A ramble of proportions unparalleled

There are so many questions that seem to get lost in the not asking.
So many thoughts that are fragmented in the not thinking.

I fear of late that it is change that scares me the most. The reason why this notion is terrifying is because I have, for quite long, held myself together by the delusion that I embrace change better than most. Being on of those - a child of circumstance and crass corruption - it is infernally hard for me to accept that I may not actually 'be' who I am in my head. I have yet to figure out which version of self is less preferable. However, circumstances are forcing me to make the choice and deal with my manifold delusions. I am free inside my head. I am anything but outside of it. My cerebellum flower child spirit comes from within, so does my noxious need for approval. Needless to say it is not a pretty struggle.

Telling onesself that one is self-sufficient, solitary, silly and sassy at the same time does not make it so. It appears that we cannot, in fact and fiction, have our cakes and eat them too. What a ginormous fall from grandeur. I am not claiming in any way that I have reconciled myself to reality: that would be too big a betrayal of the seven year old girl who first locked her door to read Dahl's Matilda amid screams of scorn.
I have seen reality.
I have known it.

My delusions are not subterfuge, they are self effacing and well contrived to keep my rose-tinted spectacles intact and glossy. I believe very much in the notion that fiction only trumps fact when one accepts that it is fiction and would much rather live with the story than the truth. It is only worth savouring when we recognise it as it is. "I know that this is not the real world. I have chosen otherwise." It is the poor sods who believe the fiction to be fact that are destined to be hit over the head with it time and again.
If we are all damned anyway, what does it matter how it comes about.
Or does it?
Is that all that matters?

Many a great man (implying that there have been many great men) has said that our lives are shaped by the choices we make. Even if all the choices lead to the same conclusion and take off from the same pick-up point...it is the 'in-betweens' that gear our gait. If that truly is the case, then all that matters 'ought' to be following ones' dreams, making ones' mistakes and sucking the proverbial marrow out of life.
A dreamers recurse if there ever was one.

Animal Forum

I came accross a writer's inordinate lack of regret for displaying a sheep-skin rug. She said that sheep were stupid and therefore did not extract much sympathy.

I can relate.

I do agree that sheep tend to be quite foolish. However, one must consider D-u-n-keys, I mean the poor creatures from time immemorial were ivented for hard labour. Also, I can never feel sorry for Chickens, it is a weird looking contraption of a thing. I have a Khala who feels sorry for chickens and all animals - my hippiosity is much more selective.

I will glare daggers at anyone draped in a Shatoos because, well Bambi had major ranking in my life. However I simply cannot bring myself to indulge in a love for Chicken Little, atleast not to that degree. That would mean not eating chicken. It simply cannot be done. Thereby Chicken Little is just too whiny. Also Chickens just produce weirdly, not that I have ever found the reproductive process - in any animal, especially human's - remotely endearing, but with Chickens it is plain screwed up. I do, however, appreciate God's tiny Jack-in-the-box with Sea horses: a dude doing the 'give birth' thing is small consolation, but i'll take it.
Every egg has the potential of being a chick, given the right temperature. So basically scrambled eggs are scrampled fetus, poached are poached fetus, fried are....ugh. See Chickens are just wrong.

We are all selective in our animal loves and loathes. I mean, who in their right mind would defend the right of life for a Lizard. Those who do, refer to part: 2 of the previous sentence and cease further argument.

Sheep are also inordinately stupid - symbolically. 'A nation of sheep', 'lost flock', 'gather your herd'....dumb ass things never do anything for themselves. Now see lambs, those are cute - they should just never grow up. Tinkerbell needs to meet Mary, so that the latter can always have her:
'Ickle, wittle wambie'
With fleece as white as snow
To follow her till Kingdom come
Wherever, whenever, however ... she goes

A no equal C

Having debated, in a manner of thinking, syllogisms of sorts. I discover that logic aint' my thing and never can be. Perhaps not the best of omens to connect with, considering GRE is two months away.

And apparently if A= B and B=C : then A=C.
I shall never agree, what if A only equals B when its in a good mood, having danced till dawn and what if B can only match C in a fist fight, when its hipped up on stereoids and nothing else. Then A can never equal C, who is understandably (hah) good at fist fights, because A is a pacifist.
"Me no LIKEY!"

Also the whole God thing...after moderate consideration - which is more than I award to most things unless they involve the genius witticisms of Daffy Duck or Tom and Jerry - I have dicovered that Divinity IS damned.

I am not damned.
I don't like damned.
Therefore I am not divine.
There- also-fore, I dont like divine.

I can think of atleast two people, who if reading this are probably perched on railings waiting to jump. Dont JUMP - have a Coca Cola. All the answers lie in a bottle of Coke. I have the answers to all ontological dilemma's - they are fizzy and beautious.

We must all drink of the Coke
Lest a swarm of bottlecaps bruise thy into oblivion...

....Aah oblivion!

High, High Hippie Hippie High

Yes, yes ...many a cradle doth fall, but-much of late.
It can be said that the perpetual good girl has come under bad influence, or merely that she is tired of being good. Then again the recent bout of not-so-subtle substance abuse can also be attributed to the fact that mommy dearest and Khala of Gurudom are sponsors of my "as long as you have 'limited' fun, tell us and dont go over board...we dont care if you drink, you know we dont believe in the judgement bullshit". Now what does that mean, judgement bullshit?!
Hmm, oh crap was I just judged in Judy Judgerson-ness's post waste. Who cares.
I have finally had the brilliant experience of Senor Jack Daniels meeting Maestro Coca of Colas. My Khala and I, the only witnesses to my first step down Sin City and Subversive Lane. We must all drink of the Coke.

I have had my first alcohol induced epiphany...it is mani-fold, as are most of my epiphanies: Coke + Vodka = much caffine, which makes me hyper. Hyper enough to get on a computer table and sing the Rosemary Clooney version of "Mambo Italiano". Priceless hyper. As in there is no price too high for my hyper.

Yul Brynner looks even more beautiful after vodka...1-2-3 AND... The generel hippiosity of my hipness, translates to a weird stratosphere.

All of a sudden the hairdryer, hanging by my half-snutched wire offers an answer to our ontological existential dilemma. Its full of hot air. "But its an outlet of beauty"...ergo Beauty is a bag of hot air...But, oooooooooooooh, hmmmm...... Hoopilicious LA!

Also, old nursery rhymes are sublime:

Because she'll be coming round the mountain when she comes,
she'll be coming round the Mountain when she comes,
coming round the mountain
coming round the mountain...
coming round the mountain when she comes.

Singing High High Hippie Hippie HIGH!!!!!!