a tale of two rodents ·

I find it vaguely ironic that I wept for a guinea pig today, when two weeks ago the sight of a stiff, twisted, grey little scrap of fur pinned by a broken neck brought me a feeling of distinct satisfaction.

I can try to explain this in rational terms. Mice chew the telephone cords. Mice steal my border collie's food, the little miscreants, and run off to their tiny lairs with cheeks bulging. Mice leave droppings under the weathered pull-out couch...

They scamper about in the attic over my head through all hours of the night, squeaking shrilly and scrabbling their claws over the wood as they dart back and forth. They're infested with parasites, the dirty little things. They startle me half to death when they bolt across the floor while my distracted mind is focused on the television screen.

I saw her keel over on her side, today, writhing in the grass under the sun. The bulbous tumour in her distended abdomen bulged grotesquely as her clawed feet scrabbled feebly on the ground beneath her. I kneeled down in concern, reaching to stroke her coppery fur in sympathy. She flinched violently, lashed out, and blundered confusedly into the cold iron bars. I carried her inside, set her down on a carpet of pine shavings, sat back on my heels and watched her die.

Her eyes were dark and glassy; she had stiffened into a contorted position when I lifted her into a shoe-box and covered her with a shroud of tissue paper. I tied it shut with a golden ribbon. It looked like a gift. Ha, ha. I cried, silently, rocked back on my heels on the carpet with a weighty Adidas box clutched in my hands. Her lighter companion wandered naïvely about the cage in search of the other that for seven years has always been there.

It's just a guinea pig, you maudlin idiot.

I'm sorry, mouse.

...

I am having like, the worst hair-day of my life today.
Who's in your SPED class?
No one. Well, there's ___.
Oh. Well... heh.
Yeah, I know. No one.

Fuck I hate highschool sometimes. I wish I could say I can't wait to engage in mature conversations without people who fret over trivial things and demean people left and right, but who am I kidding? Maturity, respect and integrity aren't consistent factors in any age group or phase of our lives. I don't even need all three. Just be more mature, and the rest will follow suit.

Grow up, for God's sake.

Perturbed Ann

I'm severely perturbed. The sixth of April was National Tartan Day. Typical Ann, she is completely oblivious to this celebratory event. New York city had actors in a fashion show sauntering across the stage in pretty festive get-ups. ANN was preforming ordinary duties of an eighteen year old woman in her last year of high school.

BLASTDAMNSHOOT. I'm sorely disappointed that I missed it. So, I share Duke of Clarence with you. He's sporting a lovely kilt. He reminds me of Aaron and Evan smushed together and this makes me happy. Not to mention his kilt. Sweet Duke, you shall be my remedy for the sore wound made by missing National Tartan Day.

Conditional Apathy

My fingers itch to alter more screen caps, but my mind lectures the nonsensical, time-wasting habit it could become so I refrain. I stare at the coffee stains and Sharpie marker marks but fail to worry over their permanency. Is it wrong of me not to care? The mess that I had cleared for company has begun to accumulate again. Is it wrong of me not to care?

AB RH PO. I have the ability to give blood. I have obtained a blood donor card, and acknowledge the type that I am. But I leave the phone ringing. Canadian Blood Services, calling for Miss Arwen Savage. All I can remember is how the blood drained like sap from my languid arms, my lackluster face watched the reluctant dribble while they wriggled the thick needle deeper and stabbed me with it again. Bruises, bruises... you're breaking blood vessels Ms. Nurse. See the broken blood vessels? Not enough to even save one life, you say? And you're giving up?... Canadian Blood Services, calling... is it wrong of me to leave the phone unanswered? I care. But I pretend not to. Hypocrite: silly, silly girl.

If I had a pipe I'd be outside right now, feeling the crisp bench nip coolly at my jean-covered thighs. Staring out at the dawn-wrinkled sky, the morning breeching and devouring what had been a cool but worthwhile night. I'd stare across the street; contemplate my neighbors while allowing the pipe-tobacco tendrils to curl from the oblong hole laced by my long and knobby digits. I might linger too long, not hear the phone ring inside or play ignorance. It's my friend. I can see her house from my doorstep, but I haven't the ability to go inside and answer the phone. No, it's not that. I'm just too lazy. Is it wrong of me not to care?

I'm so eager for the weekend that I let my week slide by. I study whole-heartedly but seem to indulge in this honor too late for it to matter. Procrastination is my art and I've become a master, is it too late to change my habits? Is it wrong of me not to care? Dory and Nemo still sit in my room. Dory is on my cluttered desk; Nemo still splays on the floor. The rest of my pixar toys are holding hands on my computer desk. I stare at them forlornly, at 7:55 in the morning, and wonder why I haven't brought Dory and Nemo downstairs yet. They must be so lonely, without their smiling friends...

