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Mini Me Mod

Age. 33
Gender. Female
Location Denver, CO
School. Other
» More info.
Sprocket's Training Milestones
Came home (Aug 2, 2014)
Asked to go outside (Aug 5, 2014)
Slept 4 hours straight (night) (Aug 5-6, 2014)
Crane Count
7/3/13 - 8
7/4/13 - 30
7/5/13 - 36
7/10/13 - 54
7/11/13 - 57
7/18/13 - 67
2/17/14 - 83
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Moon Mod!
To Read:
- Carrie
- Dream of the Red Chamber
- Time to Kill
- Scent of the Missing
- Stiff
Nano mod!
Monday. 7.18.11 3:01 pm
Well, my new 'metabolism and energy' vitamins seem to be working. This is both a blessing and an incredible inconvenience. One the one hand it means that I can get done a lot of things weighing on my mind, on the other, it makes opportunities previously detestable on their own account, available without excuse. For instance, breaking out that workout DVD has risen in my priorities. Particularly since I have 'nothing better to do'. Also, my STUFF is perfectly available to be sorted through and cleaned up, despite there being no real place for it to go. I suppose that means I will have to actually take care of some of it... or I could just get back to editing my book ^_^

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What Twitter Has to say about our youth:
Wednesday. 7.13.11 1:13 pm
Just looking at #youngkidsshouldbebannedfrom on Twitter. The most common suggestion, you may not be suprised about is (dnh, dnh, dnh!) Twitter? Haha. No actually, social media and Facebook came up a little bit more than Twitter, but it ranked up there. Here is a list of some that I managed to pick up. I hope you like them as much as I did:

cell phones
social networking
stuff that is bad for your health
shopping on ebay
being disrespectful to older people
talking to creeps who act like their younger
all my stuff
using pushchairs
drinking energy drinks
the internet
computer (because they might break it)
Skinny jeans (esp boys)
Hood Parties
online games
growing up
leaving messes
strict controlling parents
underground lobster fights
junk food
the mall (to hang out)
looking 18 when your 12
wearing makeup
Their adults

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The Image
Sunday. 7.10.11 11:08 pm
I have been "stumbling" about the web, today. It really is an immense waste of time, kind of in the same vein as facebook except a little bit more lonely. I can't really say if it's more vain. You see, stumbleupon.com has built this amusing little... pandora or websites which allows you to mindlessly surf based on your likes, dislikes and interests.

I just stumbled upon this one website about this man that stacks cards. Well, of course the first thing that I did was go out and try and do it for an hour or so. I got a little further than I have in my previous whims. I got to the second level (golf clap). However, before long, I found myself considering whether or not I was wasting my life.

This whole 'wasting my life' question has, ironically, caused me to waste a lot of my life, I'm afraid. I think, if I am to make any kind of artwork out of life, I should probably decide on some hazy image of what I want to make of it. If living is an artform, which I believe it is, than the image of self should be like sculpting and most accurately marble, which benefits from the chipping away of the old material to release the image within, but that's not all.

You see, while Michelangelo may have felt that he was releasing the image inside the block he is also releasing the image inside his imagination, with all it's curves and sinews. Likewise, what we can and cannot do is as much determined by the fractures, pressures and such of our lives and genetic influences up until now as it is define by what we are capable of dreaming. I dream very big sloppy dreams, sadly, and I have a hard time allowing them to waft into the natural curves by which I define me.

So, it's sort of with a half dedication that I sculpt out these images of myself, which, much like my houses of cards, usually fall over at the least upset. As a result, I feel rather formless, staring blanking at my block on marble, full of 'possibilities'. I suppose I best be back to wasting my time.

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Sunday. 7.10.11 1:49 pm
The incense came in caterpillar puffs over the assembled congregation. I sat at the end of the row, clutching desperately to the stapled pamphlet of the service, watching the other parishioners carefully. Of course I had it all messed up. I was standing up late, sitting down late, crossing backwards and all the rest, but no one seemed to mind all that much. When I got too lost, my guide (a church veteran and the first person I met at the church) would come by and tap me on the shoulder and show me where to go. It's like going to church with training wheels, I guess. Eventually, the experience and the relationships grow and then, well who knows. Anyhow, it was a nice church.

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Saturday. 7.9.11 8:37 am
It was sort of beautiful once you had a chance to look at it, Its multiple petal-like wings trying to stretch desperately towards the sky as its deceptively fragile looking legs tried to pry itself off of the carpet.

Pound, pound, pound, my hairbrush ground it further into my carpet, but still the desperately legs and the bewildered anthers announced the continuing vigor of the small black insect.

"Come on! Die!" I said desperately, "I was trying to make this quick!"

I didn't want to torment it anymore, but there wasn't any choice. I couldn't live with a whirring multiplying insect and I was too far in to its murder to try and back out now. Crushed and damaged, it still hung on to life.

I grabbed some toilet paper and plucked it off of the ground. The spindly legs fought frantically through the air. I took it over to the toilet and flushed it down, racing away, horrified. It could still come up, I thought. I could find a way out of those plumbing tubes. But I hoped it didn't.

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Writing in a Perfect World
Friday. 7.8.11 4:15 pm
I was reading a little ditty about how you should get yourself to write. The guy says that you shouldn't wait for a perfect world before you start to write: you know, right chair, right atmosphere, right music, right inspiration. It is very true, even more than how he meant it. You cannot write in a perfect world because we do not live in one. In face, I would gather that you would not even need to write in a perfect world. In a perfect world, writing would be hallow and flat, because there would be no conflict on which all good writing hinges.

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