Jan. 26th, 2009 09:15 am
sandandwater: (cuddle me)
Pippa sat on the cold stone floor studying her creation—if a pile of fine-grained sand, scattered and fanned over marble could be called a creation. She was thinking. Searching: for inspiration, a clue, the secret still lurking inside the silica yet to be whispered to her by the muse in her artist’s soul. It still wouldn’t come to her. The redhead waited but not with patience. Bare feet slid into the rough grit, fingers caressed the moveable surface, digging trenches and weaving patterns.

It was in there, she could sense it. There was a masterpiece waiting for her. A concept that once found would bowl her over and feed her starving, idle talent and drive her past the point of reason until Pippa managed to bring it to life. It was there, just beyond the limits of her reach. What was it, why couldn’t she find it within herself to lean forward, stretch that little bit more and take hold of it?

She clenched a fistful of sand in the palm of her hand, squeezed until her knuckles turned white and the pressure created a burning heat, a stabbing pain where the sand dug itself uncomfortably into her skin. If sheer force of will were enough to jog that part of her being loose, she’d have her image ready to work from. If only it were that easy. If only…

Pippa Kerr//Last Call//231
sandandwater: (Default)
ooc: Rory, Serptichore, Breaker Street are all snagged and borrowed from their muns for this prompt. Any remarks about the band, the record label and  other people mentioned should be construed as tabloid speculation and not concrete fact.

Dead End for Breaker Street

Read more... )
sandandwater: (distraught)
"Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead." - Angelus from Buffy The Vampire Slayer

The small studio was a mess. Broken glass of every imaginable color covered the floors. Works in progress or even fully finished pieces now ruined. Destroyed by the hands that made them.

“No!” She shrieked the word like an angry child, and like a child she too was in the middle of a tantrum. “Of all the stupid, rude, inconsiderate, ridiculous…no! I’m not doing it.”

There was another crash, more shattered glass on the concrete floor of her studio.

Stubborn. Angry. Violent.

A satisfying crunch as she stamped her foot over the not quite destroyed curve of a bowl.

“He can go to Hell, the selfish, arrogant…how dare he ask me…now…after all these…NO!”

A vase went flying, smashed against the cinderblock wall.

“Arrrgh!” There weren’t words left for Pippa to express her rage, primal sounds and frustrated noises were all that spilled from her lips, tore from her throat as she swept an arm across the table. Clattering bottles, tools, powdered chemicals…they all tumbled to the floor in a resounding crash cum crunch, scattered farther as she kicked at the heap.

“I hate you!” That angry hiss was what it took for the emotional tide to turn. Tears fell, hot and stinging and she couldn’t wipe them away fast enough. Trembling hands, shaking shoulders, chest heaving as she fought against sobs. “I hate you…I hate you…I hate you…”

She sank to the floor, ignoring the jagged glass that pressed through the knee of her jeans and into her skin. Pippa’s focus was on the crumpled sheets of legal stationary. Documented requests from…she snatched the balled up paper from the floor and held them tightly to her chest. Tried to breathe. She didn’t hate him. Could never.

She hated what he didn’t do back then. Hated what he was asking now. But the man? He was someone she’d always love. Yes, he had hurt her. Broken her in ways she hadn’t known possible back then but he also gave her so much, showed her there was more to life than what she had lived. He made her stronger, strong enough to walk away to be herself.

Maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe it was gratitude. It was…something. Something she couldn’t hate him for because without him, without those experiences she wouldn’t be here now. Wouldn’t have the happiness she’d found.

As she mulled these things over, calmed herself, Pippa smoothed the pages against the cool floor. Reread them. Shook her head. No, she’d not be filling the request. She may owe him a lot but she didn’t owe him this. In this matter her obligations were to someone else entirely and Pippa wouldn’t betray her. Her, she did love.

