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MistressLirael
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Name: Erin
Country: United States
State: Minnesota
Metro: St. Paul
Birthday: 1/27/1986
Gender: Female
Interests: I enjoy playing percussion, reading, writing, swimming, drawing, talking, studying history, biking, playing football (and just about every other sport) with my friends, and a host of other things.
Expertise: I pretty much rock at everything.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Other
Message: message me
AIM:  MistressDenna04
Member Since:
7/19/2003
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| It seems a bit sad that all I've had to comment upon (and actually decided to write about) is the sad state of the parmesan situation. But, that's what happens when you're boring.
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| It's a silent war I'm waging, mostly. Only a few times have words been brandished in defense of my stance. Still, I believe that I have the right of it. The label on the parmesan SAYS that it is to be refrigerated after it has been opened. And yet, the others in the household insist upon putting said cheese in the pantry at every opportunity. Not only on spaghetti dinner nights, but also at odd intervals on other days of the week do I open the wooden doors to find the plastic container plopped, forlorn among cans of soup and vegetables. It is a sad business, war; but I shall soldier on, in the hope that someday my indefatigable foes will give in, and the parmesan cheese shall have its rightful place in truth, on the top shelf in the door of the nice, cool refrigerator. | | |
| I dare say that most of my friends are already aware of this, but I become slightly agitated with people who mispronounce words, especially words which are wholly without complication. You know, words that sound like they're spelled. You might say that this is a result of a lifetime filled with people pronouncing my last name "...Borkelo", or "...Burkelo", and perhaps that has something to do with it. Hearing such travesties over loudspeakers IS rather annoying. But I think that in truth, I simply prefer to think of human beings as generally capable and intelligent (a risky venture, I am aware). I like to to think that if presented with a word such as NUCLEAR, most english speakers could handle its pronunciation. ...especially if that person is going to be on national television repeating the word over and over again. Really!? If I hear Sarah Palin say "nucular" one more time...well, I was already not voting for that ticket for obvious reasons. Let's just say that she is sinking my estimation of the human race. Isn't there someone on the McCain team who could knock some sense into her? I mean, she was clearly better briefed last night than she has been...oh...since the convention. Finish the job, people. Ugh... | | |
| It's quiet.
In the air there hangs a humid stillness not unlike one only a few years ago. But that was a June evening, the last I spent with my dad. I couldn't see the towering cumulonimbus clouds in the distance, but rather listened to their rumblings as they circled before heaping our house with rain.
Tonight, I can still feel the sweat clinging to my skin, a product of the fact that I actually walked the parade route today in uniform. Stunning, no? The pillars of cloud were not there when I went outside to water the tomatoes, peppers and miscellaneous herbs and flowers in the backyard. They skulked beneath the horizon until the moon had chased the sun to bed, hanging alone behind a curtain of cloudy haze in a stealthy cresent of white.
I cannot quite pinpoint what it is that I am feeling right now. It may be that I miss my dad. But that is too easy. Instead I think that I am more fixated upon the curiosity that is the human mind. It takes one similar night, a sound, a smell to bring back a torrent of sensations, images and memories of the specific event past. And what follows is no less vivid.
My mind brings forth from what must be a storage shelf of video files clips of June 26th, the summer after my junior year of high school. I can see myself at Bachman's, looking at funeral flower arrangements. I remember writing a letter to my dad, only to have my uncle take it from me, and read it aloud at the funeral, something which still angers me to this day. He even mispronounced the nickname my dad had for me.
Maybe the storm which now hangs above the fields to the South will float this way and strike. Maybe there is something of my father in this stillness. I think that I will go out on the porch and remember.
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| ...cano. Well, maybe I'm not going to sing. But then again, I'm not writing the Aeneid, am I. It seems to me altogether unfair, this springtime mashing together of the sexes. People get all fuzzy and precious and it means little. At least, that that I see means little. Would it be so much to ask that I might join in the frenzy? I think it not so. In all seriousness, I'd rather not become some black-capped chickadee, hopping about and chickadeedeedeeeeeee-ing my cute little beaked head off. But alas, neither can I be any sort of happy feathered fool in the middle. Rather, I am a white-throated sparrow, whistling a descending and decidedly minor tune to myself as a chaos of feathers and bursting buds and blooms flies riotous color before my face. But I digress. If you would, male or not write me a short list of constructive criticisms to my person, whether they be critiques of my character, manner of walking, speaking, or even my mode of dress, I would like to know. Send them to me in an email, a letter, a Facebook message...I care not. But I would like to know. Other than those cases in which a mutual attraction is simply not going to happen, why am I alone? I don't want to end my life that way. Not at all. I'll end up the old cat lady, only with a skunk or three. Sad, oui? | | |
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