Moving Target

they're harder to hit

Pittsburgh Shorts III: The Unintentionally Funny Graduation Celebration

Now that I am done with school (I think), and am just waiting for someone to mail me my masters degree, I can post the following.  A time line of my graduation celebration as arranged by the University.  It was, well, it was classic, I'll give it that.  I believe, if you recall, I mentioned in the past that I would be organizing the party for this event?  About three weeks before the event, I told everyone that I wouldn't organize it if they didn't send me money and PICK A DAY so that I could pay for the tents and caterers, etc.  At which point everyone decided it would just be easier for me (after hours of preparation and planning) to have it at a restaurant.  And then decided to have it at 8 AM on a Friday morning.  At the Pittsburgh equivalent of Perkins' Pancake House (this was, admittedly, my suggestion, when they missed my deadline, and asked 'but where can we go?').  Let me repeat: after 2 years of non-stop hard work, my classmates wanted to celebrate at Perkins, at 8 AM, and not under the stars, in a beautiful tent decorated with white lights and rice paper lanterns, with Brazilian samba music, a catered three course meal, and limitless prosecco, at 6 in the evening.

Did you know that even with a group of fifty, Perkins doesn't require a reservation?  Good to know!

Time line of events:

8:15 AM - My classmates and their families meet at Perkins' Restaurant in the Strip District for breakfast.  From what I understand, it was all 'well-organized' and many, many pitchers of the "virgin mimosas" made from God's own OJ concentrate are, in fact, consumed.

8:30 AM - I wake up and go to my dentist's appointment, amazed all over again at what kind of masochist schedules a party at 8:15 AM.

9:45 AM - My dentist tells me I have no cavities but fails to give me a free toothbrush.  I remain sad about this for the entire bus ride to the graduation hall.

11:15 AM - I show up at the graduation hall.  My name is not on the list of people graduating.  Apparently, this clerical error occurred with about 30 people.  My name is added.  We all line-up in alphabetical order.

11:30 AM - We walk through a rounded darkened hallway to enter the auditorium.  We hear music start up and realize that it is a CD being played on a boom box.  I cannot name that classical tune in less than 16 bars, but it's pleasant enough.  I look down and discover that my silk crepe dress is mysteriously slightly see-through in the dark, when it's not in the sunlight.  I crack a joke about this to the girl in front of me.  She cracks a joke back.  The guy behind me indicates that someone will have a heart attack as a result.  The
girl in front of me comments that he shouldn't look if his heart is that weak.  It was clear that he certainly wasn't looking, but that her comment made him all stuttery and he is now caught in a positive feedback loop of shame and indignation.  For extra effect, he twists his wedding band as though he's trying to say that he's a faithful husband.  All I can think is 'you are married at 23 and you're this nervous about that joke?  Would you like me tell you about second base?  It's lots of fun.'  The girl in front of me shames him mercilessly for the rest of the graduation.  Why am I telling you this?  This is the only intentionally funny part.

11:50 AM - Names are read.  Where the other readers for the other schools have been wearing suits, our reader is wearing Bermuda shorts, a polo shirt with a popped-collar, socks and sandals, and a tweed
jacket with patched elbows.  He reads no less than 16 of the 35 names wrong.  I know this because sarcastic girl and I are counting.

11:56 AM - I receive my graduation certificate.  It reads like this, no lie:

posted by: pressedflat at 17:58 | link | comments (3) |

Pittsburgh Shorts II: Like Bermuda Shorts, but Uglier, contd...

Another one of those things that I didn't really understand as an adult of New York City versus an adult of Pittsburgh is the true cost of beauty, and the expectations of certain beauticians.  In New York, just walking into any old salon for a haircut and getting one is not something that really happens at the 70-150 dollar salons.  You really need to make an appointment.  Walk-ins are completely welcome to wait.  As for other beauty attacks, like waxing, or pedicures, you can pretty much just stroll on in and someone with a vague understanding of the task at hand and the English language will be there to assist you momentarily.

The ladies of Pittsburgh clearly live by a different standard.  I'm not sure if it's that their toes are just so much more important than their hair or what, but when I walked into no less than four salons with the thought of getting myself an early congratulations for being done with school pedicure, which is a treat in which I indulge roughly twice a year, I didn't really think it was going to be a tremendous difficulty.  But apparently in Pittsburgh, a pedicure is a Very Big Deal.  Because I was told that 'July had pretty much filled up' at one location - which had three floors dedicated to beauty treatments, that 'he's not in today' at the next location, and that 'he's on vacation this week' at the final location.  (I did not ask what was going on at the first location, so now it's four, for those of you keeping up with me in the count.)  Mind you, all of them had someone available for hair. 
 
