Anyone care to leave me any more anonymous love? It's safe and free. :D

Just a little meme.

Here's the plan: You comment with your username, and people will comment ANONYMOUSLY with things they love and cherish about you. I say anonymously because it makes the atmosphere lighter and more mysterious, kind of like a Secret Santa only with love and holiday cheer! People will wonder who these caring people are and appreciate the fact that they exist, not only the fact that they may be best friends with them.

Then find people you care about and have something nice to say to - even if you don't know them! - and leave them something that will make their heart feel a little warmer at night. This way, the love will go around and around and the magical spirit of the season can be cherished and appreciated by all.

If you want to leave a comment about me, here is my thread:

http://allthingsgood.livejournal.com/317770.html?view=12701514#t12701514

Or link me to yours and I'll leave you a comment.

Teapot
frame or other pretty frames that would fit a diploma (a pair would be awesome because then my BA and my MS could be in matching frames)
Li Bien ornament
White cloth tablecloth, with matching white napkins (or red and white checks)
Air popcorn popper or this
Set of GOOD knives or even just one or two really nice ones for cooking
Silver or silver-look taper candle holders
Sephora gift card
Torrid, Avenue, Lane Bryant gift card (or pretty much anywhere that sells plus sized women's clothing)
Knitting lessons (from a person preferably) and knitting starter kit
Sewing notions (anything a complete beginner with just a machine would need)
Zappo's gift card
Etsy gift card
this
burned audiobook you think I would like
Relaxation CDs I could use at work
Gift certificate to We Love Colors or other hosiery place that does weird and pretty hosiery for fatchix
WiiFit with board
new Brandi Carlile, and entire catalog of Girlyman, which was lost to me (pirated/burned ok with me)
cute plus size patterns
cute material
Picnik premium membership
pink shirtdress like this I am usually a size 24.
this dress4x

Charms I'd like: handcuff charms
UHCL/UH
one that says Counselor or has a counseling theme or psychology symbol or says LPC
hot air balloon one
star charm
clothes hanger
perfume bottle
hearts charm
ice cream, cupcake, or cake charm
unicorn
An enamel pineapple charm
pentacle charm and/or other celtic style charms


Unlikely but still a wish:
laptop
car

My computer cracked in a bad place. :/

Also, I have a new friend--maybe.

Diagnosis

by Sharon Olds

By the time I was six months old, she knew something
was wrong with me. I got looks on my face
she had not seen on any child
in the family, or the extended family,
or the neighborhood. My mother took me in
to the pediatrician with the kind hands,
a doctor with a name like a suit size for a wheel:
Hub Long. My mom did not tell him
what she thought in truth, that I was Possessed.
It was just these strange looks on my face—
he held me, and conversed with me,
chatting as one does with a baby, and my mother
said, She’s doing it now! Look!
She’s doing it now! and the doctor said,
What your daughter has
is called a sense
of humor. Ohhh, she said, and took me
back to the house where that sense would be tested
and found to be incurable.

So pretty much if you want to see any photos I do, you'll need to join my facebook friends list.

Let me know if you're not already on and want to be.

Robert quoted this to me. I may use this in group therapy soon.

From Frank Herberts' Dune:

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration....
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
Andf when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
When the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I remain.

Does anyone on my friends list NOT have me on their facebook and want to? If so, http://www.facebook.com/sabrinathestegosaurus

Thanks for all the birthday wishes! :D I am off, shortly, to go to the MUSEUM OF DEATH cause I like irony.

The Long Dream of Falling

by John Haag

Half my life ago I read
on the back page of the daily paper
of a boy-child in his eighth year who,
in his father's garage, hung himself
rather than suffer parental
revulsion engendered by
the great, flaming D
D for deficient
D for defeat
D for die
on his report card.

Bad news rains leapers from parapets
and everywhere unrequited lovers,
the irreparably damaged and
the merely gutless spin
the turnstiles to surcease.

So why does this kid
still wake me in the middle of the night?


