Collapse )
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Interests Meme [Mar. 14th, 2006|10:59 am]
Somewhere in Antigua
gakked from ntang

LJ Interests meme results


You know you want to read it.Collapse )
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(no subject) [Mar. 11th, 2006|02:24 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
I am desperately craving a chicken omelet.

For the obvious reason, I'm going to hell.
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Twenty-Five Years and My Life Is Still. [Dec. 27th, 2005|06:37 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
[mood |Happy Birthday!]
[music |To Me!]

Image hosted by Photobucket.com

I look the exact fucking same.
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(no subject) [Dec. 17th, 2005|10:57 am]
Somewhere in Antigua
I am done with Humboldt.

Unfortunately, I am too fucking tired to write anything profound at this time.

However, I now have a shiny B.A. in English Literature. I do a little dance for it.

Surely, there are thousands of employers waiting to catch a glimpse of said degree so that they can pelt me with money.

Oh, wait. I already have a job, thaaaat's right.

Hah, I'm going back to 2002.

So long Humboldt. I will not miss your bums, but I will miss the trees. And other things.

Great, now I'm sad.
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More creepy kids. And shit. [Nov. 16th, 2005|01:35 am]
Somewhere in Antigua
When I was in junior high, I developed a mild obsession with “scary things”—an obsession that I fueled with readily available young adult fiction and film. Apparently, when a white, middle class grade-schooler between the ages of 10-14 first begins to consult the local library or video store, they look for abnormal stuff.

We like ghosts, especially ghost children with old but solvable mysteries.

We prefer said ghost children to quietly wait for and then show themselves to the perfect, if somewhat overshadowed by unfair circumstance such as a divorce in the family or an unrequited budding crush on a popular boy or girl, teenage sleuth aching to put right what once went wrong.

Betty Wren Wright made a killing in this particular market in the early 80s with her “Dollhouse Murders” series. In the same era, Christopher Pike also offered up some juicy ghost-child mysteries that begged to be solved. But this diversion with “ghost children” (who, though indelibly creepy, are usually on the side of good) is not limited to innocent spectral beings.

As pre-teens, we’re into all kinds of weird: monsters and madmen. Twisted things. Magic, witches. Demented nursery rhymes and aliens.

The thing with young adult fiction is that it can never cross the line. We’re not comfortable with that yet. Though seemingly horrible and awful, all of our young adult horror has to wrap up with some sort of closure. We need that happy ending. The ghosts are always good. The madmen and monsters are misunderstood. The villains, usually human, are caught and punished. The evil magic is vanquished, the good magic is restored, and the aliens are unmasked. Everything here plays as if it was all some strange and beguiling episode of Scooby Doo.

In a coup of mass marketed genius, R.L. Stein produced a stunning number of pint sized genre novels under the “Fear Street” and “Goosebumps” titles. Each numbered title—and there are hundreds of them at this point—is slick with a corporate logo, snazily titled, and numbered, making them cool enough—like gimmick gummi snacks and flavored juice boxes—to belong to a market for budding consumers. Furthermore, this system achieves the ultimate status—it makes each product a commodity, as collectible as baseball cards, “I’ll trade you #8 Monster’s Blood for #13 Evil Cheerleaders Part I!”

Yet, as commercial as these products are, their literary value, at least in my opinion, sadly lacks. Though there are hundreds of titles, countless protagonists and teeming antagonists, each novel is virtually the same—the same set-up, conflict and resolution each time. They are miniature television shows, variations upon the same theme. Though this in itself is not a bad thing, it is most certainly boring. More importantly, each novel is as timid as a commercial.

There’s no scary, here; only cheap thrills and inconclusive highs.

Ultimately dissatisfied with young adult genre novels, I moved on to the real thing.
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Second verse same as the first [Nov. 15th, 2005|03:26 am]
Somewhere in Antigua
Maybe it’s a personal bias, but for me, there is nothing more terrifying as creepy children.

I remember watching “Pet Sematary” at a middle school slumber party—words could not convey the utter terror in which I lived for weeks.

The creepy child in question, a blond moppet named Gage, toddles around innocently until he is hit by a previously foreshadowed (and therefore ominous) semi-truck that roars down the dirt roads of his rural town. In anguish, Gage’s father pulls at his own hair, gnashes his teeth, and then promptly scoops up the goop that used to be his son and buries it in the nearest former-Indian-burial-ground-cum-haunted-cemetery. Er. I mean, sematary.

Understandably, the boy comes back altered.