Collected, subdued and once more the picture of propriety that people associated with Phillipa Kerr, the red headed woman stood. She looked around her studio, blinking and a bit taken aback as if this was the first time she’d noticed the destruction she’d caused. No matter, she’d clean it up, set the space to rights and no one would be the wiser.

Just as she’s always done.
sandandwater: (come hither)
“Happy Birthday November’s Sweethearts, Rory and Pippa”

November’s a great month.

Same sign, different vintage.

Just think, a few days earlier and you could very well have been a birthday present of mine.

Well, I’m glad I wasn’t. You deserve to have the day to yourself.

Sharing with you wouldn’t be so bad.

No, Ro.


She sighed as she stood there looking at the sheet cake on the bar before her. She’d expressly asked they
do the joint birthday celebration. It wasn’t from being selfish or trying to put a damper on anyone’s good cheer. Not in the least. No, Pippa simply hadn’t celebrated the day of her birth in recent years and had no real desire to start again. It was just a day.

A day that paid homage not just to the redheaded waitress but to the woman who birthed her. Someone Pippa had no intention of honoring in any way, shape or form. Whitney Kerr didn’t deserve accolades for bringing a child into the world, not if you asked Phillipa.

As she picked up a sharp knife, Pippa frowned, lips forming a pout that was anything but childish. The expression was full of hurt and determination as she used the fine edge of the blade to lift and remove the unwanted parts of the frosted message from the cake. Starting with the letters of her name, extricating and then smearing them across a paper towel, she thought about the last birthday she had been forced to commemorate.


Her mother was still trying to keep up appearances, uphold the pretense of a perfect family. Pippa wasn’t. Hadn’t been since she’d returned from college, brokenhearted and pregnant. By November, her normally slight frame had begun to already show signs of pregnancy: fuller breasts, a swell to the curve of her belly, thicker, shinier hair.

Her mother’s solution had been to tell people that it was the dreaded freshman ten that refused to leave, and on this particular occasion, had forced Pippa into a body restricting, breath stealing corseted affair of a dress. It was physically uncomfortable, something she suspected her mother intended from the outset, and emotionally painful. She was hated and more, the child she was carrying was abhorred.

And yet, at just nineteen, Pippa hadn’t quite been pushed to the point of not wanting to redeem herself in the eyes of her parents. She meekly went along with the dress, the angry looks and accusatory tones, agreed to the dinner party and the show of wanting a birthday party.

The guest list had been typical of her mother’s soirees: business partners belonging to her father’s firm and their spouses, women she played bridge with at the country club, the minor local celebrity of the day…no one from Pippa’s so-called circle of friends. Not that it mattered; she hadn’t spoken to any of them in months, most of them still away a school. Where she should have been. Another point her mother belabored at every turn.

It had been a tiring bore, a formal dinner affair with multiple courses of foods that turned her stomach. Not that she had much room to eat what with the bodice of her dress cutting her in half, but Pippa attempted to choke down the caviar, the lamb, the nauseating snails in garlic sauce. She did refuse to so much as sip her drink during the champagne toast in her honor. Some things she just wouldn’t be a party to.

Under the guise of feeling overwhelmed she excused herself, taking brief refuge in the kitchen and accepting the only genuine well wishes of the night—the ones from the house staff. Her reprieve was short-lived, her mother fast on her heels, coming into the kitchen only moments later, needing to be a conscientious hostess and assure that the cake would be served on time.

Or more to the point, to take yet another shot at her daughter.

They had stood on opposite sides of the kitchen island, perfectly decorated cake situated between them, candles yet to be lit. It wasn’t until she dared meet her mother’s cold gaze that the older woman spoke.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, would you look at that?” She gestured to the standard birthday wishes written on the cake’s surface, “They misspelled ‘whore’.”


Pippa studied her handiwork; it didn’t look bad now that she’d placed candles and a few decorative icing flourishes on the cake. “Happy Birthday, November’s Sweetheart, Rory”

No one would need to know that the cake had been doctored, corrected, undefiled.

