On stream of unconsciousness

"Not to be confused with stream of consciousness." Though it is rather confusing. I am confusing. And confused. Now the music stopped. Now I started it again. But one of my ear plugs are broken. The set is broken. It's mono. That is not related to the music stopping (again!), because my speakers are stereo or no-o-at-all, alternatively. I got an invitation yesterday. I already rsvp-ed.

I think it's lunch time but I feel like having breakfast. Second breakfast. I already had one. But I think I was asleep. I think I still am.

I really do have ice cream in the freezer. Having it anywhere else would be strange.

It's like this: I could have coffee. But I already did. Besides, quote from a fridge magnet in the coffee place I visited today (the guy working there is real nice, by the way, but you can't go there too often, because then he'll start making you "the regular", and then you feel obliged to always have that and always come there. I can't be tied down like that) - quote (with picture - piquote?)

Except I have no energy. Maybe this is a dream? In which case I'd like to not wake up. I probably need the sleep. Besides I'm not doing stupid things. Yes. That. I'm not doing them. That's stupid. Blinds. The blinds are stupid. And automatic. Like the blinds in front of my eyes. I should eat. Lunchfast. Breakunch. Brunch. Second breakfast. I'm not that found of LOTR, actually. But I do like a good second breakfast. Don't tell my friends I said that. The first thing. About the rings. I like rings. But it's difficult for me to wear them, because my fingers vary greatly in size according to my general body temperature, which also varies, apparently.

Paragraph.

One more.

Interesteling playlist. I didn't make it. I borrowed it from an old coworker. It's very nice, but I am very sleepy. I don't normally talk in my sleep. As far as I know, I don't have any parasomnias. Unless you count that I turn into a blabbering maniac when in lack of sleep. But you shouldn't. Count it. It doesn't fall under the right definition- I forgot full stop- Paragraph-

Foods and animals are really random.

And shampoo.

Whenever someone says "think of something random!" I think of shampoo. Which of course makes it not random at all. Random very rarely is random. Panda. Not random at all. You might think it is. But you would be wrong. Do pandas drink coffee? Probably not. Probably because they are so busy with eating bamboo and not procreate. I sometimes mix up the words procreate and procrastinate.

The curtains here are ugly. They are meant to be decorative, since the blinds take care of light regulation. But the curtains don't decorate. They undecorate. Dedecorate. Disdecorate. "Go, won't you?" I said that. And I meant it. But for entirely different reasons. ...it would be the first time.

Airplane. Swallowed by a cloud. Chewed and spit out again on the other side. The cloud didn't like the taste of metal. The passengers never knew what almost hit (or, rather, digested) them.

It's not really so that random is funny because it is random.

Fridge.

Not random.

Not funny.

But still possible to laugh at, if in the right state of mind. "Arms racing is a state of mind" vs "Arms racing is intense military competition" vs "Arms racing inevitably leads to war". The latter is wrong. Cold War case in point. Besides/ monocausal explanations to excuse personal blame for what later was to be known as the First World War (they didn't know that in the beginning, though, which is a more valid excuse)/

</fedora>

Teh food. I nneedd to go downstairs. Knife. Not of the slaughtering kind. But to eat. With. By. For. Over. Under. Around. Of. There are more. It's not important.

I'll be right back.

It took three minutes. I brought my key but forgot to lock the door.

Jack Malone is actually not the same man,
as,
he,
once was.

His wife left, or so he told everyone. In reality? He knows exactly where to find her. Six feet under a pile of dung. He planted a rosebush on top of it, to cover the smell. The rosebush has thorns.

Jack Malone is not the kind of man,
you,
want,
to get too close to.
As a narrator, then, you assign him a name, to create some distance. To keep yourself out of his head.
But Jack's name isn't Jack. And as you admit that, you feel him creeping into your head after all, speading his darkness through your veins and arteries, like a bottle of ink streaming (unconsciously) into every crease in a wooden floor, after having broken upon impact. From a desk. You are the desk. You are the floor. You are the ink. You. You are the narrator.

You thought it was me. You thought I was the one facing the problem. But you were wrong. Jack infuses you, now,


It's all very obvious. The cards are dealt. The chess board set. With the instructions in a foreign language. Someone draws a gun. Then colours it pink with half-broken crayons.

I have to go. I'm awake now. Asleep. Almost. Always. After all.

On hancock

Not

But how cool is it that they changed the reflection in his sunglasses to fit the place it was playing? This is the Norwegian poster, with the ski jump Holmenkollen (the old one *sob*)

And not

Though he did have a fancy signature which is what makes him the link to today's topic...

Not even

I have no idea who this one was, other than what you can see in the picture. A picture that was taken in Arlington, VA.

Rather, the Hancock I was thinking of is the following:

John Hancock

n. Informal
A person's signature.
[After John Hancock (from the prominence of his signature on the Declaration of Independence).]

And the John Hancock in question is of course our Hancock number two up here. So it wasn't entirely far off to include him. (And the superhero Hancock is named after him as well. Sort of. As is probably Hancock number three, but this is just a guess on my part.)


Anyway, it was the signature aspect I was getting at (though none of this technically have anything to do with my signature. I'm making some very questionable connections today...). You see, I've been tagged, by Vatche from The Student Writer's Mind. The challenge goes as follows:


Write down (by hand!) on a piece of paper the following:

1. Name/Blog Name


2. Right handed, left handed, or both?

3. Favorite letters to write
4. Least favorite letters to write
5. Write out "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog"

6. Write in CAPS:

BABOON

SPLENDOR

ONOMATOPOEIA

FLIP-FLOPS

HUZZAH!

7. Favorite song lyrics

8. Tag 7 people

9. Whatever else strikes your fancy


 
And here is my attempt (notice the GREEN ink. I don't always write in green, but I do prefer it.)

If it's hard to read (though if that is hard to read, you might have trouble reading this as well...), you can probably click on it to enlarge it. I think. I'm farly sure, actually.

 

And just to prove to Leanne that I have been knitting (but that it isn't worth showing anyone - which is why I am showing it. Logical, no?)

The "before" shot of my notebook. Which also includes the view from my window (not much) and my knitting (even less much).

 
As for passing the tag on, I have picked a few:
 
Natasha at Coffee Rings Everywhere because even though I have known her for years I don't think I have ever seen her handwriting. About time!
 
Tami at Confessions of a Watery Tart because she writes all her novels longhand in the bath tub! Clearly there must be something special about her handwriting.
 
Leanne who resisted the epidemic blog virus the rest of us caught a while back, until we lured her in through collaborative blogging over at Burrowers, Books and Balderdash. She still hasn't established her own blog, but I'd be more than happy to post the result of this challenge here if she'll agree to do it ;) I have seen Leanne's handwriting, but she is one of the few people I know who would get to cross off "both" for number two up there, so it should be interesting...
 
These are not seven people, so if you think you have a beautiful/weird/show-and-tellable handwriting and/or Hancock, I suggest you pick it up even if you weren't tagged ;)





Aaaaaand of course this wasn't supposed to post until morning... Meh. Alright, this is officially my Monday post. It's Monday, I say. Not Sunday. Monday. Monday, Monday. Did you know that in Norwegian we don't write the name of the days with capital letters? So Monday would be monday (or actually, mandag, since we also have a name for it, not just a punctuation rule...). This is why it is difficult for Norwegians to remember to capitalize the first letter of weekdays when learning English, and it is why we tend to do it in Norwegian as well after having written English for a while.

Have I convinced you that it is Monday yet?