Before I forget about this, delete it, or too much time passes for it to make any sense (not that it does to begin with, but you know what I mean), I want to share a scene I thought was pretty neat… If kind of violent and gory, in a way.
So my apartment has a balcony, and of course, with the summer come insects. Now, whenever I’m outside smoking, I have this almost obsessive need to find out where all these bees are coming from.
I’ve checked everywhere I can see, and still, it boggles my mind as to how they keep showing up.
I haven’t noticed any bees inside the building, and I haven’t spotted any random nests underneath chairs, on the side of the balcony, or even in one of the trees that form a canopy around the apartment.
But what’s really driving me a bit crazy is seeing them more at night than during the day. I can’t explain it, but I might see maybe one every so often when it’s daylight.
For the past couple of weeks, I don’t even know if I’ve caught a single bee buzzing around when the sun is out.
The night is a different story. Not a single night has gone by without watching them bump into the glass sliding door over and over again. I have no words.
Anyhow, I was out having a cigarette yesterday, and I noticed no less than six-to-eight dead bees lying like casualties of war.
Intriguingly (or maybe not, depending on your level of cynicism and devotion to science), what looked like an impressive amount of ants were sharing in a communal feast.
Of course, I opened my camera app and recorded a video of it.
Here it is, folks. I hope you enjoy it! Science is pretty freaking cool, isn’t it?
Sorry it’s been so long since I’ve posted anything. I genuinely did not realize it’s been over a month since I wrote anything or updated any of y’all who might be reading.
Still somewhat isolated, although I have been making sure to get out at least some of the day – whether it’s for walks around my neck of the woods, to get cigarettes or beer, or to get snacks or whatnot.
I can’t imagine true, permanent isolation. I hope you’re making sure to take a few breaths of fresh air. Cabin fever is a bitch. Trust me.
It’s been one glorious dumpster-fire of a month, for sure. Where do I even start?
In Pennsylvania alone, our governor, Tom Wolf, reopened bars… aaaand then shut them down again after coronavirus cases spiked. Real shocker there, I know.
The good ol’ US of A is basically falling apart. Unemployment is up. We’re still in the thick of an opioid crisis we can’t exactly tackle right now. Everybody’s favorite reality-TV-star-turned-president, Donald Trump, has decided ordering cops to various cities is the best way to deal with protesters.
So there’s that. My personal life, on the other hand, isn’t too bad… just strange (but that’s how it usually goes for me). Boyfriend randomly left me and went back home to New York for awhile after becoming convinced I had poisoned him – with lead, of all fucking things. I thought we were broken up, but apparently we weren’t.
I don’t even know what to say there, other than that I’m overjoyed he came back. The house just wasn’t the same without him around, and I don’t think a day went by that something didn’t remind me of him.
So that’s been my month. I suppose that’ll do it for now. Hopefully there won’t be some long delay between now and my next post, but I’m not a fan of promises, so let’s just say, “We’ll see.”
There’s that old saying about being born dying, or dying from the moment of birth, or… something like that.
For the record, I don’t remember the exact wording. But it doesn’t really matter. Any native English-speaker can attest to the language’s many cliches, of which there is no shortage of misremembered and mangled phrases. It’s the “telephone game” we played as kids, just with 7+ billion people and centuries of getting the damn message wrong.
There’s this beautiful, immediate succinctness to the phrase, and I doubt a single living individual on this planet could hear it and not go “Ain’t that the fuckin truth, man!”
Peculiarly, though, for being such a poignant, universal statement, it doesn’t seem to top anyone’s list of “deep fucking bullshit that makes me sound smart as fuck.”
I’ve only heard it a few times, none of which were in movies or TV shows. Far as I can recall. It’s important to mention this, but I forget why.
It has to have been used by Hollywood. Somewhere, some exhausted, burnt-out writer decided it wasn’t worth the effort, threw up their hands, and copypasted the top result of a search for “deep fucking bullshit.”
Life’s a killer. As this one drunk hippie babbled, no one here gets out alive.
Absent-mindedly scrolling through WordPress’s “Discover” feature (which shows you related blogs and ones you may find worth checking out), I kind of stumbled on this gorgeous piece.
Most reviews (whether of the latest Hollywood blockbuster, a hot new single from the current “in” popstar, or even just whatever hip bar-and-grill sprang up in your town last weekend) are merely that – reviews, the opinions of someone who (truth be told) isn’t actually any more correct than you or I… All things considered.
And yet, here we have a piece that functions as not only a review… but a handy guide even seasoned writers should at least skim when the gears need polished. Can’t get sloppy or forget why we’re here.
I particularly dig this humble little nugget of wisdom:
“Words to a writer are tools like colors to a painter. Writing depends on choosing one word over another and asking what each word is conveying.”
I’m usually not this anxious, but for whatever reason, my mind is racing and I’m considering every single scenario possible. Even those less-than-possible.
I guess it’s just the concept of going out to meet people is off-putting. Don’t even know if you could blame this one on the recent pandemic, which PA has just now (like, within the past week) cleared from quarantine, with conditions.
Conditions I’m not even sure make it worth going to bars and restaurants and stuff. Is what it is.
It’s 9:03 a.m. and we’re supposed to leave at 9:30. Less than a half-hour now.
I’ll go, I always do. But it doesn’t mean I won’t stress out about it, and be aware I’m freaking out for no reason.
The old Hollywood playbook cliche of “boy gets girl,” “man/woman saves the day…” That “happily ever after” stuff doesn’t really appeal to me.
I guess rom-coms are a different story. I love a simple, sweet, comforting rom-com – all neatly packaged… With a bow, to boot!
But anyway… I digress.
Like I said, happy endings just don’t do it for me. Not only are they somewhat unrealistic (how many times have bad deeds gone unpunished? How many people do you know who should be together, but just… Aren’t?) – we can’t really trust them to offer us much in the way of real art.
But I’m playing hipster, I’ll admit.
I patiently wait for the day when things get dark. And I mean really dark. Like, “things-I-don’t-think-I-should-say-here” dark.
Oh well… Wonder if there’s anything new on Netflix.