"I eat carrots like corn on the cob"

I used to eat bananas like that [corn on the cob style] because once I was watching a Jack Hanna video as a kid and he was feeding a parrot a banana and it ate it that way. I thought it was so freaking cool so for 6 months I would eat bananas "parrot style".





--- 


The title quote is from Tash King a beautiful, creative, inspirational soul who (despite only seeing in person twice) has helped me realize so many things. (that's enough of my loser gushing. I always gush.) 

I'm so much more eloquent when sad

Crying in public always leaves me in this surreal state.
I was in a very odd place yesterday afternoon (I cried in class). Crying in public you're surrounded by people, who you know all know that you're crying, but what can they do about it?

I felt so separated from everything after I had started to calm down.
I was drained; exhausted. I started to think about how alone I felt as I walked home. I didn't know why I had started to cry, it was from somewhere between confusion, frustration and embarrassment.
I started to think about how selfish crying is, the first time we cry it is because we can't communicate in any other way, we can't show our own needs. So how come as an adult I still can't seem to do that? What is it that made me so incapable of expressing my need that I started to cry.

This is all just garble, it was all much more eloquent in my cynical, melancholic mind yesterday afternoon.

Non-Linear

If you asked me the formula

to find the area of a circle

I could not tell you.

I could not tell you

it is πr² nor

could I tell you that the

equation

2πr,

would equal the circumference, 

and 

            πd

 would equal the same.

I could not

tell

you

of the speckled quality of

the afternoon’s light, or

of how the evening

fell,

cold, and

     welcoming.

I could not

tell you  exactly what

we spoke
or of the

beautiful,

comfortable, moments of

fleeting

Silence.

This was before and of the time of forgetting.

If you asked me to recite π

I could tell you

that 3.14 would do,

but that I could

(that I can)

recite it

to the 36^th place.

If you

reminded me,

of the speckled quality of

the afternoon’s light, and

of how the evening fell,

cold and welcoming

I could tell you

of how            

we spoke of

the beautiful, comfortable moments;

Of     fleeting    silence.

The cigarette

we shared

in the sun.

This was the time of yearning

for the grass

between

my toes;

Under my feet

Living, 

           cool and

                          refreshing.

I could tell you

this was before,

And of the time of

forgetting

Y=mx+b,

&           

life

was so

much more

than calculations.

The Alarm Clock

Here's the other story of Hugh's I said I'd post on Tuesday. It's a reworking of this one

---

The alarm blared for three apathy filled minutes before Hugh Manatee

reluctantly rolled over to look at his alarm clock (rolling over was one of the

few things his large aquatic mammalian body did well out of water), he saw it

was 5:33 in the morning.

“Fuck,” Hugh Manatee realized that today was Saturday. Usually people

looked forward to Saturdays and all that come with them, the weekend,

sleeping in, spending time with family and friends. But Hugh Manatee was not a

person, nor was he going to sleep in, or spend time with family or friends. All

of Hugh Manatee’s family still lived in a warm river in Florida (warm rivers are

excellent homes for manatees). Hugh Manatee was not fond of Florida, and, as

he came to realize, his family.

During the holidays Hugh Manatee’s mother would write him (and every

other relative) a letter. All the letters read the same, being very generically

written. Hugh Manatee’s mother seemingly had very little time on her hands

(or rather fins) and a large amount of people to write letters to.

Dear Hugh, (every letter started very formally)

I hope that his letter finds you well. The family has been quite busy but

all is well here. Jonathan (Hugh’s younger brother) graduated high school with

honours, we are all very proud. Cindy (Hugh’s older sister) has finally happiliy

adjusted in her new home down the way, her husband and the three children

are all very happy there. Unfortunately Glen (Hugh’s Father) was hit once again

by a recklessly driven motorboat, in his old age the wounds took longer to heal,

but he says he was given a new lease on life and finds him self in his best

health in years.

We all hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Margaret

Along enclosed in each letter was a picture of the family all floating

together with mangrove roots in the background. They all looked happy (or as

happy as a manatee could look seeing how they’re not very expressive

animals).

“Fuck,” thought Hugh Manatee, as he lay awake in the early morning (as

he so often did). “I’m not lonely”, he said, in a monotone voice devoid of any

emotion, “I am happy.”

“Who are you trying to convince?” nagged his inner voice.

“Shut up!” Hugh manatee yelled in a fuck-you-you’re-not-even-fucking-real

tone into the emptiness and darkness of his single resident apartment (which

unlike warm rivers in temperate climates was not an ideal home for a

manatee).

“No” his inner voice very plainly replied.

“Fuck,” Hugh said aloud as he rolled his aquatic mammalian body over

once more to face away from the glowing numbers 6:43, which mocked him

(much like his sub-conscious).

Trying to impress people on the internet you don't even know if they know you exist

Most of our page views come from the states, also we got the most page views this month than we ever have in the history of QLP.

I don't know anyone who reads this blog. Let alone anyone in the states. But I guess that's what the internet is.

I think internet ghosts are reading this. Please say hello if you're not an internet ghost (or if you are). It would be nice to know who's still reading this.

You can even do it anonymously on my tumblr, or just leave a comment here under the name Seymore Butts, or I. C. Wiener. Something like that.

I sound desperate. Maybe I am.