When I was a kid, I used to take my Gerbil, Nibbles, and put him into all manner of probably-uncomfortable-for-a-Gerbil situations that were some ridiculous attempt to vicariously do things that I, as a human, could never do. For example, I would put him in my plastic Ferrari, tape the windows shut, and ramp the Ferrari off of a cardboard box. I always thought it would be fun, so of course, my Gerbil should. Right?
I had a relatively large plastic C-130 cargo plane that was large enough to fit Bucket 'o Soldier sized army tanks and soldiers into, meaning this thing was roughly three feet long, and had a 'cargo bay' you could fit a kids arm in easily. Once again, I'd place my Gerbil inside, and fly him around the house, occasionally getting shot down, and coming to rest (rather violently) on the kitchen floor.
Of all the things I did, I'm sure there is one thing that really made the Gerbil the most upset. One day, for some reason or another, I found that if you take a Gerbil, place him in the center of a pillow, you can then fold the pillow in half, with the Gerbil stuck snugly in the center, then very quickly pull the pillow edges apart, leveling out the pillow, and sending little Nibbles high into the air. As a child, it never occurred to me that for a human, this may be fun, but for a small little animal with a heart rate that can top 450 beats per minute, this is freaking homicidal.
Imagine with me for a moment. You're a Gerbil. A baby Gerbil. No cares, no worries except making sure that you get yourself fed. At some point, some giant in a blue shirt with a square piece of plastic bearing the name "Jennifer" grabs you out of the cage, taking you away from your brothers and sisters, and most especially, your mom. Traumatic event 1. Now, you are transported in a small cage, bumped, poked, prodded, and touched by these giant giggling fanatics who act like they've never seen a small living creature with fur. Traumatic event 2. Now, one of these idiotic, most-irritating fools pulls you out of your cage, but lulls you into a false sense of security by placing you on a nice, soft bedding. Suddenly, the edges of the bedding close in on you. I'm sure, to a Gerbil, this alone seems very alarming. The darkness surrounds you, and you realize, you are stuck. There's no getting out. There's no way...
The edges open up, the sky brightens, you can see the light, and then you feel about 4 G forces (Gerbil forces) of acceleration upwards, and end up smacking the ceiling. Traumatic event final.
Ok, now substitute traumatic event 1, 2, and final with things that have happened this week, and you are now somewhat more educated as to how my life feels.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Friday, January 19, 2007
Whelk in a Supernova
Shift_Life
It's a bit of poetic irony that I drive a Nissan these days. Not to mention, one that doesn't warm up. I find it hilarious, in my own, slightly torqued, strangely comfortable mindset. I find myself writing these things simply because I can, and simply for my own memories, later down the road.
One of my favorite, most complex, feelings is the one you get when a major storm has just passed. In the paraphrased words of Terry Pratchett, you see that everything is fresh and new, yet you still have the feeling of a tremendous amount of energy that has just been spent nearby. It's that feeling you get when you walk outside, and you see bits of wood strewn about, huge hailstones on the ground, smashed windows, large amounts of rainwater gushing their way industriously down the curb to the nearest drain, and you turn around and see the deep gray-blue sky, and even the rainshafts, which appear to be no more than a hundred yards away from you, and yet, there is sunshine. Sunshine streaming through the clouds, illuminating the leaves which have been forcefully exiled from their native trees, playing with the wind which was only moments ago tearing through the area without mercy.
I love storms, and it's a sad feeling that the storm is over. I love hearing the wind and rain pounding on the house, stressing the foundation, making the blood run nervously through the veins while your hair stands up in anxiety (or merely from the static charge of nearby lightning). I love watching a gust front move in, when you see the clouds coming in and you get the feeling that you're sure that man in Independence Day got when he was on the White House lawn when the aliens shot the big fireball explosion thing; the feeling that you're about to get hit with something that's much bigger than you; something that doesn't care about you, and something that sees you as merely a speck of dust. I love that feeling.
When it's all over, and the storm has passed, I love the feeling of a 'new beginning', which sounds horribly poetically cliche (which it really is), but the idea still stands (in my estimation, things only become cliche because they are true, and so many people agree). So, when you walk out of the house, and see the mess, and see the sunshine, it stirs a feeling of joy.
Then you realize that you have to help everyone clean up this mess, there's no internet connection, and your dog is stuck in the tree, right next to the Toyota.
It's a bit of poetic irony that I drive a Nissan these days. Not to mention, one that doesn't warm up. I find it hilarious, in my own, slightly torqued, strangely comfortable mindset. I find myself writing these things simply because I can, and simply for my own memories, later down the road.
One of my favorite, most complex, feelings is the one you get when a major storm has just passed. In the paraphrased words of Terry Pratchett, you see that everything is fresh and new, yet you still have the feeling of a tremendous amount of energy that has just been spent nearby. It's that feeling you get when you walk outside, and you see bits of wood strewn about, huge hailstones on the ground, smashed windows, large amounts of rainwater gushing their way industriously down the curb to the nearest drain, and you turn around and see the deep gray-blue sky, and even the rainshafts, which appear to be no more than a hundred yards away from you, and yet, there is sunshine. Sunshine streaming through the clouds, illuminating the leaves which have been forcefully exiled from their native trees, playing with the wind which was only moments ago tearing through the area without mercy.
I love storms, and it's a sad feeling that the storm is over. I love hearing the wind and rain pounding on the house, stressing the foundation, making the blood run nervously through the veins while your hair stands up in anxiety (or merely from the static charge of nearby lightning). I love watching a gust front move in, when you see the clouds coming in and you get the feeling that you're sure that man in Independence Day got when he was on the White House lawn when the aliens shot the big fireball explosion thing; the feeling that you're about to get hit with something that's much bigger than you; something that doesn't care about you, and something that sees you as merely a speck of dust. I love that feeling.
When it's all over, and the storm has passed, I love the feeling of a 'new beginning', which sounds horribly poetically cliche (which it really is), but the idea still stands (in my estimation, things only become cliche because they are true, and so many people agree). So, when you walk out of the house, and see the mess, and see the sunshine, it stirs a feeling of joy.
Then you realize that you have to help everyone clean up this mess, there's no internet connection, and your dog is stuck in the tree, right next to the Toyota.
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