son of the isolated blurts thread!
- Thread starter silverwhisper
- Start date
Que
aʒɑ̃ prɔvɔkatœr
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- Dec 3, 2009
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- 39,882
As, always...there is a madness to my methodology.
I once populated the ENTIRE first page of Lit Personals. I had requirements of myself. Each post had to be an actual, valid post that in some way either spoke to the ad of the original poster or commented genuinely. Although I was free to snark if an ad hit me that way, I tried not to step on toes, needlessly.
I did another little writing exercise once. It was VERY poorly received.
It was a thread of (to paraphrase) "Oh, woe is me...post things that you feel are unattainable."
I went through and multiquote responded to every single poster for over a page en masse. Given the nature of the thread, some tough love was in order. I doled that out as compassionately as I could while still giving honest encouragement.
Bunch of fuckin' Eyesores rained on my parade for drying up the rainclouds and putting them at risk for skin cancer.
They as much as forbade my return...
I stuck it out for hours of course, contrarian that I am wont to be.
I once populated the ENTIRE first page of Lit Personals. I had requirements of myself. Each post had to be an actual, valid post that in some way either spoke to the ad of the original poster or commented genuinely. Although I was free to snark if an ad hit me that way, I tried not to step on toes, needlessly.
I did another little writing exercise once. It was VERY poorly received.
It was a thread of (to paraphrase) "Oh, woe is me...post things that you feel are unattainable."
I went through and multiquote responded to every single poster for over a page en masse. Given the nature of the thread, some tough love was in order. I doled that out as compassionately as I could while still giving honest encouragement.
Bunch of fuckin' Eyesores rained on my parade for drying up the rainclouds and putting them at risk for skin cancer.
They as much as forbade my return...
I stuck it out for hours of course, contrarian that I am wont to be.
silverwhisper
just this guy, you know?
- Joined
- Mar 30, 2005
- Posts
- 11,319
that was an impressive bit of first paging, query. if you're going to do it, doing it with a real post is the only way.
well played!
ed
well played!
ed
Emerson40
An evening spent dancing
- Joined
- Aug 27, 2012
- Posts
- 13,838
We spent the Easter weekend with my Mother-In-Law, at her place. It was the first time we have had the kids out there since late last fall, just before Poppa passed.
On Friday night, after the wee ones were tucked in and dreaming of the Easter carnival planned for the following day, I slipped outside and went to the workshop.
I had not been in there since the middle of last summer. And Poppa, well he would not have been in there anytime after the third week in August, as that was when the first of a handful of strokes brought this mighty man down.
Other than checking that doors were locked and none of the windows broken, my Mother-In-Law has not crossed the threshold since summer as well, and asked that while we were up for the weekend, that I start the task of going through things, seeing what is salable, for donation, and scrap.
Stepping inside and turning on the overhead lights was like slipping back in time. Things were not messy - the man kept things in there, much the same as everything else in his life, neat and organized - but there were a few projects “on the go” and a couple items, like misfit toys, on the bench by the window that had not been tackled yet. Everything was just there and waiting, as it would be left by anyone who thought they still had a good bunch more of long, late summer evenings to spend tinkering and building, fixing and creating.
The scotch was right where it always was, in the cabinet beside the main workbench. I took it and two glass tumblers, and set them on the workbench. I toed a sawhorse over to the side of the workbench for an extra seat, blew the dust from the tumblers, and poured a couple fingers of scotch into each glass. Such was the tradition, and the beginning of many great conversations, moments shared, and laughter. Laughter ‘til your sides hurt from it.
One final glass raised, to the man, the husband and father, and to the Poppa and friend.
On Saturday, after crafts and games and painted faces at the Easter carnival, I brought my daughter into the workshop. She was unsure and sad at first, and I think a little taken aback by how “the same” everything looked, but eventually warmed to the idea of exploring and hanging out. We built a small birdhouse together, and I have to share that holding a small punch while my young girl used the hammer to countersink nails ranks right up there, with teaching her to ride a bike and our first time fishing. The image of her face, set in concentration and painted with whiskers and a pink bunny nose, will stay with me the rest of my days.
On Saturday night my wife followed me out to the workshop. I was just checking on the latest coat of paint on the birdhouse, and she was just going to wait outside, before we took an evening walk down to the water. But after a minute or two, she came inside, her first time since the previous summer. I said nothing and let her take it all in, like I did the previous evening. Then she came to me, and before I could show her the birdhouse that she’d heard about all afternoon, she slipped her arms around my neck and hugged me. I placed my hands in the small of her back and we held each other for a good, long while, gently rocking like grade-eighters slow dancing, against the backdrop of a photograph from last summer, while the overheads buzzed and the smell of drying paint and sawdust settled into our hair.
There was much I could’ve said, but nothing she needed to hear. A page had turned.
I held her until she was ready, then we left, shutting off the lights. My hand found hers and we took that walk, occasionally stopping to hug or look out over the water, but the whole time holding hands, never letting each other go.
