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Nov. 9th, 2011

Olivia

Birds of a feather flock behind the counter

Today while I was slowly decaying into the inevitable husk of my former self behind the restaurant counter, I looked out the window and saw an impressive flock of birds descend upon our shopping center. Hundreds of black bodies in spectacular formation maneuvered themselves like a blanket, settling in trees and scattering over the concrete lot. As usual when my mind feebly fights mental stagnation, I began to wonder.

Today is a great day to be a bird. As much as I enjoy and would like to travel, airfare, bus fare, life not being fair, and the trivial obstacles like responsibility and guilt have stopped my dreams from coming into fruition. This would not be so if I were a bird though! If a bird needs a round trip to Las Vegas, he can just up and leave. Literally, his body goes in the direction up, and he is on his way, without the faintest bother of boarding passes, arriving an hour before departure, or lurking the Ortbitz website with the dedication of Captain Ahab himself waiting for that sweet deal (word on the street is, Mondays!) Birds are terribly lucky having never known the financial perils that only we more evolved creatures have the luxury to suffer.

So Mr. Bird has embarked on his trip to Las Vegas. Let's call him Bernard. Bernard will fly for a few hours until he eventually needs to pull over to refuel. No gas station or diner for twenty miles? Please, he's a goddamn bird. The very earth is a traveling buffet: a Golden Corral so vast that God herself hasn't sampled every variation of cheese sauce yet. I believe that douchenozzle Ernest Hemingway so eloquently stated that "Paris is a moveable feast." Well eat my dust bins, Ernie, because I'm a goddamn bird; the world is my feast, and I'm the only thing moving. Whether Bernard is the healthy organic type and eats nuts, berries, and creatures from the Earth itself, or he follows his human foodies for deep-fried, over-processed sustenance, there is not shortage of food. What modern humans enjoy doing more than eating food, is throwing it away. For instance, I am such a modern, hip and happening lady of civilized society that I once dumped two containers of curly fries out by a pond and watched voyeuristically as the ducks consumed every last deep fried morsel. Trust me, food is not a problem for birds.

After dinner, Bernie will feel a bit sleepy, as buffets tend to have that effect. As any wary traveler, he'd rather not seek refuge in a hotel (motel?) with any form of the words "Value" or "Super" in the name, lest he become the latest on a long list of local birds gone missing. For the unbeatable price of $0.00, he can stay in the upper level suite of the nearest tree. Perhaps no trees are available in the concrete jungle of a cityscape. The nooks and crannies of buildings new and old alike are perfect abodes for Bernard. Having visited quite a few cities in my day, I can attest to the amount of shit I've seen; literally, buildings and vehicles covered in bird fecal matter. For that I must tip my hat to Bernard and his friends for having the audacity to defile our most sacred monuments and getting away with it. On that matter, rest stops are never a problem for a bird on a long trip. I'm sure the avian version of Mr. Hemingway would say, "The world, is a moveable toilet... and a feast." Oh that  Er. Nest Heningway and his irony. Fucking hipster.

Suffice to say that being a bird does have its perks when it comes to travel plans. Cost is virtually nothing, and... well, I can't think of any other advantage to flying to Vegas as a bird. That is pretty much the only reason I am envying those flying rodents out there. While Bernard has probably contracted a slew of disease and has a laundry list of mortal enemies ranging from hawks to Windex, he still has the luxury of not spending hours on end behind a counter. Also, if Bernard makes it to Vegas in one piece, the money saved on travel fare will cover the costs of all the staple activities of Vegas. He can blow as much as he wants on gambling, strippers, and well, blow. It's the perfect plan! Why has no one else thought to become a bird and go to Vegas before??? Oh, Bernard is still a goddamn bird, that's why. What the fuck is he doing in a casino?



In suit of many great literary geniuses before me, what I have written is an allegory to my own life right now. There is no Bernard. My sisterJenna is Bernard but without the diseases. She also doesn't shit on public edifices, at least not that I know of. Bernard is also a little bit of me, seeing as to how I am the one living behind a counter fantasizing about tree room service. And I too shit on public monuments, especially those memorial ones. Jenna and her troop of bridesmaids are on a quest to the Holy Land to seek the Holy Grail. And by "Holy Land," I mean Las Vegas. And by "Holy Grail," I mean Thunder from Down Under. We the Knights of Dancing on Tables want to cover her costs of reaching the Holy Land and delivering her to Salvation and Australian men in g-strings. We shall succeed. History may not remember us, but for that weekend in January, neither will we.
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Sep. 8th, 2011

Olivia

Richard Martin = Travis Birkenstock

I am a frequent traveler of time. I travel time quite often. In fact, I traveled over a year backwards in time just this very minute when I opened this forsaken livejournal and sampled life from January of 2010. I may as well be the goddamn 12th Doctor with my frequency in traveling time. At least I have a set of fantastic eyebrows, Mr. Smith. Oh, you have a Daisy Lowe? Do you now? Ah, touché.