First of all: what?  It's a pedicure.  It's not rocket science.  It's a fifteen minute affair plus the drying time.  It's a little gross, and I always ask for the foot razor which in concept is just revolting but in practice is kind of revoltingly fascinating, but my point is that I could give myself a pedicure if only I were flexible enough to get my foot at the right angle.  Anyone can give these things with a clean set of instruments.  Why is there only one person there who can do this?

Second of all: who?  I don't mean to go all stereotypical on you all, but I'm going to.  Since when did men dominate the pedicure market?  Normally it's ladies, and frankly, I don't want my feet man-handled by a man.  I don't care if he's gay, I don't care if I secretly gross him out.  I don't want some guy asking me if I really want my toes to be crimson or if I'm maybe looking for something a little less dramatic and more professional.  I'm going to spend the whole time thinking that there's a man's hands on my feet.  A man I don't know and didn't specifically say to him 'You, Tonio, deftly massage and paint my feet.'  This makes me extremely uncomfortable.  Also, on a slightly related note, to the Men's Pedicurist - forgive me, nail artist - Union, Pittsburgh Chapter: way to all go on vacation at the same time during beach season.

Third: how much?  I couldn't find a pedicure for less than 35 dollars.  And that was *with* my student discount.  Once again, I know that not every city is New York, but I fully expected it to be no more expensive.  I can get a pedicure for 15 dollars at my neighborhood salon.  Without waiting.  I confirmed at the salon that this was not with the decal treatment or a French pedicure.  And no, that was another 20 dollars.  This was just a pedicure, and no extra foot massage at the end.

When you put these things together: no pedicurist, overpriced, and a guy, and in Pittsburgh, I came to a unique but untested conclusion that explains it all away.  Are you ready for this, because I'm about to blow your mind. I think that Andy Warhol  is giving the pedicurest.  That's 1.) why it's so expensive.  That's really Warhol's signature touch.  2.) He's not available to give the pedicure at this time.  Because he's dead.  Way to make sure the demand always defeats the supply, Andy.  And 3.) That's why no one else is doing it.  There's only one Andy Warhol, and he's a guy, and apparently his ghost comes and gives very basic pedicures in the city of Pittsburgh once in a while.  And hey, I was looking for my pedicure right around his museum. 

Q.E.D.  All I ask is to not have the opportunity to be proved wrong. - 

posted by: pressedflat at 04:18 | link | comments (9) |

Pittsburgh Shorts: Like Bermuda Shorts, But Uglier

Hello.  Y. PressedFlat here.  Your traveling news correspondent.  I'm here in the City of Steel to talk to you about school, one last time.  Because this is the weekend that my graduation celebration occurred.  Not my actual graduation.  That won't happen for another three weeks, if, God-willing, I actually manage to pass the class I am even now putting off to write this blog post.  No, this weekend was just the celebration.  And because I don't really have the time to weave the three areas that I want to talk about, I give you my favorite cop-out: SHORTS.



Big Yellow Taxi
I used to live in this city.  When I was seventeen.  Which was, yes, thank you for asking, asshole, rather a long time ago.  I was most certainly not an adult back then, and there were things I simply didn't understand about life as an adult.  So these things that I learned as an adult in New York City, I did not fully realize that they're not true outside of New York. 

I mean, yes, clearly, nobody else has a public transit system like we do.  And no, there isn't a bodega within three blocks of everywhere.  And no one sends their laundry out.  These were things I understood. But here's what I didn't understand: it's against the law to *hail* an empty cab?  A cop in downtown Pittsburgh politely explained that to me over the growl of morning traffic that hailing a cab in Pittsburgh is actually the equivalent of hitchhiking.  One calls a cab in Pittsburgh.  One does not hail a cab.  I was also hoping he'd tell me that ladies only crossed their legs at the ankles, but apparently my lesson in manners and hooliganism was done for the day.

An extended argument with the robots at  1-800-FREE-411 later, and YellowCab was on its way.  Sort of.  Cabs really don't have to be anywhere in a hurry.  So it took the cab an hour to get to me, as I watched empty yellow cab after yellow cab zip by.  How the hell is that acceptable?  An hour?  It wasn't like I was calling at 4 AM, either.  It was 8:00 AM on a Thursday!  And when I got in?  He had McDonald's hashbrowns.  He'd made a stop along the way to get to me. 