How It Will End

by Denise Duhamel

We're walking on the boardwalk
but stop when we see a lifeguard and his girlfriend
fighting. We can't hear what they're saying,
but it is as good as a movie. We sit on a bench to find out
how it will end. I can tell by her body language
he's done something really bad. She stands at the bottom
of the ramp that leads to his hut. He tries to walk halfway down
to meet her, but she keeps signaling Don't come closer.
My husband says, "Boy, he's sure in for it,"
and I say, "He deserves whatever's coming to him."
My husband thinks the lifeguard's cheated, but I think
she's sick of him only working part-time
or maybe he forgot to put the rent in the mail.
The lifeguard tries to reach out
and she holds her hand like Diana Ross
when she performed "Stop in the Name of Love."
The red flag that slaps against his station means strong currents.
"She has to just get it out of her system,"
my husband laughs, but I'm not laughing.
I start to coach the girl to leave the no-good lifeguard,
but my husband predicts she'll never leave.
I'm angry at him for seeing glee in their situation
and say, "That's your problem—you think every fight
is funny. You never take her seriously," and he says,
"You never even give the guy a chance and you're always nagging,
so how can he tell the real issues from the nitpicking?"
and I say, "She doesn't nitpick!" and he says, "Oh really?
Maybe he should start recording her tirades," and I say
"Maybe he should help out more," and he says
"Maybe she should be more supportive," and I say
"Do you mean supportive or do you mean support him?"
and my husband says that he's doing the best he can,
that he's a lifeguard for Christ's sake, and I say
that her job is much harder, that she's a waitress
who works nights carrying heavy trays and is hit on all the time
by creepy tourists and he just sits there most days napping
and listening to "Power 96" and then ooh
he gets to be the big hero blowing his whistle
and running into the water to save beach bunnies who flatter him
and my husband says it's not as though she's Miss Innocence
and what about the way she flirts, giving free refills
when her boss isn't looking or cutting extra large pieces of pie
to get bigger tips, oh no she wouldn't do that because she's a saint
and he's the devil, and I say, "I don't know why you can't admit
he's a jerk," and my husband says, "I don't know why you can't admit
she's a killjoy," and then out of the blue the couple is making up.
The red flag flutters, then hangs limp.
She has her arms around his neck and is crying into his shoulder.
He whisks her up into his hut. We look around, but no one is watching us.

I carry your heart with me

by E. E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)

For those not in my phonebook: I passed the NCE!

Down from 445 to 83.

e.e. cummings, the boys i mean are not refined


the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

Every day, I get the Writer's Almanac, and I like to post ones that I really enjoy. Typically, maybe one or two a month I really like, but this month, there is a lot I have enjoyed. Which is silly. They typically lose me in the first stanza. Poem turn-offs for me include anything particularly flowery, or describing nature. Anything too pastoral or idyllic, bleh. I like the weird, the mundane turned on its side. You'll see. The poem, Cantalope, is mainly among these because I have done similarly.


Lines

by Martha Collins

Draw a line. Write a line. There.
Stay in line, hold the line, a glance
between the lines is fine but don't
turn corners, cross, cut in, go over
or out, between two points of no
return's a line of flight, between
two points of view's a line of vision.
But a line of thought is rarely
straight, an open line's no party
line, however fine your point.
A line of fire communicates, but drop
your weapons and drop your line,
consider the shortest distance from x
to y, let x be me, let y be you.



Blackberry Pie

by Jennifer Rae Vernon

is kernels of juice
blue, mom makes it do
magic heat to vanilla ice cream
purple dream

there were many nice things,
the corduroy pinafore
the daily notes in lunch sack
of a smiley face and curly cue hair
your mama loves you, and do great
with a thermos of homemade soup

dad too, he rocked me on front porch
after seven yellow jacket stings
i howled through the valley
in baking soda paste
while he sang, in the big rock candy mountain...

but just like grandma vernon always said
don't bother doing anything nice for your children
they'll only remember the bad things, anyway
like when she tethered my dad
to the front yard tree
so he could play when she was at work

was that bad? a ruined childhood?
bless her heart
and pie too, is sometimes
tart


Admission Requirements of U.S. and Canadian Dental Schools

by Ron Koertge

Is your furniture in mint condition?
Has the loathing settled down?
Do you have many commemorative coins?
Do you know what the lighthouse stands for
in poetry?
Do you regard "uppers" and "lowers" as versions
of the class struggle?
If you could snow, would you?
Could you wear a red hunting shirt rather than
the traditional white smock?
When someone murmurs, "But my first love
is the oboe," are you disheartened?
If you were a bird. what would be your wingspan?
If someone said. his gums were clandestine, would
you look forward to the drilling?
Do you know what makes bipeds wild with joy?
Could you be specific?