Rory Stone was someone Pippa would gladly celebrate.

Pippa Kerr//Last Call//770 words
sandandwater: (hat)
Self-praise or arrogance, I'm not sure, but here's a list of things I believe I do better than anyone else I know:

One to Ten... )
sandandwater: (pipp)
1. Beer and a popsicle. Together. I blame Mr. John Munch for this.

2. Muppet Movies.

3. Drinking orange juice out of the carton. Note: I do live alone, so I consider this half as disgusting as normal.


5. My 'Get Stoned' Breaker Street tshirt.

6. Perching on counter tops or the bar at Last Call.

7. Having Breaker Street's demo tape on my iPod

8. Covering the side of my fridge with the stickers from fresh produce.

9. Big fluffy bath

Kelly was let go from Last Call and it made my summer.
sandandwater: (drunk and stupid)
Have you ever drunk dialed someone?

Looks rather exasperated and then more than a little embarrassed.

Fine, all right. Yes. Yes, I have drunk dialed someone. Once.

Are we done humiliating me now? Can we move on?

Hides her face in her hands and groans.

It was the most personally mortifying thing I have ever subjected myself to, making a complete fool of myself to the one person I really would prefer not to look like such a…a…oh, I really never wanted him to see or hear me like that.

Sighs. Holds her head up and squares her shoulders. Tries to put on an air of dignified perseverance.

It’s over and done with now; I don’t see the need to revisit the frank details.

Turns and smiles to herself.

After all, it led to the best kiss of my entire life.

Pippa Kerr//Last Call//145
sandandwater: (sleeping)
Horrible things. Nightmarish stuff fueled by a movie I should have known better than to watch, let alone watch all by myself.
Rise: Blood Hunter
, vampires. I guess that tells you pretty much all you need to know to figure out what my dreams were like.

The worst part of the whole thing is why I actually sat through the movie in the first place. One of the actors sort of resembled Ro, I think it was the smile mostly. Same shape of the face, physical build...I thought it was funny at first. Then he started killing women and it wasn't like most vampire movies, it wasn't just biting someone on the neck. There were razor blades involved and screaming, begging and oh...I had to close my eyes during the sex scenes. Just horrible.

I didn't even watch the end of the movie after that. I couldn't. I took Mr. Beaker and went to bed instead. I probably shouldn't have done that, at least not without calling Ro to say good night.

I woke up around three a.m. because Mr. Beaker was barking...I think I probably woke him up because I'd kicked all the blankets off the bed and my pillows were all on the floor. I might have screamed, I was definitely crying because my face was wet. I'm glad my puppy was there though, if he hadn't woken me up I'm not sure where the nightmare would have taken me next. It was bad enough that a conversation I had recently had with Ro had turned into something else entirely, his words replaced with those of that actor. Telling me I was pretty and brave and a good girl but I was going to die any way...

Now I have goosebumps all over again. I'm definitely not watching any more scary movies.
sandandwater: (come hither)

(trŭst) n.
1. Firm reliance on the integrity, ability, or character of a person or thing.

2. Custody; care.

3. Something committed into the care of another; charge.

4. a. The condition and resulting obligation of having confidence placed in one: violated a public trust.
b. One in which confidence is placed.

5. Reliance on something in the future; hope.

Trust is a funny thing, isn’t it? Just look at the definitions there. There’s one event in my life that all five of those meanings brings to mind. It’s not something I speak about to anyone. Not that it’s a great secret, it isn’t. It’s simply a private thing. A choice I made that isn’t up for debate so I think it’s better to not volunteer information about it for the most part. If you need to know, I’ve surely told you.

[locked from everyone save for Rory, who does know]

1. I trusted them with the most precious part of me: a child that was created, at least on my part, from an act of love and selflessness. I met them (and so many other prospective parents) long before I gave birth to that six pound, three ounce baby girl. There was just something about them from that first meeting that struck me, let me know I was doing the right thing in selecting them out of the sea of virtual strangers.

