Fear Nonexistant: 2/31

I'm asleep. The pillow is hot, the dog is hot, my comforter is hot and my body pillow is on the floor next to my bed. It's three oh six, too early to reasonably get up. My breath is heavy, curling over my lips in rolls of viscous sleepiness. It's too early to get up, to hard to go back to sleep. I've been dreaming. I've had the same dream every night for the last few weeks. I'm inside a tiny house, a cottage or hut, with a thatched roof and white washed wattle and daub walls. There are a few windows that open outward into a garden full of beautiful green plants, and the sun falls through leaves of aspens that aren't there, and yet are. I'm with another person, but I don't know who, and I have to get out.

All of a sudden it is dark, full night, without ever having a dusk to make it dark. Outside the window of the happy little cottage there is a dog, standing, grey and shaggy, almost cartoonish in it's appearance. There is no fear in the dog, but around the dog, and I sweat, terrified. I run around the inside of the house, opening all the windows, closing them again when I see it. I am aware that I am dreaming, but I cannot get out, I cannot wake up.

And then Moritz is licking my arm, long slow licks, hot and sticky, as if someone is pulling a magnetically attracted piece of lukewarm ham along my arm. I shudder and wake up.

I have been watching glee for hours. I am huddled under a blanket, crying a little bit over a dispute between Kurt and Blaine. I feel like a bum, but I'm also having a great time. My emotional disputes with the television are lengthy. I keep watching until it's half past midnight, and I have three more episodes until the end. With trepidation, I go to bed and wake up, snuggling a hairy mammal whose name is Moritz. I get up, and watch more glee. I finish the season, and turn to live tv. The Television is turned to PBS, and Don Matteo is on. Don Matteo is an Italian soap opera. It's hilarious, and I watch on, unashamed.

Having a good day? I am too.

I'm watching project runway with my mom and doing research about how to make crayon lipstick. When the episode ends, I go upstairs to the kitchen, and grab a jar and start some water boiling. I chop a crayon into small pieces, and put some oil into it. I plop the crayon pieces into it and put the jar into the boiling water.  I stir it, and wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. Smoke starts to curl out of the jar. I pull it out of the water. i empty out the jar and put another crayon and some more oil in it. This one melts in about ten seconds. I pour the mixture into an empty contact case. I pick up the jar to clean it out, and the bottom of the jar falls off, slicing my middle finger deeply as it falls to the paper towel on the counter. Grr. I try to put on the lipstick after it cools for a while. My finger is bleeding through the bandaid. The lipstick is glorified lip balm that just happens to be green. I get out the tweezers, determined to get the splinter out from underneath my thumbnail. This is a time I agree with Jungian psychology. The wings of Icharus are burning.

Maurice goes to New York City

Once upon a time, a dude named Maurice moved to New York City. Maurice didn't have a house, so he went to the store. He craved an orange. He intended to buy an orange, but the store didn't have any. Maurice couldn't take it anymore. He was walking down the street, and he met this guy. This guy had a nose that had previously been  broken, and he looked fly. He mugged Maurice. Maurice left New York City.

The End

M-rice

I put on a grimy men's undershirt, some cutoff overalls, and go into the bathroom. I stick my head in the sink, and the cold water hits my head, and I gasp. I quickly get to my towel and dry my hair off, but not all the way. I get a quarter sized dollop of hair gel, and I brush it into my scalp, and my hair becomes slicked back smoothly. My next retrieval is a black eyeliner pencil. I draw two straight lines, on my upper lip, and snort. I'm looking at my reflection in the mirror, and I am in costume as Maurice, the male love interest of The Darkness of Beyond. I look hilarious. This is the best costume I have ever been in. Oh Maurice. You sexy beast. I giggle uncontrollably.

Maurice is a country musician hoping to become a rapper. Maurice does not want to be anything other that a country rapper, and he is dating the girl from across the street, Phillipa. I had written a musical score for the film we were planning on making, including songs such as When I'm Famous, Ankle Socks, Why do Cowboys go Commando, and I'm too Sweaty. Sadly the movie was never made, and the score was never released, but all songs were written and demos were recorded by me. The DOB is yet to be made.

This is Etti and I Dressed as Phillipa and Maurice

Play

Snowshoeing is not my favorite thing. Usually. We stopped for lunch. It was cold and wet, and the ermine and mouse had completed their chase. I was done with my lunch, but so were many others. We began to break off from the herd, in small groups, branching off of the teacher group. I crawled along the top of the snowpack, moving towards the top of the hill. I lay down on top of the hill, rolling down quickly. I sit up at the bottom of the slope, giggling and covered in snow. I am followed by Rachel, Sofie, and Grace. I find my way back to the central grouping of people to see that there is a hollow in the snow where people are tackling each other, I join in, and help to take Rowan down. I am soon giggling and sitting on the ground, out of breath and still ready to play.

There's Something About old Punk.

There's something about old punk. It doesn't have a name, it's just the feeling of music. There's a soul to it, different from that of modern music. I can't seem to resist the guitar and matching melody, the rough and gritty lyrics and vocals. But it's not what you think, it's not all melodic, and it's not distasteful. It's just unpolished, and the best way to describe it is raw. It's emotion and opinions in an unusual and fascinating way. It feels wrong to listen quietly, to observe only. It must be a part of the listener, it must be understood. And that's why I love it.