Even though the cherubic grin and other extremities are once again in tact, the boy is now demonic.

Running at his family with a butcher knife, Gage still emits that childish giggle—the giggle that signifies whole-hearted American innocence. That light-hearted giggle we still remember from our favorite childhood games. Something about this particular laugh—the wrongness of it, how it twisted something so innocent into something so corrupt and perverse—haunted, and has continued to haunt me.

Give me your Frankenstein monsters with their Halloween head bolts.

Show me your Dracula, complete with bad Eastern European accent and widow’s peak.

I can deal with your axe murderers and their nipple belts, though barely.

But leave the goddamn demon children at home.
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(no subject) [Oct. 31st, 2005|11:18 am]
Somewhere in Antigua


Happy Halloween!

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Countdown. [Oct. 27th, 2005|11:46 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
Three nights ago, I started to narrate a conversation in my head between myself and the wee hours. Basically, I was all, "Hi, wee hours, remember me," and wee hours was like, "STFU." 'Cause, rather than thinking that 2:00am - 5:00am would be personified as ethereal, I just like to choose bitchy. Then again, this whole conversation kinda weirded me out in that I've never silently talked to a plural personification before. I mean, how is this possible? How? The very grammar of it gives me the heebs.

Ever dream in a foreign language? I'm in my third year of French, and let me just say I'm extra special shitty at it. However, two nights ago, I dreamed in French. Fluently. And the thing was, I knew every word that I was saying, and this was just a standard, normal thing.

Last night, I woke up at 4:30, and it felt like my head was crawling. My brain was full of thoughts that I couldn't articulate. Is that normal, anyway? Trying to articulate thoughts? Am I the only one who tries that? Anyway, I came up with a line in the middle of the night, and though I can't remember it, I know that at the time, I was very proud. It's funny how one line can tie up a whole head full of loose, creeping thoughts.

I wish I could remember.
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(no subject) [Sep. 22nd, 2005|08:02 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
Studying for the impending GRE tomorrow. Supping on my dinner, comprised of a (single) bloody mary. Am being very cynical about the whole thing, really. Not cynical about the bloody mary so much as the whole standardized test thing. Just to clarify.

Last standardized test I took was in high school nearly (WAIT FOR IT) a decade ago. Well, more like... six years. But if you round it up, six years is basically a decade. Just like I'm basically 25 which is basically 30 which is basically 50.

In best buddy cop accent: "I'm too old for this shit."

Seriously, I am an old old girl, or at least I feel like it. Nearly all of my friends from high school either already have their degrees or they're grad students. And here I am, GRE bound and more cynical than... someone who is reallllly cynical, extra "l's" notwithstanding.

The thing is, I am not sure I want to be an English Lit grad student. I think it is the cynicism talking, but: so, I learn how to write the most kick ass book report ever. Yay. Then what. All roads lead to teaching, here; and let me tell you, I've tried that, and garsh was it hard and do I not want to go back to it.

Option B consists of me going back home and working Dilbert-like, complete with cubicle and boss with silly hair, though moins the bespeckled talky dog. Decisions.

Maybe it's because I'm used to running away every semester, doing homework (sometimes) instead of real work, but I am not very excited to get back into the real world so much. In fact, I don't think I'd like to be a grown-up again. As much as I bitch about student life, this is where it's at. The truth of the matter is, I think I'm just into bitching. Looking over scant recent entries and I realize: a) I like the word "fuck" b) also: "argh" c) and I think kittens are cute. Yay content.

Though, I think we all realize that I'm just writing this so I won't have to study for the GRE.

Fuck.

Argh.

kittens!!
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(no subject) [Sep. 2nd, 2005|10:50 am]
Somewhere in Antigua
this is copy pasted from a friend of a friend!

http://www.redcross.org/donate/volunteer/

"the red cross (RC), much to my surpise, has put out a call for volunteers. they will train you for two days and then ship you off to the gulf coast to operate shelters, rebuild roads, dig latrines, etc. you have to go for a minimum commitment of nine days, max three weeks.

i HIGHLY ENCOURAGE all of you to sign up. the red cross has money ($71 million as of a few hrs go) and yes, they are a bureaucratic, wasteful, high-overhead group. but those kinds of groups (salvation army, second harvest, oxfam, CARE, etc.), the ones with fleets of trucks, generators, planes, pilots, drivers, warehouses full of water and medicine, etc. are the most effective at times like these, not cool organic gardens, co-op's, etc. they need young, strong people who are willing to sweat and work, and if any of you have ever talked about making the world a better place, a disaster this close to us gives you a great opportunity.