I hope you're thinking 'this whole situation clearly would've been fine if he gave you a hash brown.  McDonald's hashbrowns are delicious.'  So right you, dear reader.  So right you are.  It certainly would've been.  But he didn't.  And he ate four of them!  Four!!!  That's against the Geneva Conventions in a time of war, but I failed to formally declare war against him in the backseat of the cab, so he got away with it.  But from that moment on, I decided I was taking buses.

Which have friendly signs all over them explaining that if you talk on your phone, you will be thrown off the bus.  Because the buses of Pittsburgh have already formally declared war upon their passengers. 

posted by: pressedflat at 17:42 | link | comments (3) |

Gestalt

Gestalt is one of my favorite words.  It's one of those words that expresses an entire situation in just two syllables.  A thing which, in its totality, is so much more than any of its parts.  The avalanche, the pandemonium, the gestalt.

Plus you sound really smart when you say it.

It's 9:36 PM right now and I'm at work, just like I've been at work to this time for the last three weeks.  I've clocked over 300 hours at work in the last four weeks, and just about anyone will tell you not only that it's too much, but that it's a hell of a lot.  My days start at 7:00, and I'm at work by 8:00, and I typically get home around 11:00 AM.  The difference on weekends is that I come in at noon. 

We've got millions and millions of dollars on the line, and when I haven't been care-taking technological issues or hand-holding, I've been sitting under florescent lighting and watching myself get older, one hour at a time. The problem isn't that I'm spending my life at work, oddly enough, or that I'm blowing off familial obligations, laundry (I will be down to my very last pair of underwear tomorrow, and no, I don't mean my very last pair of socially acceptable underwear.  I mean like that pair you forgot you even owned because just looking at them was an act of attrition.   Tomorrow I will be putting that pair on.  Because I don't have the time to go to the laundromat.)  When I like what I'm doing, and I do, I have boundless amounts of energy.  My issue is that... I'm... doing the digital equivalent of highlighting.  And I could be doing so much more.

Sometimes I nap in the coat closet during down time.  Yes, seriously. 

We're fighting for a client.  We're really going all out.  And I like the client.  I like him a lot.  He's very precise and pragmatic, and while he seems to really like to think that he knows everything and is always right, he really does appear to know where people are going when they think of things, and his ability to summarize and analyze situations without being in them for very long, is rather inspirational to me.  For all this, he does not appear machiavellan, and anyone with that kind of brain capacity could use their powers against He-Man and the other forces of good, so, you know, wow.    Clearly, I have what I call a brain crush on this man.  He's 47, married, a multi-millionaire, and when he turns his head I can see the pale surface of scalp staring through the thinning hair, and I cannot wait for my next opportunity to interact with him.  He brings attention and awareness to every situation.  Even mine.  The overpaid, overworked tech-monkey whose been at XYZ LLP for six years, but who no one knows what to do with, but doesn't know how to go without her.

The girl who started on the same day as I did back in 2002, who helped make my transition to New York City so much easier and gave me so many good stories, who hunted down no less then the previous four incarnations of my blog long after we stopped talking, died of cancer on Monday morning. I had donated plasma for her.  I had thought she was on the mend.

And, AND! The twits I attend school with have sabotaged our own graduation celebration, and now it looks like it's going to happen in a Denny's.  At 9 AM.  Seriously.  Champagne-free mimosa, anyone?

It's 10:04 PM on a Wednesday night, and tomorrow isn't far enough away for a decent night's sleep, but it's too close for any waking comfort.  Tomorrow, we are done, and then we just wait and the client will make his choice.  Tomorrow the strange chimera of effort and sweat and preconceived notions we've all worked on nearly non-stop for the last month will toddle its way out of our arms and into his, and what he does with it then is anyone's guess.  Except that, between the two of us, just the two of us, whoever you are, I don't think that we're going to get this one. 

I will never see him again, in all likelihood, much like I will never see my poor friend.  

Now it's 10:10 PM.  It's not any one of these things.  It's all of them together.  It's a magnified intensity brought about by the incredibly dense thicket of feelings that I've been wading through.  Don't misunderstand me.  I'm not feeling sorry for myself.  Good Lord, no.  That was last week.  Now that I'm at this point, it's too late to turn back and it's far too late to change.  It's time to go, and even I see it.  Scared or no, bum economy or no, it's time to get out.