2. This one really goes without saying. They adopted her. Made her theirs. Gave her a family and the home she deserves.

3. I hope that she gives them the same. The loving bond between parent and child that they so longed for.

4. Me. I had to trust myself. And I do. I know I made the right, best, decision when I decided to continue the pregnancy. I know I did the right thing by giving her up as well. I’m happy that something beautiful and perfect came out of what turned into a lot of heartache. I’m so happy that I could change the lives of that couple for the better, that I could give that to a baby as well. And I know I did the best thing for myself by letting go and giving myself permission to start my life anew.

5. I trust that one day she’ll understand my choice, that I did it for her. Should her parents ever choose to tell her that she’s adopted, I trust that they will also tell her that she was special enough, loved enough by me to be given the best life I could assure for her. And that was the one she has now, with the people that wanted a child more than anything else and they wanted mine.
sandandwater: (mesmerized)
"The decision to kiss for the first time is the most crucial in any love story. It changes the relationship of two people much more strongly than even the final surrender; because this kiss already has within it that surrender." -Emil Ludwig

Is that why we waited as long as we did? Ro kissed me Wednesday night; for the very first time, he kissed me. It was everything I wanted it to be, everything I didn’t know I wanted it to be and so many things in between that it’s hard to describe it in words, the way his kiss felt.

Oh, I can close my eyes and remember. It makes me smile. I get warm and tingly and I sigh as I recall the way his thumb and then his lips brushed over my mouth. He held me close. Kissed my face. Explored every part of me when he slipped his tongue into my mouth.

I can give up those details but I can’t really tell anyone what it
to me. The feeling of being set free. My heart deciding it was okay to love and trust and give to this man.
This man
. Ro. Until I met him, and I think it was probably the exact moment he first said ‘Hello, Pippa’, I didn’t even want this in my life. Not again. I didn’t want to be in love and I didn’t want the physical complications of love.

He changed that and without even trying, or realizing what he was doing. He didn’t pursue me or try to come on to me. There were no cheap passes made or inappropriate grabbing or leering. Nothing most of the guys I encounter at the Call usually pull. Rory Stone—he’s not like anyone else I’ve ever known. He’s genuinely kind. And talented. And just so…self-possessed I suppose. He does his thing and doesn’t seem to worry about how others view him. He has a sense of right and wrong, he adheres to it. And yes, he’s physically everything I find attractive. But it’s the sum of all this that made me start wondering,
, something more than the casual friendship we’d started when Breaker Street started playing at the club.

I know I didn’t say or do anything overt about my feelings for Ro, my crush that became so much more. I didn’t know how to or if I should. Had no idea if he’d ever even consider me that way. I once asked Kreske (the drummer) if Ro was gay. I just didn’t know and I needed to know if there was any chance before I let my heart get carried away any more than it already had. Even with my answer from someone who’s known him so much longer, I still didn’t think Ro saw me as anything more than a waitress.

Sure, I could have asked him but I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. I’ve long learned my lesson about presuming I’m more in someone else’s eyes. Fear of hoping too much, I suppose. I wanted some sort of indication from him without my prompting. So I waited. And a silly incidental moment passed.
He asked me to dance.
The only music was whatever tune he decided to hum; the steps were uncomplicated things he made up as he went along. Then he asked me if I wanted to go out some time. Caught me by surprise with that one and he must of thought I was the flightiest person on Earth for the way I stumbled and stammered my response. But it was what I’d been waiting almost a year for. The okay to hope.

