Les mots d'action

Better? Than this dazzling plot?

I have made a habit of staying up late reading English homework (and not actually doing it) and just ending up writing silly things that usually open with a line from a Broadway song that is running through my head at the moment. But they tend to sort of relate...whimsically...cryptically...to life as we know it...as I know it...
My body is stressed. My body is tired. It's telling me to stop what it is I'm doing, shut down, take a nap, curl into a ball, read some silly French mountaineering book, arrest the pondering process, discontinue the jarring of leg joints. Stop feeling disappointed and frustrated in things you have no control over.
If you didn't WANT me, why did you PICK me, and then choose to make me feel bad about it? You always do this, mind you. Silly artsy folk. 
I think I fall under the silly artsy folk category.
But I think I stand with at least one or two toes in a more practical category.
I think that is why there is always so many ideas pushing and shoving and being generally impolite in my brain at any given moment. Maybe this is why I can't focus on English homework. Maybe this is why I can't even focus on sleeping.

Is there a button, somewhere, to press? Is it marked clearly? Is it color-coded? Does it make a satisfying beeping noise, and will I know it when I hear it? Will things suddenly be clearer, warmer, richer, solid? Solid.
Solid.
Solid.
Solidity. Strength. Comfort.
Enough with the adjectives- get on with the verbs.

Un plus beau sourire

See, you're laughing
And I'm smiling
By a river, in Ohio
And you're...


Today was an okay day. It was a WWJRBD day. It was a moving day. It was a fast day. It was a startled success day. It is a finished day. It is a sleeping-with-an-ice-pack day. It was a preparation day. It was a Monday. It was my last sugary day until Spring Break. So the entire month of March will not be sugar-free...just the next 3 weeks. Maybe.

Stalling, waiting, watching, thinking, typing, icing, breaking, opening.

C'est ici que j'arrete

Pourquoi j'ecris?

Just like a Blue Rodeo song, I'm telling you.

Blue Rodeo is my favourite band. I'm really not ashamed to admit it. 

My favourite musical is about two gay boys in a Catholic boarding school. It's not by Jason Robert Brown.

I feel like an impostor when I'm reading English AP books.

I want to paint on a canvass bigger than me.

I want to dance again. 

I don't know why I thought anyone would be interested in reading this list.

PAS DE TITRE.

This isn't what I planned for, let's go back
back
back

back some more
just right
what a shame

and she fights for her life as she puts on her coat...

My plans never work. I can already feel this one failing. And I won't let myself become emotionally invested in this again.
What do I say?
What do I do?
What do I want?
Why can't this be over?
Why can't I read minds?

Verbs I am bad at:
Grasp. Hold. Tighten. Grab. Contain. Clutch. Possess. Keep. Bind. Adhere. Retain. Wield. Need.

Maman! Maman!

Way to go. I've just realised.
Real. Isation. Oh, what the fuck.

Purpose, purpose, purpose, purpose, porpoise.
Perhaps a stranger, she could love.

You always support my everchanging moods, minds, and eccentricities. Considering where we've been...I appreciate it more than you know. Judgments are never made. You just understand me. AC, I love you. And I'm not talking about air conditioning.

J'apprends de nouvelles choses

• This is a list. This is a list of things. Lots of things. Thingie things, nonthingie things. Things that don't make sense, things that won't make sense, things where it doesn't matter if they make sense or pertain to everyday regular life at all. Why would it? They?
• Like grammar. I am a grammar afficiando, generally. Except for my love of run-on sentences.
• I think I know why my favourite color is purple. That was strange to realise that, today. My favorite color used to change all the time. It's been purple for an eerily long time. 
• When I was little, my auntie bought her two cars according to what my favourite color was at the time.
• I am irresponsibly attached to songs about brown eyes.
• I am listening always for hidden meanings in songs about brown eyes, to see whether they were really written about me. I am self-absorbed. We're all self-absorbed though, so that's okay.
• I don't like poetry in English class.
• I don't like you at all.
• I feel lonely.
• I feel crowded.
• I feel hopeful.
• I feel realistic.
• I want to move to a warmer place, where I can pick flowers and wear sundresses and paint with only blues and purples.
• My favourite type of flower is a tigerlily. My favourite jewel is an amethyst. 
• It troubles me that I don't know whether I am a cat person or a dog person. It feels like this is a fatal character flaw.
• My Kiwanis classes are eerily close. I wish I was more anxious about them.
• There is no fence.
• So many things that people say remind me of musical theater songs. Every third sentence. It's a bit worrisome.
• I don't understand the world's obsession with owl jewellery, but I kind of like it. I like owls. Maybe I am an owl person. 
• That is a lie. 
• Birds are gross.