PS. The roaches have nothing to do with this.  The roaches?  They're gone.

posted by: pressedflat at 03:15 | link | comments (6) |

Sitcom Neighbors, Sound Off!

There are six people living in my building other than me.  I announced the roaches problem, and an exterminator was promptly called.  The resulting email chain came about.

From: The Most Esteemed Lord Of The Manor
To: Residents
the bug killing guy is coming btwn 8 and noon tomorrow.  as is the dryer repair guy.  i will be home.  however, the bug guy will need to get into your rooms, so if you are a sleepin i apologize, but this will rid of these ants and roaches (where tf did the roaches come from????)

From: Male Resident Alpha
To: Residents
The cats keep em outta plain sight.  No cats the in the garden apt meant they came out to play, and mate, and throw killer beach parties.  Basically we need at least twice as many cats, with cans of raid velcroed to their backs and a taste for violence.  It'd be preferable if said cat's parent's had been murdered by roaches.

From: Male Resident #1
To: Residents
Cats?  What about the cats man!  Will the cats be ok with the orken?

From: The Most Esteemed Lord Of The Manor
To: Residents

ok see you all this evening, adn ill be here to take care of both the orkin man (and yes richard i did used to call you the orkin man, bc you used to be unemployed and the "roach" killer") and the dryer guy. 

From: Male Resident #2
To: Residents
It has nothing to do with the cats not being in the garden apartment, i'm sorry i've been breeding roaches in my spare time and filming it for my new porn website cockandroaches.com.  i've actually been breeding them myself personally.  another amazing fact about teh cockroach, beyond that they can live for 9 days without a head and survive nuculear holocaust, is that the female's sex organ can be stretched to accomodate a slightly less than average human male member and the chromosomes are so near that offspring of a humanroach variety is possible, albeit sterile offspring as is the case with most hybrid species, i.e. the mule, beefalo and the pigeonrat. so before we exterminate these poor bastards i suggest you take a closer look, for you may see some rich traits in the cockroaches,in the possible forms of blue eyes, or a protruding nose, blonde hair even possibly my trademark superfluous third nipple. so, i beg you, please reconsider this radical and inhumane course of action.  all of you know, deep down your hearts of hearts, even your queen or king or even ace of hearts, that it would be a crime against nature, far more blasphemous than sodomy, more callous than rosie o'donnel playing a retardo, to exterminate the majestic cockrich.  thank you for your time and sympathy, i know you all will do the right thing.

p.s. in the forthcoming issue of national geographic there will be a spread on my groundbreaking cross spieces breeding of human and cockroach

p.p.s. i have also been nominated for a woody, the adult film award for best experimental beastiality video, "i put the cock in roach"

From: PressedFlat
To: Residents
I call shenanigans.  These cash cows of yours are clearly under eightteen. 
PS. Also I have killed some with shoes.

posted by: pressedflat at 22:37 | link | comments (6) |

La Cucaracha

So where have I been?  Moving.  Yes, once again, moving.  I have left the dog and Le Artiste to their awesome, oversized gigs and their own devices to move into a place of my very own.  In fact, this post was meant to be a triumphant and loud announcement of the return of things to a better kind of normal.  I had repainted, I had moved, and I'd done it with a minimal of fuss, a maximum of help from my boyfriend, but still to a certain degree, self-sufficiently. 

And did I mention that the place is mine?  All mine?  It's just me.  There's no one else living in all five hundred square feet of this puppy but me.  I is all alone in a gorgeous little apartment with a microwave, and a fridge, and a dishwasher, and a huge oven with an actual functioning light!

I've lived in five apartments since I moved to NYC, and this is only the second one with a dishwasher and a stove with a light.  And the freezer has a f******g icemaker.  I've got a backyard, and awesome, sitcom-y neighbors.  Dear reader, I was gonna tell you all about them.

Except, well, I've got some other apartment companions after all.

In all the gorgeousness of this fantastically expensive place, it turns out that I've got companions of the six-legged, antenna-ed, indestructible kind.  I've got roaches.

I haven't had roaches for four years.  I have not missed the little bastards one damn bit.  And when I moved in, I saw one or two dead babies, but I also saw one or two dead babies in the apartment of Le Artiste, and we cleaned the place thoroughly, and never saw any others.