RC will pay all of your expenses. if you have the will and a boss as cool as mine that thinks this is worthwhile, then call up your LOCAL red cross chapter (go to yahoo local and type in red cross, the national number is overwhelmed) and get on the list. the bay area is full for a few days at least, but it will open up next week.

deployments will be anytime between five minutes after training ends until xmas.

to reiterate, it is HIGHLY UNUSUAL for groups to call for volunteers in these kinds of situations, and because they are calling means that the demand far outstrips what they can provide. i won't give you the emotional heart strings reason as to why you should volunteer, you have the internet for that. but i think all of us who are able-bodied and dont mind being dirty for a while ought to do what we can."



I'm signed up through the Humboldt chapter, and my training begins on Monday. I will not know when or if I'm going to the Gulf Coast until our chapter is called and notified. If you're in the Humboldt area, and you wish to do the same, either contact me for details, or call the Humboldt office at (707) 443-4521
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So long, and thanks for all the fish. [Aug. 19th, 2005|03:06 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
Goodbye Northrop Grumman.

Hello Humboldt.
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(no subject) [Aug. 11th, 2005|09:37 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
I am disappointed with the lack of participation in the Pointless Gatsby Project. Sign the fuck up. Seriously, I will start solliciting soon.

Leaving here in roughly a week. Can't say that I'll be sad to go, so much. Dunno, f-list. This has been the Summer O' Drama, and let me tell you: me and drama, we're like a goth girl and a shitty razor blade. Sure we're attracted to one another, but the end results: not so nice.

I somehow managed to embroil myself into a bitter, wrathful argument between two colleauges. (See: my relationship with drama). I built this really nice database for a department at work, and there's this one dude who thinks the Man is gonna come down on him, so he's been sending me emails in secret, asking me to add little features here and there. Well. Shit hit the fan. Evidently, the Man found out about our clandestine correspondence (THE STORY OF MY LIFE) and promptly visited me in my shitty office/cubicle.

"DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO [EMBITTERED MAN]!" she screeched at me in caps, clutching a damning, printed out email.

"um. okay?" I wavered, my eyes drowning in a pool of drama.

"JUST SHINE HIM ON," she continued to ululate, in caps, "IF HE ASKS YOU WHY HIS SHIT ISN'T DONE, JUST SAY YOU'RE WORKING ON IT."

"gulp. eeep. err. ack," I stuttered, choking on a bitter chunk of drama.

***

In other news, I'm going SCUBA diving off the Channel Islands this weekend, and I'm very excited. Though, have to be in Santa Barbara at 5:30am. This may, in fact, kill me. However, I'll be certified. Finally. Oh, and for peeps coming back from Mehico: What We Doin'?

Bed: it calls.
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The Pointless Gatsby Project II [Aug. 5th, 2005|01:46 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
Picked up the Gatsby again the other day. Telling you, me and that book, we go way back. I always feel so confessional every time I read it, like I Need to Tell the World. This may be lame and/or slightly alarming, but I'm cool with that.

So, it's about that time (to bring forth the rhythm and the rhyme) again for Kristin's Spectacular Quasi-Annual Pointless Gatsby Project Part Deux.

This time around, I'm in a much different mental place, and also I'm out of those cool Fitz stamps.

Rules are pretty much the same. I will send you a weird postcard with a Gatsby quote (written all stylish with green gel pen) and a li'l message to you. All you gotta do is give me your address, should you wish to participate. This time around though, for the li'l message, I'm taking requests. Want a haiku? Do you have a burning question you would like me to answer all cryptically so I can freak out your mail dude? You want me to draw a picture? Your call, should you wish to participate.

Poll #546541 Pointless Gatsby Project II

You want in? Gimme address:

Any requests?



yay.
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(no subject) [Aug. 1st, 2005|03:45 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
Ah, the Freak Poll. Who would have thought that the responses would have varied so much? Suffice to say, you lot are mostly a self-proclaimed bunch of freaks, and I find this comforting in that my freakiness is evidently comprised mostly of spasms. I win you lose!

So, it is 3:00 and work is slightly retarded, and I have plenty of things to write about, but I'm on a government computer, so I feel slightly opressed in doing so.

Therefore, I offer up another quiz just because there is no point to it all:

Poll #543983 allbymyself. thinkingofyou.