Frank's True Identity

His identity was stolen here, but it was re-established here.

Age Discrepancy

I was intimidated when I entered the room that smelt slightly acidic like vinegar-soaked roses pressed between stale papers. Some of them had empty stares, but they all wore faces transformed by masses of wrinkles. Pasty-faced, wary of the life they now led that failed to allude to the perplexingly interesting lives they used to know. Once upon a time they were rebellious youths striving for attention just as I was. They had many hidden secrets that they had either forgotten or continued to dwell upon.

I imagined myself playing cards in their circle, openly conversing with each of them and gradually getting to know some on a more intimate level. I would see a spark light in their eye and find pleasure in the wrinkles sinking deeper when their smiles pulled their eyes up in the rolls. One in particular would become my particular friend, and I'd continue to visit even after my Christian Service Hours dwindled and were gone. After the faded cards were put away we'd disperse and my friend and I would discuss things that were familiar between our young identities. We'd laugh, hard, and distract the idle-faces seemingly engrossed in the television set constantly fixed on the news.

We would accumulate an audience sometimes. Eventually they would always deteriorate when the entertainment of our conversation made them jealously regard me as an intruder. Judith had been her favorite poker-partner and had slipped her a card every once in a while under the table, but no... now she reserved that ace for Arwen. Charles used to sit by him by the television daily. It had been a ritual. They didn't usually talk much, but there was a kinship there; now it was gone.

I would go to their funeral. I would listen to the family as they related woebegone tales of what they were like when they were young and how they would be remembered for who they were back when they were healthy and happy. I would cry. I would feel sorry not to have known that young Charles or Judith, but I would be glad for I stored a deep secret bond with this person. I knew them when they were old and happy, a time and experience that no one at that funeral could claim to have known as well as I. I would not step up to share my thoughts. None of them would know my face or why I wept and might feel a sense of disabled pride if I proclaimed my affection for the recently deceased.

Someday, I want to be able to cry at a friend's funeral; a friend I met by circumstance alone, someone who is not within my peer group and two generations advanced from me.

But these were all fantasies. I doubt any of these old men or women would find a connection between themselves and I and desire to pursue it. I expect too much. I smiled meekly at them, few of them responded and those that did seemed nostalgic and withdrawn. No, they didn't want to get attached to me... they were reminded too much of a youth that they had either forgotten or desired to overlook.

I'm such a bastard child. How could I expect so much?

---

Music of the moment: Thoughts of a Dying Atheist by Muse

Elementary Humor

After typing up a project for Christian Ethics, I indulged in elementary humor and sought out sexually connotative words in the dictionary while drinking Orange Mango Sparking Water beverage and eating chocolate chips.

sex·pot \'sek-,pät\ n : a sexually stimulating woman
mastoid, mas`toid, a. [Gr. mastos, breast, and oid] Resembling a nipple or breast; a process of projection of certain bones behind the ear.-mastoiditis, mas`toid·ī"tos;, n. An inflamation of the mastoid or the mastoid cells.
aphrodisiac, af·ro·diz`i·ak, a. [Gr. aphrodisios, aphrodisiakos, from Aphrodite, goddess of love.] Exciting venereal desire.-aphrodisiac, n. Food or a medicine exciting sexual desire.
lascivious, las·siv`i·us, a. [L. lasivia, lewdness, lascivus, wanton, allied to Skr. las, to embrace, lash, to desire, Gr. lilaiomai, to desire.] Wanton; lewd; lustful; exciting voluptuous emotions.

I'll update with more later, because I have too much time on my hands and somehow find philosophical amusement in all of this. Compliments go to The Marriam-Webster Dictionary (1974) and The Webster Encyclopedic Dictionary of the English Language (year?)

Photo Journal

Some people've idly inquired about my photo-journal over the past little while. I made it to keep a log of my progress and for feedback. I'm advancing little by little, however, the feedback part is a quite lacking. Heh. Oh well. If you're interested in keeping an eye on what I've been doing, go ahead and check it out. I've added it to the links on the sidebar.

Oh yeah, and Vanessa: finish that post you're writing. :)

To: You

I wish I knew the appropriate words to make everything all right in your world. I long to alter your frame of mind, mar whatever disables you, and lift you to a brighter, grander place from the bleak one you currently reside in. To see you display such remorse while I feel elation breaks the pendulum and puts me off balance. Oh, how I yearn for the day you'll return my smile with equal gladness and appreciation.

