Prop me up on that one

I'm not a very political person, I'm not even very politically correct, but the other day I learned a little bit more about California's Proposition 8.

Here's el dealio, I couldn't understand, why would the church want us to vote for Prop 8 so badly? I understand that homosexuality is a sin and that we shouldn't condone it, but at the same time, don't people have their rights to believe whatever they want to believe? And then I read this.

Also, check this out

Glomerular Apparatus

Tell me about your expenses, sing me a lullaby of taxes, stocks, and all your investments. I love listening to your money talk and hearing all of your thoughts on stock. Give me hope and give me love, wrap me up tight in your green dreams. I'll sit you in the corner and I'll spin you round and round and round.

Baby, business is my business and babies are my hobby-horse. So baby, let's go for a ride.

Nostalgia

The feeling of my hair blown on my face, in my ears, and around my forehead is something unfamiliar, but this bench, the smell of exhaust, and the anticipation are not.

It has always been a journey, before I steppeed out my door I could feel it. It was the rush, the distant beeping, the only difference was the increase in gas prices. The store window displays are advertising the same things with new names or else have dissappeared with the window panes. The shady Mexican restaurant, the smell of grease, and fries and grass clippings.

The mountains? They're as constant as, as unmoving, as immovable as my Grandpa's constitution. Don't expect them to reflect the look of surprise I see on your face, they've seen it.

The screech of the wind through the windows has been there, but I just never realized before what it was screeching about. This time I want to join it.

But in the end, what really changes? Is it the people, the places, the weeds? Or is it only our opinions? The shoes we wear are a different brand, a different style, maybe a different color, but the same size, the same foot. And why does some change feel natural while other changes rip us apart?

Cry a little bit

It was white. With brown and strawberry chunks scattered about it and shattered glass shards spread sporadically across the floor. It was yogurt with granola and fruit. It was a mess that I now had to clean and I was going to be late for work. It was a safety hazard for those walking across the kitchen with bare feet.

It WAS my breakfast.

Daze

Sometimes you don't know what to do next.

Or maybe that's just me.

Ridiculous

This time I'm going to include the moral before the story:
Don't get yourself in a dizzle, it's not that important.

It's Thursday evening and I just got back from Institute and the lights were out and the door was locked and I did not have my key. I had looked before I left my house and was hoping my cute room mate would be home to unlock the door for me. I called her earlier and she said she was anticipating coming, but never showed up.

So after sitting on my doorstep, calling my some what flakey room mate and her boyfriend for ten minutes, I decide to go visit teaching. An hour later I return to discover she is still not home, but my cute pot of a friend Juan and his co-worker are sitting on my stairs wanting hair cuts. I continue to call my no-good room mate and her no-good boyfriend who don't pick up their no-good phones to no avail. Instead we go upstairs and use the dining room of the house above us and I give hair cuts for an hour and go back to see if my prodigal room mate has returned. To no avail. I am grumpy.

I do not like to stay awake this long.

I am hungry.

I am angry.

Where is my dirty room mate and why am I not asleep? *grubmle, grumble, grumble, I'm going to bite someone's head off*

I see that dirty rotten boyfriend, bumbling my way... with a key...

He opens the door, I walk in, turn around, lock it.

I'm going crazy, I can't find my dang key, I'm losing everything, my keys, my socks, my books, my pamphlets, my mind. Why can't I find that key, I've looked in the couch, on the floor, under my pillows.

My friend Dale comes over (I'd called him when I was locked out) and here I am inside my house looking silly. He convinces me to look one last time in my back pack and low and behold there is my key. There. the entire time. My key.

You have to be kidding me.

I'm going to bed.

11 o'clock the pumpkin hour

It comes like a killer breeze, the deadline for the quiz. The deadline for my life. The deadline for the money. The deadline for the submission. The deadline for work. The deadline for the papers.

I'll never understand what it means to be stress free.