Oh, yeah. You probably want to know what I’m going on about, huh?
Behold!
“There’s some sort of festival on so there wasn’t a lot of choice of cars and I’m afraid. . . ” Douglas gestured behind Carolyn to where the vehicle was being driven up for them from the parking lot just in time to hear Arthur’s
“Yellow car.”
“Dear God,” Carolyn gasped focussing her attention back on Douglas. “This could be as bad as that time we went to New York and had to blindfold him for the entire drive down Fifth Avenue so that he didn’t give himself an aneurism trying to keep track of all the yellow cabs.”
(From “How Unlucky Can a Pilot Be?” - probably won’t make much sense if you’re not familiar (yellow car!) with Cabin Pressure.)
see? moffat! (i think sue won the interwebs with that tweet…)
I hate when I get like this… it’s anger flavored mania. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does?
Look. The. Fuck. Out.
I had to go out today, against my better judgement. Of course, “ya cahn’t get theyah frum heeah” is never more true than in the summer. (I think I just slaughtered my grandmother’s Maine accent…)
I had to go to Rite Aid and pick up a prescription and some other stuff. While I’m waiting in line to pay, the woman in front of me is buying almost $200 worth of shit. AT A RITE AID. (It’s a pharmacy/convenience store… they’re not made for huge grocery purchases, you know?)
It’s obvious she’s a tourist. Everything about her screams it. Everything.
So she finally pays and leaves the store. The cashier looks at me and apologizes. Because, of course, they’re short-staffed today. Why not?
I couldn’t help myself and with my snark on full-blast, I said “It’s the price we pay for living here. All we do is wait for tourists to get out of our way on 95, Route 1 or the local Rite-Aid.”
The guy behind me choked back a laugh and the woman behind him (I think) said, “Amen!”
I know, I know…
I CHOSE to live here, but when there’s really only two ways to get from point A to point B and they’re full of moron tourists, it gets really hard for me to keep my shit together.
Then again, moments like watching the douchebag from Nova Scotia bottom out in a parking lot and break his trailer hitch almost made it worth being cut off by him…
Particularly the note that said “look back at life, regret punches you in the face”?
I figured it out.
Took me forfuckingever, though.
I put the note right after the song title “Sky High Honey”, but since it was off of his new album, I didn’t have access to the song right away.
After listening to the song a few times, I heard these lines and…
LIGHTBULB!
I bet you’re laughing at some joke he told you. With his arm around your sunburnt shoulders. I spent the morning with my face against the window seat Looking down at all the things that got the best of me…
You know those moments when you look back at your life and regret punches you in the face? Yep.
I try not to regret the majority of things I’ve done/will do. Regret doesn’t do anything but make you feel like shit. It’s done. It’s over. Move on.
That said, I do regret a few things. But they’re important and I don’t want to delete them.
I regret not getting to know the woman my father loved so much.
I regret not going home when he was in the hospital - even though I was forbidden to. (You didn’t want to fuck with my father when he pulled rank. Remember when I talked about the games of “You Lose”?)
That’s it.
Mostly.
At least, it’s all I’m going to admit to right now…
Anyhoo, to get back on track:
I was doing OK until I heard… You wait too long, you never leave
That line, though? That fucking line?
Absolutely killed me. (Kicked me right in the feels, for you tumblr folk.)
If you don’t know why go spend some time in the archives.
I made a very conscious decision not to look for work at international companies unless the position was perfect. It wasn’t worth suffering at a shitty job hoping to hell they’d sponsor me to move overseas… and of course, because I inherited the Nelson Black Cloud of Doom (trademark pending), the companies I would have killed to work for passed me over because of…
wait for it…
THE COMMUTE INTO BOSTON.
Well, fuck you, too.
(Why do you think I got so pissy every. single. time. it came up in an interview?)
I don’t quite regret the decision to apply for jobs at local companies. It’s better knowing I don’t have a chance in hell to get sponsored by my employer instead of killing time only to find out it will never happen.
Is it stupid logic?
Probably.
All it means in the long run is that the move to London just became that much more difficult logistically.
Financially, we’re getting (back) to a position where we might be able to cross the pond more often than not. If I stay at the hotel chain, I get a really good rate at any brand under their corporate umbrella, even the international properties. Of course, worst case scenario, I have friends who would probably be more than willing to let us crash at their house if need be for a week. (This constant vacationing in the UK assumes that we don’t want to go anywhere else. Germany’s been brought up and tabled in favor of another trip to London. A few times.)
More importantly, if we can figure out how to do it, there’s always the option to use the 6 month visitor visa.
Consistently.
Why not pack up and move every six months or so? Snowbirds do it. Why can’t we?
——
Unrelated. Kinda.
I’m the end of a Hitchcock movie: A little dark and a lot confusing. I’m the last of the worst pretenders. So lost, so lost…
(Since I’m listening to Matt and this song came on, I figured why the hell not? “Mission Bells” is my favorite song. This week.)
i read that as “‘doctor who’ aided (the) bin laden raid in jail”
I seriously pictured Nine (I don’t know why him specifically) doing some sort of raiding in a jail with Bin Laden. And I don’t even know what the fuck that’s supposed to mean. I think tumblr has destroyed my brain. Too much time with the fan girls, speaking our pidgin language and thinking/writing in British English has completely ruined my command of American English.
——
“Okay, this was an adorable story! I really enjoyed it. Thanks so much for writing :D”
I took a correspondence writing course waaaaaaaay back when we lived in Ohio. For the children in the audience, a correspondence course was when you snail mailed your homework to your teacher. Online courses didn’t really exist back then. Plus, with writing, it kind of made more sense - she could underline, write corrections, etc. and make it easier to understand the notes.
Anyhoo… I found the course’s notebook, filled with the writing assignments, my turned in homework, and the teacher’s comments. (That class is where “Scott and Kate” came from, and maybe one day, I’ll suck it up and make it public.) I went back and read all the assignments (write from the antagonist’s point of view, do a character study of your main characters, blah, blah, blah…). I’d forgotten how much work it took to flesh out realistic characters, but looking back at how it all came together, it was worth it.
All the reactions to my assignment were high praise. Such high praise that it pissed me off to where I basically accused her - in my final review of the class - of blowing smoke up my arse. After she chewed me out for being a complete dick to her, she reminded me that her one CONSISTENT (and pretty much only) complaint about my writing was the way I tend to write in choppy sentences. I had no idea I was doing it back then, but I’ve discovered since that its my voice. It’s just who I am when I write. Whether or not it’s on my blog or in fiction.
Fascinating.
I’m still amazed that I’m getting positive feedback on my fan fic. (I still feel ridiculous admitting that.) People are favoriting my story, giving me kudos, following my story (which is pointless - it’s all been uploaded - but sweet nonetheless), and most importantly, favoriting ME and following ME. Not my story. ME. As a writer.
Dude. It blows my fucking mind like you don’t even know.
I guess in a way, I feel like people are being kind. That I don’t deserve the praise. That I’m a completely shitty writer. (See? Choppy sentences.)
Once day, I’ll accept that I can write, and that people aren’t just blowing smoke.