I don’t know that I can agree with this quote because, for me, Wednesday’s kiss (as beautiful and perfect as it was) wasn’t what changed our relationship. It was that dance.
sandandwater: (looking down)

You haunt me in my dreams
Everywhere it’s you I see
Trying not to think so much about you
Can't you ever just let me be?
I want to stop this maddening slow dance
The twisted, one-sided romance
My back is turned on you
Now please stop calling to me
In that gentle easy way you always do

Lover that’s not meant for me
You’re the one I’ve been looking for
You’re the one I adore
Lover that keeps tormenting me
Don’t you see I’m the one for you

The fantasy fell apart at the seams
Everything beautiful I imagined
My lifetime of happiness with you
Failed, it never would have happened
If you would have given us the chance
Given me more than just a passing glance
All those things I loved about you
You turned out not to be
And still my heart won’t believe it’s true

Lover that’s not meant for me
You’re the one I’ve been looking for
You’re the one I adore
Lover that keeps tormenting me
Don’t you see I’m the one for you

Lover that’s not meant for me
You’re the one I’ve been looking for
You’re the one I adore
Lover that keeps tormenting me
Don’t you see I’m the one for you

~~Phillipa Kerr 2008
sandandwater: (that hair)
Where is your favorite place to get away from it all?

Last Call, Staten Island, New York

You can find me here five or six nights a week, most weeks. I love my job. Lately people have been accusing me of working PR for a certain band, and yeah sure I may mention them a lot but that's only because I've listened to them play twice a week for almost a year now. They are amazing. But they aren't the only good act we book, and even on nights when it's just the juke box playing we have a fun crowd of regulars and love seeing new faces too. I promise the service is top notch.
sandandwater: (secrets)
She takes the chairs, one by one, from the tabletops and turns them right side up.

Pippa grew up in a house; some would call it an estate, away from the city and is the only child to a pair of image conscious socialites. Old money. She called them Mother and Father, never Mommy and Daddy, not that she saw them overmuch. Most of her days were spent with a nanny, a maid, a teacher or instructor. Some sort of handler for the child. That’s what was done, is done. Turning out a refined and seemingly proper young lady, well learned in all things sophisticated.

Plugs in the juke box and selects a few songs, letting canned music fill the empty bar.

She had suitable hobbies: played the piano, learned to ride a horse. She could speak French and discuss the latest polo match. Time was spent at the country club. There was a formal debutant ball when she turned sixteen. She was presented to society as if some sort of parental achievement. Minor royalty in an insular little world. She was sent on a tour of Europe to see the right places, appreciate the right art, and drink the correct wines.

Ties an apron around her waist.

Servants did for her even the most trivial of things. She couldn’t have told you where the laundry room was let alone how you should go about washing something soiled. Food was prepared, beds were made, messes tidied. Dust, dirt and detritus were never part of her world. Everything was clean and polished, shining and if not new, well kept.

Her hair gets pulled back from her face even if a few wild ringlets refuse to be tamed.

She kept the company her parents chose for her. Friends were the children of people of influence. Her confidences and connections parlayed for her father’s benefit or her mother’s whims. She wore the newest fashions and wore them well; it would never do to look slovenly or unkempt. Dignity, always dignity.

Notepad is tucked into a pocket, pen just beside.

Going away to attend university (the proper one, chosen for her of course) was a small taste of freedom from the constricting environment in which she’d been raised. Certainly the things she did were filtered back to her parents by classmates (by way of their parents) and faculty. By Pippa herself, even if she omitted selected details. Still, it was freeing and new. Sides of life she never encountered before. Messy and loud. Chaotic. There were parties where the music was rock not waltz. Food that was cheap and greasy not catered. And of course the studies and the work, all done with diligence. That was to be expected.

Wipes down tray after tray of clean glasses, ensuring there are no spots and streaks.

Then there was him. He was worldly in a way that she wasn’t. Not as high class or sophisticated but he’d had experiences that Pippa found thrilling and intriguing. He found her naive and charming. She was in love, he was in lust and she didn’t know the difference. It was a heady and joyful thing to her, it made her finally feel the sophistication she was told she possessed, having this secret lover. It was something of the adult world, after all.

Someone else is adjusting the lighting, making her laugh with the playful strobe light effects on the bar.

