What is it with new parents and their baby’s stats?
*7 POUNDS, 8 OUNCES!
*23 INCHES IN LENGTH!!
*AND IF YOU CALL NOW WE’LL THROW IN A SECOND ONE FOR ONLY $19.99!
Am I supposed to find a pile of clothes somewhere and simulate the baby’s proportions? Or just mime myself carrying the baby?
How about some important information?
*Does it breathe?
*Can it mow my lawn yet?
*What percentage of time that it is awake is it crying and/or shitting?
*Is it currently sleeping (because that’s when I’d like to look at it, babies are terrifying things).
*Will it blend? (j/k, j/k)
No one cares how tall your baby is. It can’t even stand.
When my baby’s born I’m going to send out meaningful information to my loved ones:
*it is alive
*currently accepting donations
*should be able to have sex in six weeks.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a little in love with her, but I get the feeling that gravity is slowly winning out.
I’m pretty sure they’re determined by the overlap of your wardrobe’s venn diagrams.
One time she sent me semi-nude photos of herself to my email address. I should have had sex with her or something like that in hind sight, but I didn’t. Alas.
At least that’s what Sonmi~451 says in Cloud Atlas to her Archivist interrogator. I don’t like axioms. I believe there are actually very few, so most that are ever said must necessarily be presumptuous and, therefore, met with skepticism. Nevertheless, it is a provocative thought, and I would slightly alter it by replacing “the” with “an.”
Maybe it’s not about finding out who you are and then pairing up the best you can figure, but finding someone who’s likely to change , over time, in the same way that you almost definitely will.
(almost always an under-statement)
It’s not that I can’t imagine what I’m going to do without Rachel in my life that makes me sad, it’s that I can imagine being happy beyond her. Without her. That’s real sad to me. We had so much fun for that short while. I would’ve loved to discover just how much fun we could’ve had. It’s a shame it had to stop so abruptly. A damn shame.
Brian: Hey fellas. Where you off to?
Harris: We’re going to The Jim.
Brian: The gym?
Randall: That’s right. The Jim.
Brian: Can I come?
Harris and Randall shoot side glances. Randall squints. Harris frowns.
Brian: Aw, come on fellas. I’ve been looking for something for a while and I think it’s just what I need to get me out of this rut.
Brian was recently let go from his job and his mother recently told him she thought he was gay. He wasn’t. It’s been a rough 3 months.
Harris’ eyebrows raise and he weighs the third wheel. Randall still squints as he exhales with grief.
Harris: Sure. Get your things.
Randall shakes his head slowly. Brian scrambles to his room. He emerges wearing athletic shorts, a cut-off sleeve t-shirt, and a sweatband around his head. Randall’s jaw drops slightly in disbelief.
Harris: What are you wearing?
Brian furrows his brow and pulls his head back in confusion.
Harris: Forget it. Let’s go.
The Jim: Who in the flying fuck is this?!
The Jim’s pointing his left index finger at Brian with his elbow resting on his desk, glaring at Harris. His right hand finds the revolver mounted underneath.
Harris: It’s our new room mate. He’s cool.
The Jim: Is he?! And what the hell is he wearing?
The Jim shoots a glance at Brian. Brian’s eyes are wide and his palms start sweating. Harris has both of his hands raised to his chest, palms facing The Jim. Randall rolls his eyes.
Harris: He’s cool.
Brian nods toward The Jim.
Brian: …wh-who are you?
The Jim: I’m The Jim. Who the fuck are you?
Brian: I’m Brian.
Brian’s thoroughly confused. The Jim squints as his right hand eases off of the gun. He opens a drawer and pulls out a notepad. He tears off the top page and hands it to Randall.
The Jim: Everything’s there. Call me tonight.
The Jim won’t take his eyes off of Brian and the three leave his office.
Dear super-rich people with money,
We like this house. A lot. If you let us pay you more money for it my friend Jon would be totally stoked and grateful and would throw the fattest of gainers off the roof.
Sincerely yours for thirty (if you’ll have us),
K & M
Kill Bill might be the best story Tarantino has written. Pulp Fiction is definitely the coolest movie he’s made with some of the best dialogue. Ever. Reservoir Dogs was incredibly intense and was performed wonderfully. Inglourious Basterds was an alternative narrative to well-known history and so a lot of the material could not have been original (or at least the main plot drivers), but was still magnificent as one can expect from Tarantino. Kill Bill, however, was a beautiful story about love. How it makes us hurt people and how it hurts us. The hyperbole of assassinations and murder and gore and sword-fighting are just vehicles to parallel a story almost everyone already knows - that love, whether between mother and child, or between lovers, is a powerful motivator, and can and will force people to do extraordinary things. A motivator that exceeds greed, pleasure, hate, etc. It’s like Bill says, “I’m a killer. A murdering bastard, you know that. And there are consequences to breaking the heart of a murdering bastard. You experienced some of them.”
