Some Titles Are Just Lame
So I wrote a post today. It was a true account of someone I met and briefly allowed my life to intersect, though she was a slave. Possibly an indentured servant, I'm not sure what the nice word would be. The story ends with her family dying. So, I decided to leave that one alone. I think my serious writing has gotten a little too heavy. Desperation held me in its icy grasp. I considered doing a meme. Honestly, I'm afraid Laurel would make fun of me, and her scorn is more than I can bear.
So, to keep it simple, I found some old pictures I took a couple years ago. I like them and will probably throw some on here when I need to illustrate a point. For Jimmy Page Did Not Understand The Ocean, I wish I had had this:
It is too late. The moment is over.
When I do finally hit publish on the story of me and Misha, which is not her real name, I have a picture of her home. You can not make out the tragedy from the mists of the Straits of Malacca. You also can not smell the water by looking at the picture, which is probably best.
The significance of the individual is lost on the mechanizations of the Earth. I was reminded of this several times this weekend during the Mike The Headless Chicken Days/Fruita Fat Tire Festival (please ignore the first two government sponsored minutes of this video). The Earth reached up with its mighty paws and smote me. Luckily, no concussions or anything spectacular this time, just some blood on the trail.
I've tried to pick up women in locales unassociated with the cult of mountain biking before. It doesn't work. They look at your shins with the snake track of sprocket damage and scraped knees and bruised bones. Then they ask a reasonable question:
"What are you, twelve years old?"
7 comments:
This is my first time reading your blog. I came for the chemistry, but although I didn't find any, I still like what I'm reading. Keep it up.
This blog is more about geology, booze, and sex than chemistry, though the central science does play a part in all of those, really.
This is one of the truest and funniest comments I think I've ever got.
Did you say you pick up women through mountain biking? That is uncharted waters for The Doctor. Let's fill our camel packs up with rum and cokes, hit the trails, and pick up some phillies!
Yeah. A story about a indentured servant woud be a little dreary.
Why not make it so she got her own teef?
It sort of works, Dr., but you have to crash magnificently. Were you to find yourself out here, I would show you the ropes of soft-tail pimping.
Joey, if you knew the girl's occupation, you would not wonder why it is beneficial to be missing some fronts.
And with that, I'm going to hell.
Now don't let me think that you'd be backed into a corner by the scorn of a woman. That just makes you normal.
I have never claimed super human abilities to endure the ribbing of this girl. If you knew her, you would understand. I would rather live on the corner of a roof, Old Testament style.
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