‘Like’ is an overused but somehow generally appropriate word

*msn: There are days when the intangibles of reality seem somehow more lasting that the kind you can see and touch.

I like words

It’s funny how, if I don’t write for a day, two days, and suddenly it becomes so long ago I don’t even remember what I last wrote about, the little narrator in my head (she’s little, yes, and has large glasses and even larger hopeful eyes and watches everything) just…stops.

It’s as though she gets tired and goes off to find someone a little more willing to make her words solid before they disappear.

And disappear they do, the way bubbles on a soapy-smooth surface do, when you stare at them, holding your breath, watching the colours swirl and abruptly twist and bend, getting ever so faintly fader until there is only a vague bluish webbing skimming across the surface, then – nothing.

I have a memory the consistency of molecules loosely bound by surface tension, and hence no stories. I am on holiday, and by the time I get to my computer, I have forgotten most of what I’ve done.

Funnily enough though, I do remember this: every day for the past week or so, I have been greeted by Boyfriend thus: “So…do I look like Andy Roddick?”

He was growing his beard you see. Chinese sparse-haired (facial, anyway) genes be damned.

He shaved today. (A daily decided “No” sufficed.)

I like writing words

There are occasions when I wish I couldn’t speak, if only because then I would have the excuse to communicate entirely in writing.

Then I wouldn’t have to listen to myself make all kinds of grammatical mistakes aloud, simply because I’m used to speaking that way.

Then I wouldn’t then cringe and stutter and stammer because I am so distracted by the way I speak that I forget what I am talking about.

Then I wouldn’t take a disproportionately long amount of time to reply because I’m trying to remember.

Then I wouldn’t have to see the disdainful looks I get from people who assume, simply because I have a foreign accent, that I can’t speak English well.

Then I wouldn’t get things like “Do…you...understand…?” and pityingly patronizing looks.

Then I wouldn’t hate myself for not being able to talk to people properly simply because we are not the same.

Then I wouldn’t hate myself for hating myself and end up all tense and irritable.

It’s all a matter of confidence, I think, and the fact that I have none.

Darnits.

I like pictures

I am still wholly and completely immersed in ‘new-camera-owner’ state of mind.

Picture phobic people now avoid me like the plague. (I also like alliteration.)

Lately I’ve taken to taking pictures of light, reflections, shadows, and caught myself one night attempting to capture the sudden incongruous good music suspended in the wintry air outside the Geology building.

(I now have the picture of a nondescript window behind some even more nondescript bushes sitting in a folder on my laptop, laughing, I am sure, at me, because I can no longer recall that elusive tune.)

I think it’s the idea of realizing the unreal that appeals to me.

Anyway, in the spirit of picture-taking and the Fantastic Four movie I watched Tuesday night, (*sort of spoiler ahead*);

What happens when you rapidly run cool air over a dangerously overheated glass-surfaced stove?

In the spirit of Shaggy, it wasn’t me. Really.

I do not like

A lot of things, but most of all, people who think that killing innocent people is ever justified.

It is not.

Even if you lack basic human emotion, morals, or a sense of the sanctity of life, for the love of whatever it is you love, please realize that it is stupid.

And pointless.

Because it will only make things worse.

Worst of all is when you die doing it, because then you will never know the utter futility and insanity of your actions.

You will never understand.

You will never learn.

Worst of all, you will never be sorry.

Dying, believing you have done something great, is a death you do not deserve.

It is infuriating and I hate it.

I don’t mean to be preachy…it’s just that…sometimes…things happen…which make me wonder just how someone, anyone, could bring themselves to do what they did.

What made them hate so much that they could do this?

What made them love so little?