dear blogspot

Dear Blogspot,

You were like a lover. We kissed, we cuddled, we had good times. But I'm flaky and vain, and never satisfied. Thus, we're through. I wish I could say it's not you, it's me, but that's not true... or maybe it is. I just don't know anymore.

*siiiiiiiigh*

The truth is, I've found someone else. Yes, he's flashy and arrogant, but that's kind of what I'm into right now. He's a little easier to handle. Granted, he makes most of my decisions for me, but any autonomy you granted me always seemed like lip service, you know?

I know you've been trying. Really, I do. You've been dressing better. I noticed. You were afraid I was going to lose interest, I could tell.

I can't help it, Blogspot, I feel like somebody when I'm with him. I know you did that for me once, but it was right after I left Livejournal, which was really just a rebound from Geocities, and we all know how that shook down.

I just don't want my guilt over you to haunt me the same way, Blogspot. Don't do anything drastic. Keep on trucking, Blogspot, doing what you do best: providing a space for emo sobs and pedantic rants.

I'm sorry, Blogspot, that was mean. I know you do your best, and you were there for me for all of my emo sobs and pedantic rants. We had it good, but those times are over.

Just give me your faith, Blogspot, that it will all work out. I know Wordpress and I will be happy together. I don't know how long it will last, but I just can't say no to those customizable fonts.

Love and kisses,

Ash

Update to last Saturday's post:

Yesterday I saw pink toilet paper. PINK. TOILET. PAPER. If this isn't a sign of the apocalypse, I don't know what is. Companies profiting off the breast cancer "brand" is really starting to get to me. They make way more off those products than actually gets donated to breast cancer research, btw.

pink isn't just 'pink' anymore

Out of guilt for missing a breast cancer fundraiser last night, I thought I would wander the internet a little this morning, but then I grew disturbed. Google 'breast cancer funding' then google 'breast cancer merchandise.' It's a little outrageous the difference.

It kind of confirms my suspicions that this devastating disease which deserves our respect has been hijacked by a bunch of sick businessmen. I find it ridiculous that they are profiting off this pink merchandise. A small fraction of their markup actually ends up going towards breast cancer research, and the rest to the companies.

I do not mean at all to diminish anyone's suffering or to disrespect anyone living with cancer or their friends and family, but please understand my meaning: it just seems wrong to me for a disease to be a brand.

Perhaps it's one of those 'the end justifies the means' and that this is tolerable because at least some money is getting to breast cancer research, but it all just makes me feel a little uneasy. I'm interested in reading the latest statistics on different funding dollars for different types of cancer, but I just could find them anywhere on the internet. Perhaps I didn't look hard enough.

I'm not entirely sure what else to say. I'm sure this seems offensive enough for now.

Thoughts? I would love to hear I'm wrong, but only if I really am!

five am and all is well

I was up at five this morning. Intentionally, which is strange. I had a conversation yesterday which let me wander back down that awkward little garden path of memory to the time I came home from Europe, and, with no work for two weeks and jet lag, I was awake every morning at 5 am. I got so much writing done before the rest of the house even woke up.

Bliss!

So this morning, I woke up, wrote about 800 words, and here I sit. Not too shabby, considering I'm not even usually up by this time on a Saturday. Your head enters a weird place when its overtired. Most times you're too tired to do anything, but in the morning you feel like you should be waking up, so it's... bizarre. Perfect for being creative, if you can concentrate.

Perhaps I will get a lot more done before Canzine West this afternoon and the NPODW party tonight!

tony curtis, i tip my hat to you

Oh Tony Curtis, I tip my hat to you.

You had a career spanning sixty decades, and in my heart of hearts you will always be wearing high heels and chasing after Marilyn Monroe. Whether you were on the run with Sidney Poitier (running from a chain gang to an Oscar nom!), or in the bath with Laurence Olivier, or doing your best 'Cary Grant,' those eyes and that chin made a lot of wives swoon, including six of your own.

Tony Curtis, I salute you.

first against the wall when the revolution comes

The machines are rebelling and I am first against the wall. At work today, I took a break from pushing paper around and started pushing pixels, via Excel. I love Excel. There is something perverse in the ease with which one can organise by simply copying and pasting. Need to add things up? JUST. ONE. CLICK. No scratching things out on notepads and using your brain. The fact that I remain amazed by machines adding things up might just give a slight hint towards my Luddite tendencies, but as I was in Excel this morning, the program LOCKED ME OUT. It told me that I could not save my work, as 'this file is already in use by Ashleigh Rajala.' I am Ashleigh Rajala. How dare it talk back? It was like an insolent teenager refusing to come out of its room once the grounding was over.