I can't change you. I acknowledge the fact. I feel courage and joy while you are weakened by turmoil that I can't imagine. My happiness is changed into concern. I don't want you to hurt anymore. I don't expect you to unload anything on me; if you feel it is dark enough that you must conquer the beast alone I will contentedly remain on the sidelines. But should you need me, in anyway, trust me to be here for you. You don't even need to say anything if you don't want to. Silence can sometimes bring more solace than words ever will because we share it together.

For all that you have given and done for me, the least I can do is be here for you. And I will, whether you need me for something trivial or integral: I will because I care.

From: me.

Holiday Inn

Arwen's Philosophy

I live to die,
In the meantime;
I laugh to cry.

The Bastard's Bitch

Titanium cans clatter across asphalt.
Pernicious men mumble to a fault.
The alleyway reeks of infidelity
That is sure to rouse the attention
Of a lesser, stranger, laggard quality
To whom taciturn officials may sanction.

"Bastard" she cried crudely with dismay
"Bitch" he briskly bantered, without delay;
There was no one to rescue her from rape.
The one whom she had come to trust most
Burnt her flesh with shame and became her fate
Tethered to a post.

Insipid, her poor body bobbles by the rooks.
Black water wounds the whitewashed, crôok'd
Frame, unfortunately battered by her husband
And now the waves.

Tichborne's Elegy

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;
My crop of corn is but a field of tares;
And all my good is but vain hope of gain:
The day is past, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale is heard, and yet it is not told;
My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green;
My youth is spent, and yet I am not old;
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen:
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb;
And now I die, and now I was but made:
My glass is full, and now my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done.



Poem by Chidiock Tichborne, image by Arwen Savage.

Nowhere Near Adulthood

I hate it when you leave the TV on. I drink more coffee, even though I feel full. I hear the angry edge to your tone and see the perturbed wrinkles between your eyebrows. I bend to your will. I'm obedient to you, since you're my guardian, but I take that fact for granted far too often to know what it means anymore. I presume all this new responsibility means I'm more mature, but it only means I'm getting older and maturity is rated on how I maintain it. Have I been maintaining it? Not nearly as much as I should be; I'm too caught up in my own menial life to take notice of how it's affecting my immediate family. I've been told that I'm a caring, compassionate person who regards others before herself, but that's a falsity. I'm conceited and take everything and everyone for granted. I indulge in self-pleasure: satisfying my needs before taking the account of others into consideration.

I hate it when you leave the TV on. That little red light and flat gray-black screen glares out at me. I continue to drink coffee, even though the outward curve of my stomach indicates with the lackluster expression on my face that I'm full. And you're quiet now. Upstairs, folding laundry, musing on slowly diminishing annoyance. I'll dull, tarnished, subconsciously recognizing my resilience against growing up but not acting in defense for myself. I'm eighteen, but I'm still very much a child.

Along came a

wasp's nest. In our puddle/pond I discovered it later today.

Spring Sludge

Click for larger versions.

HAH

I ZIPLOCKED MY PEROGIES.

Coagulated Cément

Fall to the sidewalk. Punch that mother fucker. Feel the skin blister and break and see the white tendon retract, blood exploding, breath raking, shaking! I want to pull my nails across it, feel the grating pain until they splinter. I wish I could thrust my fists against that damn cement, know the burn, know the satisfaction of my vented anger pacified by the pulsating of my blood clotting the fresh, metallic wound.

Instead I'm numb. Numbed by my strange, twisted anger for which I can only attribute to procrastination and a whole shit load of post-teenage hormones.

I want to fucking break my knuckles.

Music: Rape Me by Nirvana

Pristine as Bone

The melting ice made a pond in our backyard near the shed like it does every year. But this time, it attracted albino ducks.

Conclusive Results

If nothing else, I've learned that I think about sex more than my boyfriend.

The average amount of thought dwelt on sex of the six people whom I've gathered information from ([female:male, 4:2] averaging in their late-teens) is 29%. Despite how the media portrays teenagers as sexuality-driven lap-dogs, we think/exhibit sexual behavior and thought less than people over twenty. The reasons are pretty obvious: most of us are relatively sound and able to understand that education is a higher priority right now, and when people emerge into their twenties they start establishing more serious relationships and have more of a grasp on what they're going to do with their life, whether it's getting married, having children, getting involved in a career, or a combination of the aforementioned; sex obviously is more of a consideration.

Thinking about sex is different than actually having sex. They're pratically in different categories. But, I'm pretty much sick of writing about sex in the Llama Blog. I had my spring-fever 'twitterpated (for those who know Bambi as well as I do)' post-spree and I'm tired of reading/writing about it.

So there you go. 29%. Much thanks to all who contributed to the ratio. Your acceptance and openness of your sexuality makes me proud.