1: So there was this wedding happening in Cana and Jesus’ Mom was going.
2: Jesus and the boys got an invite.
3: They showed up and they were all like, “We gon’ get our drink on! Holla!” But Jesus’ Mom was like, “They got no drank!”
4: And Jesus wasn’t having none of that so he was like, “Captain Buzz Kill, who asked you? Don’t you know who I am?”
5: And then Mary, knowing Jesus’ need to get down as well as perhaps fearing for what the boys might to if they don’t get their drink on told some of the wedding staffers, “Do what the bearded man says, else there’s gonna be some shit.”
6: Next thing you know there’s six stone pots that could carry two to three firkins apiece sitting at the feet of Jesus and the crew. Now, a firkin is basically a shit ton of liquid, or butter, or soap depending on where you come from, but when it comes to liquid, it’s a shit ton. Unless of course you’re using the term in the context of wooden buckets, but this is unlikely. At least as unlikely as throwing a wedding with only six 10” x 10” wooden buckets worth of wine (lame!). So it’s more or less safe to assume that we’re referring to the 318 litres “firkin”. Like I said, a shit ton.
7: Jesus told the people to fill the pots up with water. Just a reminder, in case you didn’t do the math, this is, like, 1,908 litres of liquid. Or, like, 504 gallons. Or, like, 8,065 8 ounce glasses of some merlot. Now that’s a party amirite?!
8: Then Jesus told them to pour themselves some of that vino.
9: The guy throwing the party got the first glass, because it was a classy affair and there was an order to these things or whatever and guess what he found out? That water wasn’t no water at all, it was wine. He was totally pumped about this and must have drank it really fast because he called the groom over and wouldn’t shut his trap about it:
10: “Mos’ guys ‘r like, bringin’ you wine ‘n tryin’ be all Great Gatsby on you ‘n shit, but when you drinkin’ lots you can’t tell if it’s shit or actually good or nuttin’. But this here’s actually damn good! Fer realskies.”
11: So Jesus pulled this stunt at a wedding and everyone thought he was the cat’s pajamas because the guy made 8,065 glasses of wine appear out of seemingly nowhere.
Maui was a fucking trip. I missed my flight on the way there, my luggage broke, I lost my wallet, and ruined my phone all within the first 48 hours. I tried to come home early at one point but the change fees and difference in fare dissuaded me. I smoked a lot of weed. A. Lot. I tried mushrooms for the first time - which actually wasn’t that big of a deal. I think. I don’t remember a lot of it. And I drank enough wine to…well I drank a shit ton of wine.
I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to spend the money. There were days I was terribly sad and upset. There were days where the company of the brothers from DC or the girls from Montreal kept me occupied enough with conversation and company, but lingering behind my eyes was the heartbreak. I think they knew, but then again, they don’t know how I normally am.
Don’t travel alone (that’s to me - you can travel alone if you want, I don’t give a shit what you do). But I’d really prefer to travel with someone. I should have learned this lesson from New York in 2010, but I didn’t because Aimee could not have gone with me then, as it was a scholastic affair.
Whatever. I was in Maui, got a nice tan, drank and smoked a lot, and slept, subsequently, like a stoned baby. Oh, and the shrooms. I did those. Whoop-dee-fukkin-doo.
I don’t know if we were supposed to meet at the wedding. I don’t know if there was someone or something that wanted us together. I don’t know any of that, but when I got divorced I knew I was the master of my destiny. That I was in control of my life and I could make of it what I wanted. And I’ll be damned if I let a three hour time difference and a bad past relationship get in between myself and the most beautiful, amazing, sarcastic, sexy woman I’ve ever been able to call mine.
I know that’s intimidating. I know it scares the shit out of you. Me too. I’m terrified of you. You weren’t supposed to happen for another couple of years. After I’d travelled more and slept with more women and found myself, or whatever. But you did. You happened. We’ve been spending the last quarter of our lives getting fucked up with religion and bad relationships and disappointment and sadness and we’ve found each other now. At this juncture, where you’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever touched and loved.
We went to the wedding. We kissed. We made love. We fell so deeply in love so fast. Far beyond what anyone would consider emotionally safe. And that shit was real.
I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the wedding. Your laugh. Your smile. Your carelessness for everyone. Not a single goddamned hour has gone by where I haven’t thought about you. I wish it wasn’t this way. I wish I could forget all about you and the knot in my chest. I wish I’d never met you some days. But I get the feeling you were always going to happen. That there was a certain inevitability to you. To us.
Goddamnit Rachel you’re perfect. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop loving you. I don’t know that I’ll ever want that.