And secret he stayed even after it was forced to an end. A professor that impregnates a student isn’t all that unique, even if it is unethical. When she told him she was going to have his baby, he told her the truth: he didn’t love her and she wasn’t the only one he’d been seeing. Not that he’d deliberately deceived her in the first place. He never made promises or confessed to anything he didn’t mean. Pippa did love him and though it broke her heart, this hard lesson in life, she refused to tell anyone his identity. She’d protect him, his career. His tenure. Why should his life be ruined over something that she’d thought was beautiful while it lasted?

Citrus fruits are washed and then sliced into wedges, placed in bins full of ice.

Her parents were enraged, embarrassed, appalled. How could she be so thoughtless, clueless, careless, and stupid? And what would their friends think? Her father’s associates? A bastard child created (as they imagined in the most lurid of ways) and she didn’t even have a respectable man she could pin it on. Her mother tried to be a diplomat about things, suggested Pippa be adult and ‘take care of it.’ Make her first experience with love a dirty little secret best forgotten, all traces of it erased, disposed of like so much waste.

She sorts the cash register drawer, makes sure there is tape and ink in the printer.

She was anything but clueless or careless and never has she been heartless. She wouldn’t do as her parents wanted but she also refused to use the child as an act of defiance. She did see the pregnancy through and with the calm acceptance and knowledge that she wasn’t ready for this life change, couldn’t be what this child, their child, deserved, a little girl was put up for adoption. It was an act of love and selflessness, sacrifice to be sure, but her heart had already been wounded; now it would need more time to heal.

Plasters a smile upon her pretty face, unlocks the front doors.

She never did go back to the college; she didn’t want to face him again. Her family and so-called friends simply assumed she was embarrassed and ashamed. She wasn’t, not ever. But she did have some pride. She wouldn’t go back to that privileged cage she grew up in, not when it came with condemnation and more stipulations now that she was a scandal of her own making. She took the only good advice she’d been given about the whole affair and on her grandmother’s urging, Pippa spent time in Italy. Venice, to be exact. She studied and apprenticed in the art of glass making. She had a natural talent for it and the patience along with the ability to excise extreme control necessary. In front of the fiery hot furnaces she not only shaped melted sand and chemicals into beautiful art, she shaped herself. The woman she wanted to be said good-bye to the girl that she had been.

It’s going to be a good night.


Apr. 7th, 2008 01:40 am
sandandwater: (hot stuff)
Roaring fire and heat almost unbearable, flames licking at metal rods and molten glass. It sounds almost alive with its low grumble and crackling pops. She has sweat dripping from her brow. And down the side of her neck, too. It puddles in the small of her back. Her skin itches from sweat falling, drying on the surface. Baked back into those slender muscled arms.

The only break in her concentration as she continues to turn, spin, roll the tools of her trade is a quirking of one eyebrow. Just enough action to indicate that she’s not oblivious to her body’s response to the environment. The acrid, overpoweringly sharp smells of hot metals and burning chemicals mixing with human sweat and the occasional bit of singed hair mingle and make her want to wrinkle her nose, sneeze. But she won’t. Can’t. Her hand is well trained ignoring the impulse to reach, rub at the irritation.

There is so much discipline and control, rigidity and precision that it seems almost contrary to the fluid melt she is gathering on a hot pontil. Curving and flowing, it looks something like sugary ribbon candy as she joins it to the lip of a curved vessel already blown out and rounded. Pulls and loops it with a pair of pliers, and constantly pushing it back into a flame to keep it hot, malleable.

There now; perfection.

