Tuesday, 6 November 2007

Six Thoughts & A Sloppy Kiss

The following blog was originally posted at my Mostly Private Myspace.

Category: Blogging

When you don't know what you are going to write about, it is best not to write it isn't it?
Or should you just type while words plummet from your brain, into your nerves and come out of your fingers and onto the screen?

A marvelous thing. A wonderful contraption.

"Oh, the cleverness of me!"

I do have a few thoughts I'd like to note...

One. When your dear old Gran is not well you are not allowed to get angry at her for calling you unattractive and telling you that if your hair was a certain colour, you'd get a job. You just can't get angry. You have to remember that when the inevitable day rolls along, and you are lying her in her grave or burning her bones for the mantelpiece, to look back on these times and say: I love you because you make me feel like a failure.

I am giggling to myself as I look over that thought due to the possibility of how many people will believe me to be angry and (oh no!) emotional...trust me, rage does not possess me. EDIT 10/19/10: Yes, but doesn't stop what you said from being really disturbing, Caitlin.

Two. The Father that you feared as a child, usually becomes the Dad you love. They just need to grow up.

Three. Cats, having less taste buds than humans, need to be less picky about their food. Darn them for being adorable.

Four. Nazis are just Fear in Human form. I despise them.

Five. A short little video, filled with hidden secrets, is similar to finding a sixpence in your Christmas Pudding. Or maybe I'm just hungry. Fatty.

Six. MySpace pages of others are filled with disappointing information.

There ye are... Six Thoughts.

This sentence/title is in my head...I don't know why.

"Some kind of wonderful"

My Poem about Hunger - I haven't had dinner yet.

Empty Stomachs
Hungry Hearts
No Food Here
Drift Apart

I feel like tacos ;P

Cheers loves
Caitlin xox

Comments (16) - all bullshitty and telling me I should write a book. Riiight.


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