My thoughts at this precise moment mostly coincide with:

Blah blah. Work. Blah blah.
1(9.1%)
Beer.
0(0.0%)
Mmmm. Nerd games... Man, I love that WoW.
0(0.0%)
Mmmm. Soft core... Man, I love that Shannon Tweed.
1(9.1%)
omg, my fandom, omfg.
0(0.0%)
Ugg. Nyquil. Must inject... sweet nectar.
2(18.2%)
Ow. Quit it
2(18.2%)
Fish.
3(27.3%)
Lalala let's dance! or sing! weeee!
1(9.1%)
I am a steaming pile of angst.
1(9.1%)

And/or:



Also, this quiz is kicking my butt in terms of postage, and I just may be a moron.
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(no subject) [Jul. 29th, 2005|01:16 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
It has come to my attention that I am definitely some sort of strange. I am okay with this. However, there is a thin line--a THIN line--between being strange and being a freak. I am not sure I am okay with my inner freak, if indeed it does exist. Though, this may be a moot point in that my inner freak may not be so inner. I must find outside opinions. Therefore, with my newly upgraded account, I ask you to subject yourself to:

Poll #542141 The Freak Poll.

Am I a freak, and is this okay?

Kristin, you are a freak. It is true. What is more, I am not okay with this. When you exhude freakiness, I try to find a quiet place in my head and go there.
0(0.0%)
Kristin, you are a freak. It is true. What is more, I am totally indifferent. When you exhude freakiness, I'm all: "...okay."
2(13.3%)
Kristin, you are a freak. It is true. What is more, I'm totally supportive of it. When you exhude freakiness, I think it's at least entertaining, if not cute.
2(13.3%)
Kristin, you are not a freak. Not so much. It is entirely possible to freak out without being a freak. Therefore, I advise thee: chill!
6(40.0%)
Kristin, you are not a freak. At least, not as much as a freak as I am.
5(33.3%)


Thank you for your time, and I value your opinion.
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A story that I wish to claim as my own: [Jun. 20th, 2005|08:15 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
Okay, here are the rules. I'm going to pretend that the following events happened to me, so much so that I will be employing the first person narrative here.

Balls, Descending

So, I'm sitting outside the store, smoking a cigarette, not really wanting to get back to work. I'm not the most intimidating girl on the block, but, you know, I've had my fear and/or awe-inspiring moments, especially in terms of children.

Outside the dock, there is a murder of skateboarders (an enclave? a pride?), whose median age would be described as roughly seven and three quarters. They're skating off old pallets, doing little lame tricks and generally exhuding ass-hat-edness. I smoke, watch them whoop and dude call, and contemplate the temerity of youth.

Perhaps I'm lost in my own thoughts for a bit, or perhaps I've been distracted by the forklift sounds behind me, but when I look back at the dude-boarders, I notice that their alpha is frantically gesticulating with what appears to be a blown up condom. He prances to and fro, tosses it to his buddies, and they giggle and ponce about. Then, as I've stubbed out the cigarette, I notice that they start to huddle. "What," I say silently, "is this about?"

So, while I'm watching, the smallest skater comes up to me on the dock. He walks slowly, slightly affraid, hands behind his back. "This," I say silently, "is really strange."

And then, when he's about a foot from me, he thrusts his hands in my face, and I am utterly perplexed to find that there is a blown up condom seeking my nose.

"You like this?" he sneers, "You want it?"

I am so goddamned shocked that I nearly fall back ass-wards off the platform.

"You know you want it," he shreiks, his dudes going apeshit behind him.

Normally, I would have trout-slapped the little dickhead so good and hard that his balls would have dropped right then and there.

However, I seem to have developed some sort of post-tramautic stress symptoms at this point, and the only thing I could do is follow the condom with my eyes and laugh and laugh until tears stream down my cheeks and I start to tweet.

"Kid," I say to him between tweets, "You got scrotum. Probably unreleased scrotum at this point, but gigantic balls all the same."

The kid tires of his game, and he and his little dudes ponce off to some other adventure, but the moment stays with me, and it is not unpleasant. Going back to my shift, I realize that yes, people are mostly shitheads. But sometimes, being a shithead means you got to take risks, and if that means harrassing some lady with an inflated condom out back of the goddamn discount grocery, then who am I to deliver judgement?

Thank you, Kelly Ward.
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(no subject) [May. 9th, 2005|06:11 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
[mood |frightened]
[music |silent screams]

Review in T-49 minutes.

I scream silently, for I am frightened.
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