I closed out of Excel. Still nothing. Logged in and out of the workstation. Still nothing. And then I resorted to that oh-so-technical of solutions, turning the computer off then on. Still nothing. There goes everything I know about trouble-shooting computers. Time to call IT. Hours later, the problem was solved, all the while this phantom Ashleigh Rajala was logged into Excel. I began to wonder if perhaps this Nega Ashleigh, this Washleigh, was also starting underground fight clubs or something just as nefarious. The end result is the same, whether or not this was a glitch in the Matrix, our days are numbered. The machines are rebelling, and the time is nigh to relearn how to do simple math in our heads. Viva la long division!

That's my spiel for the day. You're welcome.

one of my favourites

File this under "Songs That Are Really Depressing When You Actually Listen To Them."

anything you can do i can do meta-- phorically

Someone I was in the presence of the other day made the off-hand remark that writers use too many metaphors. So, let's ignore all possible explanations for why I was in the presence of anyone who could possibly drop that aphoristic gem into a normal conversation, and focus on the exact magnitude of the statement made. Too many metaphors? I'm sorry, peach, but metaphors are the spice of life - from the most boring (like that, the ironically bland usage of the word 'spice'), to those metaphors so complex they can only be described as literary cunnilingus. See? Another metaphor. A saucy one, too. Metaphors... pah! Let's see how mastubatory we can get with metaphors. Let's meta the SHIT outta them. You've heard of trillions of things being metaphors for a trillion other things. Especially life. Fucking "life". Everything's a metaphor for life. But that's the beauty of language. That's why some of us get up in the morning. Especially us English majors and artist types.

Ponder this:

Please explain that in 300 words or less.

*issues insane demands*

Since officially relegating My Funny Valentine to the 'done' drawer of my mental filing cabinet, I've got my metaphorical "shit" together and am ready to start writing again. For the past eight months, I've done naught but scroll miscellaneous scribbles in the margins of notebooks; ideas that have stayed just that... miserably pencilled in my journal between to-do lists and how-to references. I have a lot of momentum behind me, and as such, I quoth to thee the proverbial snowball rolling down a hill. The momentum continually picks up, but there's always the queasy feeling that you're still going downhill at an alarming rate, am I right?

Anticipating this, about a month ago I dug out a small notepad labelled "Great Ideas" that my well-intentional (or naively optimistic) mother stuffed in my stocking last Christmas. I've made it part of my routine, somewhere between the first and fortieth cup of tea, to write down at least one new logline or story idea. It's been marvellously beneficial, as I've spent the last couple of years living past glories and grinding the only few decent ideas I've ever had into the ground. New ideas are nice.

I'm currently in the draft stage of several shorts, and I've forced myself to revisit those old notebooks and scribbled margin-trolls to organize my larger ideas. If I could possibly summarize my last eight months of higher education into one little logline, it would be "Organization and structure make movies." With that firmly cemented into the appropriate parts of my grey matter, I got my aforementioned shit together. Each feature or novel is in a neatly labelled bin - and I mean 'neatly.' My craftsmanship with a Sharpie is remarkable. All notes, all concept drawings, all inspirational photos or song lyrics, all research - is dumped into that bin. Each bin is accompanied by his or her (gender pending) mate: a bulletin board. With title, logline, central question, and inspirational phrases scrawls around the frame, these bulletin boards have Post-its marking out the scenes and plot points.

I have eight bin/board partnerships. Eight movies/novels. Well, seven movies and one novel.

I'm going to be writing for years.

*sigh*

But at least I'm organized.

tell me about your corndog

There are reasons why Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure is one of my most favourite movies ever. Sure, it's the cinematic equivalent of the least genetically blessed lovechild of a dimestore novel and everything terrible about the eighties, but it holds a certain je ne sais quoi. I literally Do. Not. Know. What.

A few possibilities echo through my mind, metacortexually (yes, it's a word I just made up, but go with it):

*I really want to see a spin-off sitcom with Billy the Kid and Socrates as roommates a la the Odd Couple.
*I love how two ridiculously stupid stoner kids can throw out such eloquent verbiage as: "Strange things are afoot at the Circle K."
*I think they really, really, really - and I mean, really - nailed Napoleon's character, especially with how he cheats at bowling.

Thanks to Janin for getting the above image for me after I fruitlessly scoured all that Google images could barf up yesterday. You rule.