Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.

Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.

Friday, May 04, 2001

Stray Thoughts

... One size does NOT fit all.

(Bonus brownies for anyone else that remembers it)

Thing 2 is pretending to throw up into a Halloween bucket. She's going to make it happen at this rate.

I don't think I'll ever buy a desktop computer again. Laptop is the only way for me.

My monster gets here tomorrow. The house looks like a bomb was dropped on it, and the kids won't help. Will Not. I'm trying to use the presents the monster is bringing as a bribe for them to work. Ain't helping.

I still want a Chia Penis.

There is an awful ache crawling down the back of my neck from my skull. This is the headache only Zebutal could handle, only, my doc won't give me any meds. Grr.

Clover, Green Grass, and Tomato Vine ... heady, rich, earthy, and I don't have to scald myself in the sun to enjoy them.

I should have practiced shouting the names of the Things before we named them. I'm getting really tired of hearing them repeated time after time.

If you're lost you can look and you will find it ......

I want to be held. I want to be enveloped in strong loving arms and told that it's going to be all right. I want someone to make me believe it. I don't want to face this alone anymore.

My monster is coming. Can't sleep, clowns will eat me. I'm already stuttering, I'm already a child again, I'm already crawling into my shell, quiet and lost and fearful. I just want her to go away.

My grandparents are dying by the day, and now my monster expects me to support her in facing it.

Rich and spicy, a sting at the nose. Tomato Vine. God, I love this smell. Makes me remember itchies from picking okra and squash, the buzz of locusts and the sweettart bite of berries straight from the vines, thorns in my fingers and all.

Chocolate Cream Oreos. I like them better, not as sweet. I can eat the whole thing, instead of just parts. Amy thinks I'm a heathen for picking the chocolate ones.

I don't really like Chocolate Fudge PopTarts.

I can see regular Oreo shells discarded all over the living room. DG must have left them where Thing 2 could reach the cookie bag. Damn.

I miss my friends. I miss having friends around me. I miss the physical social interaction. I miss going places and doing things with them.

I'm lonely.

I don't want to be a mother. Where did I go wrong? Where did I NOT go wrong?

Bring me the hockey stick. It's Butt Season.

I'm still lonely.

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