Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

Personal

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My hamster’s ass fell off.


I don’t know how else to explain it, really. In the day and a half i was gone she apparently escaped twice, and maybe she licked up some Clorox or ate some mouse poison, but when i picked her up tonight her bottom half was a mess of fur matted in blood and strange inside out shapes and i put her back into the cage before Gina came back out of her room because i couldn’t look anymore.

I took her out just now, and it seems to have gotten even worse… she just gave me a blank hamster stare from her black marble eyes as i tried to discern what was the matter, but i quickly gave up and let her go back to sleep.

I hate this day already.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/12/90047262/

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Lately i have been screaming my voice thin, pummeling it as i scream for the high notes over and over again. This weekend it was Bb. If i could do that every day i would be a tenor.


There is still snow on the ground from last week’s snow day, though today’s temperatures in the 40’s felt like a summer vacation as it turned back streets filled with ice into soggy puddles to dance around. I remember when i first walked back from campus after the snow, unbroken white covering the field on thirty fourth street. A group of students were just convening a game of full-tackle snow football, and i almost asked them if could join in before i realized that i was wearing clompy boots and sexy jeans and was in no shape to be a pro full-tackle snow football player.


I get so convinced in moments, living out the highlight reel of my life as it follows a split second possibility. Rockstar. Run-away to Australia. Professor. Hit by a bus, Working in the office for the rest of my life. Pro-sno-baller.

Undecided. I wound up going out for some salad and bubble tea.

Typical.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/12/90046945/

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There’s something about watching nearly four hours of the overwhelmingly attractive overwhelmingly male cast travel their course on middle earth that makes me want to write slash fiction. And, not any kind of slash fiction, but sleazy interspecies Tolkien slash-fiction. I found myself mentally noting all the places it could be deftly inserted, to the point where i almost took out pen and paper to start writing down times. Frodo and Sam are easy, half the time they’re shown they seem like they’re about to make out or are recovering from quite a session. Pippin and Merry are just as easy… obviously out in that field doing something other than hunting for carrots when Sam and Frodo came upon them. Legolas is a little harder to work in, as tempting as he is. Apparently the slashers out there have an affinity for hooking him up with Gimli, but i could never pair such a fair haired sprite with that warty overgrown garden-dwarf. Perhaps Legolas could comfort Aragorn as he regrets his elvish bride? Or slip off with Frodo to help him improve his marksmanship?

Snow days do odd things to the brain.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/12/90020300/

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She let just a dash of irony enter into it. “It’s his, you know.” As if she would keep such a well read copy of Lolita on her bookshelf entirely for the show of it. Even if i had forgotten, it was an easy path to retread: now an English major, then he was fixated on Stanley Kubrick — whose choice in novels turns her stomach in an entirely routine fashion. She’s seen most of them, courtesy of him, parts of which were presumably glimpsed from between fingers pressed over her eyes at the end of the first vignette of Jacket or at any point during the absolute horror of Clockwork (which i refuse to acknowledge as having ever been entered onto film).

I said something intelligent about him once. Kubrick, not the ex. Something about him choosing material that rendered his characters as objects… everything objectified. Lolita is exactly that, so far, and is entirely engrossing in its droll way — though i keep inserting graphic pictures for Humbert’s coy phrases. Slowly the story unfolds as the pitiful nymphophile is slipped into the world of the succulent young Lolita, and suddenly each page grips you as the narrator tries his best to stay satisfied by her charm alone. The tension is dense and sinewed as your literary mind sides with an otherwise likable narrator by force of habit while some other part of you is retching at the outcome that seems to be drawing inexorably near. What author could get so tangled up in the thread that his character drew along behind him like a clever spider that he could weave it so effectively, so that you are rooting for that old bitch of a mother to die and for those tiny sleeping pills to take their inexorable hold on the unsuspecting child sooner rather than later?


Rather than spoil the midpoint of the book for you, i’ll only foreshadow by saying that while you don’t always get what you want, sometimes getting what you thought you thought you needed is in fact not in your best interests… especially because it extinguishes any concept of want at all.

I don’t think it’s a very good book. Yet. Though, i have some hopes of escaping the especially dull clutches of the middle section any minute now. Maybe i won’t like it, though… maybe that’s why she’s dating me instead of him.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/11/85698865/