Moving Day

by Ron Koertge

While sitting home one night, I hear burglars fiddling
with the lock. This is what I've been waiting for!

I run around to the back and open the door, invite
them in, and pour some drinks. I tell them to relax,
and I help them off with shoes and masks.

In a little while we are fast friends, and after a dozen
toasts to J. Edgar Hoover, they begin to carry things out.
I point to the hidden silver, hold the door as they
wrestle with the bed, and generally make myself useful.

When they get the truck loaded and come back inside
for one last brandy, I get the drop on them. Using Spike's
gun, I shoot them both and imprint Blackie's
prints on the handle.

Then I get in the van and drive away,
a happy man.


Money

by John Updike

Money is such a treat.
It takes up so little space.
It takes no more ink
for the bank to print $9,998
than to print $1,001.
It flows, electronically;
it does not gather dust.
Like water, it (dis)solves everything.
Oceanic, it is yet as lucid
as a mountain pool; the depositor
can see clear to the sandy bottom.
It is ubiquitous and under pressure, yet
pennies don't drip from faucets.
Money is so tidy, so neat.

It is freedom in action: when you
give a twenty-buck bill to the cabbie,
you don't tell him how to spend it.
He can blow it on coke,
for all you care. All you care
about is your change. No wonder
the ex-Communists are dizzy. In
the old Soviet Union
there was nothing to buy,
nothing to spend. It was freedom
of a kind, but not our kind. We need
money, the dull electric thrill
when the automatic teller spits out
the disposable receipt.


Sober Song

by Barton Sutter

Farewell to the starlight in whiskey,
So long to the sunshine in beer.
The booze made me cocky and frisky
But worried the man in the mirror.

Good night to the moonlight in brandy,
Adieu to the warmth of the wine.
I think I can finally stand me
Without a glass or a stein.

Bye-bye to the balm in the vodka,
Ta-ta to the menthol in gin.
I'm trying to do what I ought to,
Rejecting that snake medicine.

I won't miss the blackouts and vomit,
The accidents and regret.
If I can stay off the rotgut,
There might be a chance for me yet.

So so long to God in a bottle,
To the lies of rum and vermouth.
Let me slake my thirst with water
And the sweet, transparent truth.


Sober Song

by Barton Sutter

Farewell to the starlight in whiskey,
So long to the sunshine in beer.
The booze made me cocky and frisky
But worried the man in the mirror.

Good night to the moonlight in brandy,
Adieu to the warmth of the wine.
I think I can finally stand me
Without a glass or a stein.

Bye-bye to the balm in the vodka,
Ta-ta to the menthol in gin.
I'm trying to do what I ought to,
Rejecting that snake medicine.

I won't miss the blackouts and vomit,
The accidents and regret.
If I can stay off the rotgut,
There might be a chance for me yet.

So so long to God in a bottle,
To the lies of rum and vermouth.
Let me slake my thirst with water
And the sweet, transparent truth.


The Student Theme

by Ronald Wallace

The adjectives all ganged up on the nouns,
insistent, loud, demanding, inexact,
their Latinate constructions flashing. The pronouns
lost their referents: They were dangling, lacked
the stamina to follow the prepositions' lead
in, on, into, to, toward, for, or from.
They were beset by passive voices and dead
metaphors, conjunctions shouting But! or And!

The active verbs were all routinely modified
by adverbs, that endlessly and colorlessly ran
into trouble with the participles sitting
on the margins knitting their brows like gerunds
(dangling was their problem, too). The author
was nowhere to be seen; was off somewhere.

Kel. I have 444 unanswered emails in my inbox.

Please please please, let me, let me, let me, let me, let met get what I want this time.

"A male usually had made up his mind before you began to talk to him--so why bother?--but a female, because her mind was more supple, was always prepared to become more disappointed in you than she had yet suspected possible."

"'Are you an aberration to your species?' she cried. 'Cats don't look for approval!'"

Rheya, you were in my dream last night.

Last night I broke out in hives prior to my shower. Afterwards, it got worse. I was only able to sleep due to hydrocortisone, and Robert's calming cream. It got worse after he went to bed, because the top half of my body started to get bad hives as well. And I didn't want to wake him up.

I have no idea what is causing it. Something I ate seems the most likely explanation. All I know is it is miserable and I will be making a trip to a CVS for something that is hopefully non-drowsy.