Sometimes, I feel like I’ve been waiting to capture moments like this my whole life.

By now, I’ll have spent twice as much time on this bus than in class.
Through the windows, the world is streaked and muddy, and it looks like god has turned on the lights outside, it’s so bright. These goosebumps aren’t from the cold. It’s the music, loud and full in the ears, that shivers.
The homeless ask for quarters with an apology for interrupting your music. It’s as if the cold has turned their bitterness to desperation, and we get a little politeness in return. No sign of my lost girl, just a man in her spot with too many bags, a frumpy hat, and two old paperbacks that he never opens.
My socks are soaked through at the ankles, and all I can think of is how good it’ll feel to peel them off and jump in the shower. Or how good my wonton soup will taste when I eventually get home. Or how convenient it’ll be to just take off and drive next time, instead of waiting outside for the bus.
I may be wet and cold, but I’m going somewhere nice. That’s enough to keep the spirit warm.
I don’t do this often enough.
Sometimes, you need to get outside. Dodge the drunks stumbling through the halls, the people standing and waiting for their groups, the familiar faces. Maybe because it’s snowing outside, and you don’t want to miss it, when the sky aches the same orange as you do.
This isn’t your scene, but there’s no one to back you up, so you smile and nod. Fake kisses and obligatory hugs, thinking, “I don’t know you, and I never will”. A façade to appear normal, when memories come flooding back. Sitting alone at a table, wondering why you came in the first place. Times without a person to make you a promise. Moments with other people’s wives, because he’s secure like that, and wishing for nothing else. Walking these halls alone the way you’re doing now. Memories you wish were a little more distant. Maybe you’ll come back one day, and break even, or maybe even come out ahead.
Sometimes you need to take a picture of something, anything, because nothing you see here is how you feel, and it’s the only way you can scream.
Maybe it’s not so much outside, where you’re running, as away.
Most recently, a person called Cleo, who also goes by the misnomer “sexy1980”, stole both words and pictures from a heartfelt entry I wrote after a particularly hard day. Word-for-word. You see that car on her site? That’s my car.
If you dare to look at this abortion of a web page, do so at your own risk. I warn you, the animations and colours are not for the feint of heart.
I wasn’t happy when someone started copying entire entries of mine, word-for-word, or when another person stole my design of Version 10 (his attempted redesign in an effort to cover up his actions isn’t that far off either). Sure, I also get people hotlinking my images too, but I take simple pleasure in replacing the images with pictures of a lemon party, because I get to laugh at things like this.
But when someone steals both my words and hotlinks my pictures I get really pissed off.
Updated tastes for 2008. Many items from my 2006 and 2007 lists are crossed out, which is why categories like “furniture” aren’t smaller now.
I’ve been told that I’m notoriously hard to shop for. Not only am I extremely picky, I have esoteric (and expensive) tastes, and I usually buy — and so, have — the things that I want. This year, I realized that good gifts are things people want, but which they don’t buy for themselves because they can’t justify the cost. It doesn’t have to be lavish, but maybe a little overpriced, something you wouldn’t necessarily buy for yourself.