She switches tools again, this time a file she dips into a container of cold water then with a steady hand, brings it to the neck of her vase, touches it where warm pipe meets hot glass. A sizzle and a sharp crack as she strikes the file with a mallet and the vessel is free. Lying on an asbestos lined pad. With a practiced act of grace, she slides her hands into a pair of mitts and carries her creation to an annealing oven, the final process in cooling, curing her work.
sandandwater: (mesmerized)
Ten Childhood Memories

1. Piano lessons…my instructor was a wrinkled old stiff-lace man, but once my nanny deposited me and left? We’d play chopsticks and Heart and Soul instead of boring old Bach. Plus he always wore bowties instead of neckties. I liked that.

2. Fishing a frog out of the pond and putting it in the teapot before mother’s bridge game. Pearl clutching and screaming, oh my!

3. Nana always having peppermints in the bottom of her couture handbags.

4. Being fitted for a new riding habit every time I grew an inch.

5. Jumping the crossties without a horse.

6. Summers in Martha’s Vineyard. I saw Jackie Onassis once and thought I’d met bone fide royalty.

7. Culpepper, my pony.

8. Playing with dripping candle wax and using the hot liquid to make new shapes. I guess it was inevitable that I’d be making glass some day.

9. My first tour of Europe. Western of course. I don’t remember much but I do like looking at all of the stamps in my passport. And I remember everything seeming so large and looming, grand in scale.

10. Reading Jane Eyre for the first time.
sandandwater: (trying to hide)
Something I look for in a significant other? Oh, well…I guess it would have to be something uh…significant because I haven’t had one of those yet. I’ve had dates. I’ve had boyfriends but no one I’d ever think of as my ‘other’. No one special enough, no one that makes me think, ‘hey, this is what I’ve been missing in my life’. No one that just gets me, I guess.

Know what I’d really like in that significant other, significantly? He’d never call my art a hobby. He’d never accuse me of ‘playing with glass’ or tell me to find a real career. He wouldn’t refer to the time I spent in Venice as ‘a wasteful indulgence’ and he wouldn’t mock my decision to stick with it despite…oh, never mind. Now I’m just ranting about my parents and this isn’t what any of this should be about.

I want someone who has a passion in life for something. Whatever it is that they do. I want someone who likes to laugh and have fun, not take everything so seriously. I want someone who will dance in the rain and have pillow fights with me. I want someone who will take a chance, isn’t afraid of risk and maybe, just maybe isn’t scared to fall on their face while they’re at it.

Someone handsome wouldn’t be bad either.


Apr. 5th, 2008 08:11 pm
sandandwater: (mesmerized)
I have this thing. Compulsion. Addiction. I have no self-restraint whatsoever when it comes to those vending machines at the grocery store. You know the ones, with the tacky little metal rings that will turn your finger green. Stickers. Slime. Bouncy balls. Just…stuff. For quarters.

When I was growing up my mother absolutely forbade, on the rare chance that we were any place that had them, me from having any of that wonderful junk in the machines. We all know what that does to a kid, right? Makes them want it even more. Need it, even.

I once snuck out of a hotel room to get my mitts on a jelly bracelet from a vending machine across the street in this greasy little deli. My parents would have been struck with horror if they knew I went into such a place, never mind the rubber hoop I was after. I got it though. It was semi-transparent and neon pink. I kept it in my pocket for months.

You’d think I’d have grown out of that, right? Nope. I absolutely cannot walk past a bank of those things without putting at least one quarter in them to get something. I once used an entire roll of quarters to get the exact color bouncy ball I wanted out of a machine. I have an entire bucket of little treasures sitting in my apartment. One of those big twenty gallon buckets janitors use to mop the floors with.

I make jewelry out of some of it; sometimes I just give people random little gifts. Who doesn’t like a red sticky hand? Ball of silly putty? Sometimes I’ll just give whatever it is to any kids standing at the machines with me. It’s fun.
sandandwater: (trying to hide)
1. Britney Spears
2. American Idol
4. My iPod being dead
5. Barstool butt crack
6. Creepy old men hitting on me at work
7. Brussel Sprouts
8. Cup O' Noodles
9. Fast Food
10. Never getting a date for anything because I'm always working weekend nights.


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October 2009

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