The little children, and the not-so-little children, who live next door to me are constantly beating the shit out of each other whenever they're outside "playing." Nary a day goes by when they are out, that the youngest of thema little boydoesn't get the crap knocked out of him by his older sisters. They leave the kid wailing outside their house and mine, while they yell insults to him whenever their nerves get tapped by his moaning. I can't even comprehend how heartless those little brats are, and I hate children.
My mother called me this morning to tell me her house is thankfully still standing. She said, so far, a few of the trees on their property were knocked down and nobody but those smart enough to own a generator have power. She told me how her white trashy neighbors left their animals outside to weather Hurricane Frances, and that she only saw their two ducks waiting by the side of the house where one of their daughters goes to feed them, only no one is there to. I assume that if they don't blow away, they'll starve to death since their owners left them for dead anyway.
It amazes me how so many people and entire families cannot ever, for just one day, try not to start fights over things big or small when it's horribly inappropriate. I'm not very religious, and being in church yesterday morning for a funeral made me nervous; I don't remember when to sit, stand or kneel; I don't remember the responses to some of the prayers and such, and had to be reminded of what you say, do, and how to hold your hands properly to receive communion. But I am, however, respectful that a funeral isat least from what I believeheld for closure to family and friends of whomever died, and is to be the last time you ever really make a fuss over this person. Is it just me, then, to think it a bit unreasonable and tactless to argue over who gets to keep the American flag that was draped over the coffin, in the cemetery, immediately following the ceremony, and while the casket lies over the hole it's about to be lowered into? Gratefully, I'm not part of that family and didn't know a single person there aside from the two people I went with and the man lying in the box; but even so, I thought it petty and disrespectful. The man who died, Rocco, was always such a nice guy, albeit kind of off his rocker. I'll remember him for always running into me whenever I'd go to the bank or drug store, and how'd he smile and say, "Are you following me?" like he still fancied himself the flirt he must have been way back when; and for the temperature in his home to always be hot enough to boil water, or the way it smelled like old people; how when I was young, I dredded going over there because he'd pinch my face and how when I got older, I realized he wasn't such a bad guy afterall.
My grandmother went out to the cemetery where my grandfather is buried, early this morning, and I didn't go. Since he died 11 years ago, I've only been out there one other time aside from the day of his funeral. My father took me, and it upset me a hell of lot more than I imagined it would. Going out there with my grandmother would have just made me feel like an idiot, considering she thinks the old man was a raging bastard anyway and appears to never miss him. From what everyone's ever told me about grandpa, he was one mean son of a bitch; but he was terribly good-looking, and a talented artist. Maybe because I was the first person to make him a grandpa or because I just happened to be his favorite without any competition for awhile, he liked me and was always extra nice to me. I remember him always sitting at the kitchen table, in the seat with his back by the window, eating soup and watching nature programs on the little black and white television that used to be in the room. A few times he'd be outside with his record player, listening to beat-up old Italian records, and he'd call to me with his accent, "Judy! Judy! Come sing with me." He could play the guitar, the harmonica and the accordion. I used to be horribly amused by the way he and grandma would argue about everything and all the time, flinging insults and expletives at each other in Italian, and how he laughed his ass off one day when I asked him what one of the words meant.
But, back to the present.
Keep your fingers crossed for me that the money I'm hoping will come my way, comes my way, so that I may put it to good use and fulfill my sneaky little plans.
Update: There is a marathon of Real World: San Diego, and I have a whole bag of Lemonheads. If this is wrong, I don't want to be right.
My mother called me this morning to tell me her house is thankfully still standing. She said, so far, a few of the trees on their property were knocked down and nobody but those smart enough to own a generator have power. She told me how her white trashy neighbors left their animals outside to weather Hurricane Frances, and that she only saw their two ducks waiting by the side of the house where one of their daughters goes to feed them, only no one is there to. I assume that if they don't blow away, they'll starve to death since their owners left them for dead anyway.
It amazes me how so many people and entire families cannot ever, for just one day, try not to start fights over things big or small when it's horribly inappropriate. I'm not very religious, and being in church yesterday morning for a funeral made me nervous; I don't remember when to sit, stand or kneel; I don't remember the responses to some of the prayers and such, and had to be reminded of what you say, do, and how to hold your hands properly to receive communion. But I am, however, respectful that a funeral isat least from what I believeheld for closure to family and friends of whomever died, and is to be the last time you ever really make a fuss over this person. Is it just me, then, to think it a bit unreasonable and tactless to argue over who gets to keep the American flag that was draped over the coffin, in the cemetery, immediately following the ceremony, and while the casket lies over the hole it's about to be lowered into? Gratefully, I'm not part of that family and didn't know a single person there aside from the two people I went with and the man lying in the box; but even so, I thought it petty and disrespectful. The man who died, Rocco, was always such a nice guy, albeit kind of off his rocker. I'll remember him for always running into me whenever I'd go to the bank or drug store, and how'd he smile and say, "Are you following me?" like he still fancied himself the flirt he must have been way back when; and for the temperature in his home to always be hot enough to boil water, or the way it smelled like old people; how when I was young, I dredded going over there because he'd pinch my face and how when I got older, I realized he wasn't such a bad guy afterall.
My grandmother went out to the cemetery where my grandfather is buried, early this morning, and I didn't go. Since he died 11 years ago, I've only been out there one other time aside from the day of his funeral. My father took me, and it upset me a hell of lot more than I imagined it would. Going out there with my grandmother would have just made me feel like an idiot, considering she thinks the old man was a raging bastard anyway and appears to never miss him. From what everyone's ever told me about grandpa, he was one mean son of a bitch; but he was terribly good-looking, and a talented artist. Maybe because I was the first person to make him a grandpa or because I just happened to be his favorite without any competition for awhile, he liked me and was always extra nice to me. I remember him always sitting at the kitchen table, in the seat with his back by the window, eating soup and watching nature programs on the little black and white television that used to be in the room. A few times he'd be outside with his record player, listening to beat-up old Italian records, and he'd call to me with his accent, "Judy! Judy! Come sing with me." He could play the guitar, the harmonica and the accordion. I used to be horribly amused by the way he and grandma would argue about everything and all the time, flinging insults and expletives at each other in Italian, and how he laughed his ass off one day when I asked him what one of the words meant.
But, back to the present.
Keep your fingers crossed for me that the money I'm hoping will come my way, comes my way, so that I may put it to good use and fulfill my sneaky little plans.
Update: There is a marathon of Real World: San Diego, and I have a whole bag of Lemonheads. If this is wrong, I don't want to be right.
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[Edited on Sep 07, 2004 12:54AM]