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Synesthesia is cool. It creates a seemingly senseless array of predilections, aversions, and precautions. Here's an amusing breakdown of my sensory likes and dislikes, because i'm a self-indulgent git:
Best phrase ever:
"isthmus crypticus"
Colors, in order of least to most pleasant:
Orange
Brown
tan
yellow
pink
fuschia
green
turquoise
violet
blue
indigo
Top 5 pleasing sounds:
tabla drums
x, sh, s, th sounds in english
shattering glass
flowing water
the "Whomp" sound of something ingniting swiftly
Best sensations:
someone sucking on my toes
sticking my hands in a bag of rice
running my hands over short, thick, curly hair or a buzzcut
someone scratching my head
hanging upside down (love that gravity shift!)
Unpleasant:
Crowded airports, hallways, cafeterias, etc
orange
feedback or static on sound systems
the letter f and the letter p
buzzers
grit and sand on my skin
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She came to me in the depths of night - a lithe and energetic lizard of immense proportions armed with both whipping tail and serrated jaw. I shall call her Quincy. She stares up at me from time to time, pacing the length of her cage, tasting the air. Her eyes speak of primal intelligence. I can feel her appraising me.
Quincy, an 8 year old iguana, joined my household most spontaneously. Her former owner had to find her a new home before college, as a small dinosaur and its welter of accoutrement would scarcely be welcome in a dorm. Too bad I'm taking off, as well. Calder, my youngest brother, shall care for Quincy in my stead.
Oh she is a lovely brute! And a vegetarian, too. Just my kind of gal!
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It took you a while, didn't it.
Yeah, you're far too naive and far too arrogant to catch the subtleties at first; slowly, day by day, your situation's true nature begins to show - you are being tolerated. That's right, baby. You're second fiddle, just along for the ride, the erroneous gnat fastened by sticky films of dutch chocolate batter to the mixing bowl's side.
Surprised, are you? I didn't think so.
So you lie awake at home, wondering just how many of your comrads' unanimous chuckles were generated by your wit and how many by your occupation as court fool. You wonder what they say about you behind closed doors, behind your back, whenever you're not around. Sleepless hours pass. Eventually, you surrender to doubt as lonliness swallows you whole.
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Why do people change their AIM screen name every 5 minutes? I've had the same one for 5 years! Just about every time I sign on, some familiar goober with an unrecognizable handle starts chattering away at me as if I'm supposed to divine their identity by text alone. It's a damned pain in the ass.
And then there are those SECRET screen names that people have so they can sign on invisibly and see if person X (whom they are attempting to snub) is online. What the crap, man . . .
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For your viewing pleasure . . . Salad fingers One, Two, and Three!
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18 days remain before I must depart for St. Louis. In these final weeks of adolescent halcyon, I allow caprice full reign over my behavior, coursing for a head on collision with reality, whence I shall disintegrate with a simultaneous whimper and bang. Hot damn.
I play my fiddle even amongst the flames. What sweet ruin is this.
It feels so odd to move on after 4 years in this godforsaken town. Here, I have an identity. Here, I know the location of shortcuts, coffeehouses, secret make-out spots, resident hobos, and neighborhood eccentrics. This place, for all it's dreadful shortcomings, is home. And now I have to leave, goddamnit. Just when things were getting good.
Always leave them wanting more, I suppose. What shall the party scene do without me?
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I want to be admired like a NASCAR catastrophe
I want to be treasured like a keiloid scar
I want to be noticed like a botched lobotomy
I want to be loved like a porno star
I want to be funny as a beached quadreplegic
I want to be cool as freon spill
As unforgettable as a hooker with a penis
And as recognizable as fresh road kill
I want you to touch me like a scab, still oozing
I want you to kiss me like a cheap cigarette
So whisper in my ear like a pregnant mosquito
And tell me this life's not all we get.
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~Becoming Two-tongue~ Trim my life
Limb from limb
Falsify to
Cry right through a
Smile and lie
All the while I
End where I begin
Kill the scattered
Patterns of tomorrow
Sheave my sorrow
Deceive to
No avail
Acidic and sibilant
I swallow my tail
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