The thing with these is that, I don't really live here yet.  I'm not cooking in the kitchen.  I'm barely eating in the apartment at all.  I ran the dishwasher for the very first time this evening.  But after steadily spotting at least one baby a day, and two in another day, I realized I had a problem.  A problem that clearly had nothing to do with my presence, what with the total lack of food in the apartment, and the total lack of water I was leaving for them to drink. 

And my 'landlord' aka the guy who lives over me, is out of town.

So like any overly thorough individual, I went to Home Depot, and bought myself a do-it-yourself insect holocaust kit.  And when I got home, there were four full grown adults chilling in the sink, so I was able to feel very effective and mace the little bastards toute suite.  Although here's a little message to the guys at Raid.  No lingering odor? Did you put that on the label because this smell that's leftover is too strong to be referred to as just an odor? Leaves no lingering odor.  Leaves a remarkable stench.

Oh, and just for the record, these are the roaches that grow to about 1/2 an inch in size.  I do not mean palmetto bugs.   Please, God, I don't think I could handle the big ones.  Not again.  I hate those things.

But still.  After three hours of intermittent overdue schoolwork and spraying, cleaning, traps, and just getting up every forty minutes or so with a flashlight, because roaches take a while to come out, step into the sunlight, and die a horrible death, I can't help but marvel at cockroaches.  I marvel at their determination.  I marvel at their drive.  I marvel at the fact that any bug comes within fifty feet of my domicile and doesn't realize I only get angrier as time goes by. 

I don't know how this is going to work out, truth be told.  This apartment is either going to be the last place I live in NYC because I never leave it, or because it's the one that pushes me over the edge and convinces me that I am not paying more money for a one bedroom with only one closet in the whole damn place than my parents are paying for their mortgage just to deal with the chemical aftertaste of bug spray in my mouth and a lifetime of wondering if that's my hair brushing my arm or if it's OH NO IT'S SOMETHING ELSE GET IT OFF GET IT OFF oh no, ok, it's just my hair, false alarm.

Yeah, no, not so much.  Still though.  I've thought about it long and hard, and it could be a lot worse.  It could be a camel-backed cricket.  Oh man.  Those things are so creepy.  "They are brownish in color and rather humpbacked in appearance, always wingless, and up to two inches/5 cm long in body and 10 cminches) for the legs."  Ugh.  (4 

posted by: pressedflat at 05:29 | link | comments (5) |

Where My Blog Name Comes From

posted by: pressedflat at 19:05 | link | comments (1) |

My Job Title Is Mealworm

Hello again.  I saw that Howard had posted that it was time for old mo'timers to show their faces, and someone even posted my name in the forum as someone to come back and say hi. I'm doing more than saying hi.  I'm setting up shop.  For the record, I'm selling real-estate in Florida and magical cure-all snake oil.

I, like many of you, work at a company.  There is a title for my position.  In fact, my position has two titles, because it is my goal some day to have an over-sized business card.  And I have these things who work with me called coworkers.  Coworkers is an interesting name because it assumes:
1.) that they work
2.) that there's some kind of codependency involved.

Now, I highly dispute the first point - says the gal blogging on her lunch hour - but the second one seems pretty accurate for some of them.  Especially in light of what I'm about to post.  Maybe it's *just me* but when I eat half of something, I eat that half of it with the goal of eating the other half later, unless it's disgusting, and then I throw it out.  If I happen to be particularly close (in an emotional sense) to someone at a restaurant or, you know, we're cohabitating, I may say 'do you want some of my pizza.'  Or 'do you want some of the pastries I got.'  If at a nice restaurant and my appetizer is delicious, I may offer to share.

But once my mouth has been on something, or my fingers have started tearing things apart, I do not inquire as to whether or not someone would like some of my half-eaten something.  I do not wiggle a sandwich with a clear bite mark in it and say 'My saliva makes it taste better!'

There are a few things that you should never have second hand, and those include underwear, needles, and the leftover food of a total stranger.  Sure, sure.  Call me a prude.  I also sometimes wash my hands after putting them in something sticky!  But I really, really don't want to have the bacteria of people I either don't like or don't know.

In fact, the only times when I can think of where I was like 'are you going to finish that' have been when I'm sitting across from someone I am sleeping with, and they have ordered macaroni and cheese or a gigantic steak that will otherwise go to waste.  When someone in the restaurant who is not part of my group asks me if I want half of their *actually chewed on burger* the answer is no, for the love of Jeebus no no no no no.  Compost it.  Or take it home and eat it.  But don't come to me with a cold half-eaten chicken nugget and ask me if I want it. 