On Friday night, after the wee ones were tucked in and dreaming of the Easter carnival planned for the following day, I slipped outside and went to the workshop.
I had not been in there since the middle of last summer. And Poppa, well he would not have been in there anytime after the third week in August, as that was when the first of a handful of strokes brought this mighty man down.
Other than checking that doors were locked and none of the windows broken, my Mother-In-Law has not crossed the threshold since summer as well, and asked that while we were up for the weekend, that I start the task of going through things, seeing what is salable, for donation, and scrap.
Stepping inside and turning on the overhead lights was like slipping back in time. Things were not messy - the man kept things in there, much the same as everything else in his life, neat and organized - but there were a few projects “on the go” and a couple items, like misfit toys, on the bench by the window that had not been tackled yet. Everything was just there and waiting, as it would be left by anyone who thought they still had a good bunch more of long, late summer evenings to spend tinkering and building, fixing and creating.
The scotch was right where it always was, in the cabinet beside the main workbench. I took it and two glass tumblers, and set them on the workbench. I toed a sawhorse over to the side of the workbench for an extra seat, blew the dust from the tumblers, and poured a couple fingers of scotch into each glass. Such was the tradition, and the beginning of many great conversations, moments shared, and laughter. Laughter ‘til your sides hurt from it.
One final glass raised, to the man, the husband and father, and to the Poppa and friend.
On Saturday, after crafts and games and painted faces at the Easter carnival, I brought my daughter into the workshop. She was unsure and sad at first, and I think a little taken aback by how “the same” everything looked, but eventually warmed to the idea of exploring and hanging out. We built a small birdhouse together, and I have to share that holding a small punch while my young girl used the hammer to countersink nails ranks right up there, with teaching her to ride a bike and our first time fishing. The image of her face, set in concentration and painted with whiskers and a pink bunny nose, will stay with me the rest of my days.
On Saturday night my wife followed me out to the workshop. I was just checking on the latest coat of paint on the birdhouse, and she was just going to wait outside, before we took an evening walk down to the water. But after a minute or two, she came inside, her first time since the previous summer. I said nothing and let her take it all in, like I did the previous evening. Then she came to me, and before I could show her the birdhouse that she’d heard about all afternoon, she slipped her arms around my neck and hugged me. I placed my hands in the small of her back and we held each other for a good, long while, gently rocking like grade-eighters slow dancing, against the backdrop of a photograph from last summer, while the overheads buzzed and the smell of drying paint and sawdust settled into our hair.
There was much I could’ve said, but nothing she needed to hear. A page had turned.
I held her until she was ready, then we left, shutting off the lights. My hand found hers and we took that walk, occasionally stopping to hug or look out over the water, but the whole time holding hands, never letting each other go.
drinkz
Query Drinkz Munky
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- Feb 6, 2014
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Pathetic, absolutely pathetic. Only you could waste so much time that could have been spent on, you know, real life.
silverwhisper
just this guy, you know?
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- Mar 30, 2005
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- 11,319
damn, em. that was beautiful.
ed
ed
Que
aʒɑ̃ prɔvɔkatœr
- Joined
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Que
aʒɑ̃ prɔvɔkatœr
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Last edited:
NightL
smoke'n'mirrors
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- Mar 14, 2004
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hmm - yep, so am I. Kind of I think?
silverwhisper
just this guy, you know?
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- Mar 30, 2005
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er...was there any context on that night or was it truly just an isolated blurt?
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drinkz
Query Drinkz Munky
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- Feb 6, 2014
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Ah... You know you have to read every post. If not to check for a stolen avatar to whine to admin about. You have to read every post I make and then pretend you've used iggy. How sad is that?
Miles Long
Fuck victoriously!
- Joined
- Oct 21, 2005
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- 21,358
There's more than one way to skin a cat, but maybe you should just don't skin cats, ya know?
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NippleMuncher
Masticatus Nipplicanis
- Joined
- Apr 3, 2003
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- 4,172
Baila, et. al., put down your drinks . . .
This is a case where you simply say, "bi-polar this, BITCH!" and lay a frying pan upside said bitch's head!
Lord Pmann
Lord
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- Mar 12, 2012
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This is a better gif of her:
http://reactiongifs.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/katy-perry-excitced-bouncing-breast-happy-sexy.gif
Que
aʒɑ̃ prɔvɔkatœr
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My oldest daughter was dead on Katy Perry for Halloween last year, so NOW when I see Katy Perry it is with a smile of affection...I didn't hate her music, but she didn't warm the cockles of my heart previously.
It's funny..my daughter must be a pop star in a paralegal universe...when she and Miley Cyrus were both still innocent teenagers....she was in a mall and this little girl of 5 or 6 ran up to her and asked her if she was Hanna Montana. She was MORTIFIED.
silverwhisper
just this guy, you know?
- Joined
- Mar 30, 2005
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- 11,319
RS: wishing harm on someone who's never done you a wrong? nice.
ed
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