This week I found myself in 19th Century England. It all began when I watched the 2011 film Jane Eyre. Wait, no, it began when I happened upon the 1997 A&E adaptation of Jane Eyre on Ovation one night. Crestfallen that I had already missed thirty minutes of the story, I remembered that I possessed the 2011 film on my computer, just waiting for me to watch it. I was saving it for the perfection conditions to properly experience a Gothic love story: after having eaten far too much dinner and feeling remorseful and rather distended. It is common knowledge that one does not simply watch Jane Eyre willy nilly just as one does not simply walk into Mordor. I had wanted to see this film since even before its release, but workings of the universe were not in my favor (perhaps the universe was trying to spare me the sorrow). It spent a short time in theaters and once it hit movie limbo (no longer in theaters, not yet released/leaked) I was devastated. What can I say; I thoroughly enjoy period dramas because I possess such refined taste, sophistication, and class. Oh and Michael Fassbender's fine-ass self is in there. CanIgetaAmenLadies???

So I watched Jane Eyre in all its Gothic glory. As expected, I was left visually pleased in its memories but regretful, resentful, and still distended in its passing. Very much like a bad date. In dire need of levity and a resolution that doesn't make me want to punt a panda, I decided to watch the 2009 mini-series of Jane Austen's Emma. For the next three days it was 1814 Highbury.

When I returned from 1814 and back to 2011, I missed Highbury very much. The fashions consisted of Empire silhouette dresses with lace and ribbons, causing me to question my not one but two purchases of booty shorts. The weather required the use of parasols and bonnets yet allowed for the donning of layers. It's so goddamn hot here in Texas that it's no wonder I bought two pairs of booty shorts! The characters have daily teatime with biscuits and cake. Today I baked cookies by opening a frozen package of Pilsbury cookie dough and baking it. My biscuits tasted like shit so I ate two of them. The communication between Austen's characters was eloquent and witty. For instance, after Emma's condescending slight against Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley berates her saying, "It was badly done, Emma. Badly done." Had I been Mr. Knightley, I would have said something to the effect of, "Girl you done fucked up," all whilst wearing booty shorts and my prostitute eyes (because that is what I wear to a picnic on Box Hill). Alas, this is why I shall never be a lady of the manor, for I do not own the manner.

I am greatly tickled by the comedy of manners. I find that this sort of humor is lacking profoundly in today's mainstream entertainment, and was not Emma a mainstream novel in its time? While I thoroughly enjoy the films consisting of John Cena shooting his way through a world that happens to have a very explosive atmosphere of unstable gases, I equally love films (and books) whose plots rely on verbal sparring as opposed to that of bullets, blades, and bodies. I believe that my occasional favor for stories dominated by witty banter resides in that they give me a more realistic fantasy to fall into. Quite simply, I find solace in the fact that I can verbally destroy you and cause you to feel shame and defeat because I most likely cannot fire two guns in your stupid face whilst jumping in the air and going, "Aaah!"

Perhaps I will follow up this mini-series with another glorious adaptation of Emma: 1995's Clueless. Because I experienced Clueless as a child before even knowing what Emma was, I can't help but say "Ouch that was way harsh, Tai" when Emma basically tells Miss Bates, "Shut da fuck up" in both reading and watching the story. I really enjoyed watching Emma, and Romola Garai making lulzy facial expressions. I laughed out loud when Mr. Elton proposed to her in the carriage because her face made me believe that if but for a moment she was about to say, "Aaaas iiiiifff!!!" Overall this series is quite beautiful to look at. The scenery is beautiful as well as the costumes and of course, Romola Garai (I shall add a piece of her magnificent hair to my mythical wig of destiny). The genteel mannerisms rubbed off on me as well, further inspiring me to be a classy lady. See, I only used "goddamn" twice in this entry. That's class.
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Jan. 29th, 2010

Olivia

Thoughts on Native American Cinema, monocles, and butt shenanigans

Yesterday in my Graphic Novel class, my drawing professor gave a lecture on art direction and composition in cartoons and comics. It was all good and well, and I'm sure I will find all those riveting details useful in all aspects of my life, but the words that resonated most in my soul was,

"... and doesn't frustrate the rear."

I SAY, MY GOOD SIR, YOU NEVER WANT TO FRUSTRATE THE REAR!

I thank you. I'll be here all week.



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Dec. 28th, 2009

Olivia

Christmas 09

Yesterday I ran into some friends from high school who, like me, returned home for the holidays. I asked the perfunctory, "So how are you?" to which they both replied, "Oh you know, it sucks being at home... parents are smothering." I lied and said, "yep, same here..." I didn't want to ruin the Christmas cheer by contrasting their unpleasant time at home with my generally enjoyable home life.

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Nov. 23rd, 2009

Olivia

I've got to ramble on... so I leave you with some ramblings

Another one of my pastimes includes pretending to be Keanu Reeves. I like Keanu Reeves. I like how Keanu Reeves always plays Keanu Reeves, and if he is stretching his skills as an actor, he may play Keanu Reeves. He is Keanu Reeves every minute of his life because he is a method actor and prides himself in his close circumspection to verisimilitude.


In related news, I also enjoy pretending to be Nicholas Cage. In fact I am pretending to be Nicholas Cage right now. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go steal the Declaration of Independence.

Oct. 23rd, 2009

Olivia

some very cheap and cheerful hobbies.

 I really appreciate my cheap hobbies very much now that I am unemployed (student: it's the same thing) and the economy continues to remain in shambles. I'm likely to not make it as an illustrator or writer, but at least I will be able to take pleasure in the wildly entertaining activities I do in my noodle. Most importantly, these are FREE OF CHARGE. Try some out, it's really fun.

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Sep. 13th, 2009

Olivia

The internet is an evil evil thing

 Want to know why? No big surprise.Collapse )