But apparently other people think this is sort of a ridiculous way to live, or they feel a certain closeness I had hitherto underestimated due to the 'co' in their titles.  Behold, I give you actual emails sent from work.

-----Original Message-----
From: The Girl We're Actually Re-Hiring
Sent: Friday, June 08
To: Composters
Subject: so, mcd's up for grabs

exactly half of my breakfast is up for grabs
 
you get 1/2 a hashbrown
and half a egg, bacon, and cheese on an eng. muffin.
  
i get the satisfaction of not eating all of it, and not throwing it away.
 
everyone wins!
  
come get it if you want it.

Note: These are not items she cut in half.  They are items she ate in half.
===================================================
From: The Girl We're Actually Re-Hiring
Sent: Monday, March 05,
To: Mealworms
Subject: today might be your lucky day


enjoy the fruits of our labor.  partake in one of the three delicious olive garden breadsticks we have brought back with us from the lovely land of OG.
 
love,
[names omitted to protect the gross]

Note: On the one hand, no, they didn't put their mouths on these, on the other hand, how did they get them from Times Square to work? Also, OG breadsticks are actually only good when they're hot.
===================================================
From: The Girl We're Not Re-Hiring
Sent: Monday, February 01,
To: Cheeze luvahs
Subject: Cheese Bag!!!!


There is a bag of cheese from last night's party in the fridge if anyone wants it.

Note: This was actually a ten pound bag of cheese cubes on an enormous party tray which had gotten so warm that they'd sweated over, become soft, got shoved into a bag, put in a fridge, and then reformed into a solid chunk of jack, swiss, cheddar, and bleu in a greasy, sweaty, near-to-bursting industrial-sized ziplock.  On the one hand, no, no one actually put this in their mouth and then put it back in the fridge.   On the other hand, it was not touched, and we're an office of hungry scavengers.  That unholy, revolting five kilo chimera bag of cheese had the words 'FREE FOR EVERYONE' scrawled across it on the top shelf of the firm fridge, with bits of garnish lettuce still flecking on its moist, sweaty little sides.  That dairy-based Frankenstein molded over in the fridge and was eventually thrown out, unopened and unwanted.  Or maybe it got up one day and walked away.  Frankly, it's hard to tell.
===================================================
-----Original Message-----
From: The Girl We're Actually Re-Hiring
Sent: Friday, March 02
To: Starving refugee coworkers
Subject: banana anyone

i have one i dont want, its v. ripe, and im going to throw it out if no one wants it.

Note: I have nothing to say on this one.  Except maybe 'how ripe is it?'
===================================================
From:[Omitted]
Sent: Thursday, March 20
To: Scrap-heap [aka ALL EMPLOYEES]
Subject: A Plea


Does anyone have a straw I can have?
________________________________

-----Original Message-----
From: [Omitted]
Sent: Thursday, March 20, 2008 2:49 PM
To: Scrap-heap [aka ALL EMPLOYEES]
Subject: RE: A Plea

i do! but you have to come get it because i just spilled egg salad all over myself.

=======================================
From: [Omitted]
Sent: Thursday, May 08
To: Office Cats
Subject: FREE for those of you still in the office

one "caesar salad" (catfood) wrap missing half a bite.
95% of a catfood wrap!
it is your lucky day!
===================================

posted by: pressedflat at 18:32 | link | comments (2) |

Let's Face It; This Was Bound To Happen

After my long hiatus, I return.  New blog.  I'd count them, but who's counting?  Not me, that's for sure.

miss ¹  (ms)

n.
Isn't it funny how the same verb for affection and longing is also the one which means to fail to perceive, or to fail to hit something?  Like missing the mark, or missing a moving target?  I had to move blogs again.  I don't believe in making these things private since I actually do log in for the connection and the friends who I never see.  Is this dramatic?  Well, that's the problem.  Thrice burned and still blogging.

I hope this makes sense: Being missed is good.  I have this desire that for once, the people who are aiming to hit me, miss me.  And that the people who miss me, find me.  I'm tired of miss and hit. 

I want to be missed by friends and bullets. 

posted by: pressedflat at 03:24 | link | comments (4) |

Template by motime.com  |  header image credit: Markus Gann © www.begann.de