Les choses a faire:

1. Learn to drive. NO. Learn to park. I can drive. I can't park.
2. Take myself off this coupon-e-mail-list thing that my name somehow got on: they send me daily coupons that are like, 62% off speed-dating! Half off modern children's art! Buy one mop, get another four mops free! 
3. Stop drinking so much steamed milk. The lactase in my stomach is being overwhelmed and I fear I'm becoming lactose intolerant. Is that possible? To develop lactose intolerance? That information is not centralized in the hippocampus, so it's a little beyond my field of expertise.
4. Except apparently I should be a doctor. Maybe if that whole Broadway actress gig doesn't work out.
5. And they develop a new type of doctoring that doesn't require much blood-seeing.
6. Or develop a new type of Lyndsay that isn't so squeamish.
7. Prance around house in grad dress (again.)
8. Practice singing. I forget how again.
9. Stop. Stop stop stop.
10. Go!

Ou?

I feel sort of like I was at a restaurant, or a party, a nice calm fun time, when all of a sudden a huge pelican swooped in the window, starting asking around for me, and I then ducked into the closet, which turned out to be a long hallway that kept getting smaller as you walked through it, and the pictures of sea turtles on the wall were talking to me and easing me on, telling me to keep going, and then I got to the end of the hallway and there was this door that was small and spinning and I could just squeeze through, but first I had to answer a skill-testing question, but luckily it was about hippocampuses (hippocampi?) so I passed, and then I went through the door and found myself knee-deep in salt water, and Calypso the sea goddess told me to keep the Bear on my left-hand side if I was to reach home, so I set out, only to discover myself being led astray by dancing shrimp, who told me I was needed as an addition to their Broadway number, but they had no Jews so they couldn't make it on Broadway even after I rehearsed with them for a few hours, so they dropped me off at the bus station where I got on a bus that went straight into an sand dune, where I hiked up and down with some visiting elephants who were quite knowledgeable about the area, and then they told me to take a nap up on their backs because I was getting rather tired and the moonlight was oh so warm on the soles of my feet and I woke up in a small room that smelled of tigerlilies and was covered in lace, and all I had was a typewriter, and I entered a code and the whole room fell open like a box and I found myself sitting on a surfboard on an iceberg in a green velvet suit, and when I fell off I fell through the ice that was surprisingly warm and I landed on a ferry boat that was strung in fairy lights and people were waltzing in long purple dresses and I waltzed with a mysterious partner in sunglasses, and it felt so familiar but I couldn't place him without seeing his eyes, and then he disappeared into a swarming throng of hummingbirds that suddenly appeared and they pushed me overboard, where I landed on a mattress in a bedroom that was not my own, and when I left I realised it was a shoe, and the Old Lady in the Shoe ran screaming out telling me to get back to bed, and she clobbered me so hard with her rolling pin I fell unconscious and when I woke, I was floating on a large playing card (the Queen of Spades) in the middle of the ocean and I had no idea how I got there.

I have two beautiful new dresses, and I had just the de-stressing weekend full of shopping, puppies, and aunties that I needed. I miss puppies. Can someone lend me theirs?

I miss things I cannot understand, or begin to understand. Can someone lend me theirs?

Les mots ovaires

Hello again, followers of the blogosphere. I realize it's a bit obnoxious to be blogging twice in one day, but seems how my other was completely meaningless I figure it's excusable. It's also too late for me to be doing anything else....

Because. Fine. Ok. Whatever.

These are ovary words.
If you use them, you are classified as a woman. Especially when you use them in conjunction. As in, "How is your cat today? Why is he feeling that way?"

"Whatever. Okay. Fine. Because."

This is an example of when an ovaried person answers a non-ovary question. Ovaried wasn't actually a word until now, by the way. I do shit like that. Make up words. I'm outta control.

Also, that is just fucking beautiful. Really. Fucking defucking vanfucking beautiful. Not you. Not that. No, you don't know what I'm talking about. But you sure made it seem like you wanted to. Or something. Whatever. Okay. Fine. Because.

(I have ovaries and I'm not afraid to use them.)

Also, I love my best friend. She is special and she drinks tea and appreciates the foam on top of the tea and doesn't judge when I use my fingers to scoop the rest out of the bottom even though it is highly unhygienic and probably in proper society would be frowned upon. But who gives a shit, because we are fucking beautiful. Yeah. I did go there.
Boys? You are not fucking beautiful. Except the ones in Whistler? I think. Man-o-man, if whatsisface reads this blog, he is going to be singing in the fucking rain with happiness right now. And if not, well then, well, fine. Okay. Whatever. Because.

Also, you missed your fucking queue. And now I have to perform a monologue where they should have been dialogue. The lights broke and the fell on the chair that you were supposed to throw across the stage when you came in the door but you didn't come in the door, did you, no, you were off in the wings, waiting in the wings, always you are waiting in the fucking wings, and now the whole scene is ruined, in fact maybe the play is over, the audience has gone home, they didn't stand up, they didn't clap, they just went, and I'm stuck here with the single wilted rose that was thrown haphazardly by the screaming toddler in the second row and the lines I don't recall and the stage makeup melting off my face.
Get out of the wings, or go home.

That's quite enough of that.

Brought to you by (your friendly neighbourhood hippocampudoctorologist) and Allison Carter, who doesn't write blogs anymore and who therefore had a lot of repressed blogangst, which is also a word, and who is going to start up with that shit soon.