This Blog Is Easy On The Brain

So Reighben said that this blog is easy on the brain. Since he is the repository of all knowledge in The Whole Sort of General Mish Mash i.e., the Universe, I, as Overlord, decree that you believe him. No, no, really. He did say that.

A little backgrounder on Reighben: we've been blockmates since forever. There's a saying that if you want things done, ask Robert. If you want to know something (and be relatively sure that it is correct) ask Reighben! If he stops being a reliable source, I shall buy a big bag of Cheetos, grab a random cheezy piece, lace it with arsenic, put it back in the bag, relax, watch a movie, and die in a while. That, my dear ladies and gentlemen, is the extent of my faith in my gay friend Reighben.

Well besides saying that this shebang is 'easy on the brain' (har!), my friend also said that he likes the flow of my writing. Whoa that phrase just plain flattened me to the floor of my college yesterday afternoon. The whole flattery session simply made me laugh. Because it's funny shit.

Just yesterday morning I was telling someone that this blog is a very funny private joke with, who else, myself. From the layout to the posts, everything is sarcastically and ironically encrypted. I mean duh, I don't want to tell you the details of my life! I'm sure you care more about your asscrack than the updates on my day-to-day existence. And besides I'm a very private person. Knowledge is power. I don't want to give you that, luv.

So what the hell is this for, then? I don't write this to gain more readers; I care crap about popularity. I don't write this for anyone but myself. I want to be able to look back and laugh at my stupidity, when the time comes. If I don't get lost in the complicated doublespeak, sarcastic paraphrasing and gods know what other crap I do just so I can express myself by not expressing myself, that is.

I mean, sure, I have had moments of being 'very sad that I have no more tears to cry' or 'very hurt that my heart seems close to exploding' or 'very frustrated that hope seems like a distant bird flying in the sky'---of course. But I try my darndest to say it some way else. Because, there is always a some way else.

Just yesterday a two-year relationship ended. But you won't read me talk about how I cried a bit later, thinking back on the plans we made for a future we were so sure about. You won't read me talk about how happy I am that human beings have invented water-proof eyeliner. No siree. You won't read me talk about it, because this blog---


Is easy on the brain.

Incendiary

I’m taking to biking now every Sunday for the past few weeks. I take out the bike shortly before the sun sets, watch the sky turn pink then indigo as the wind rushes past my face, and turn in after twilight. This habit gives me peace of mind, and by Jove, I need it badly today.

I got on the bike, set my player on shuffle and swore that I won’t stop until Frou Frou’s Must Be Dreaming plays.

The past few days in retrospect were as great as they go, even with this restlessness hounding me like a sexed-up alley cat. But they are very, very confusing. I have two major exams tomorrow and my concentration (whatever exists in the first place) is zilch, nada, nil. I’m drowning in photocopied pages here, and I don’t know what to wear tomorrow. How horribler can things get?

I have this little fantasy: I’d like to get a cottage somewhere in a nice, clean valley located on the rim of a nice, clean forest with minimal undergrowth and wild animals. Preferably there’s a pond or waterfall somewhere within walking distance. I’d grow rose bushes and chrysanthemums and dandelions and I’ll cook mushroom soup everyday! Imagine Snow White and Rose Red’s place. What the, you don’t know Snow White and Rose Red? You’ve missed a lot on your fairytale education, buster.

Anyway, I wouldn’t mind having a cow too, to milk so I don’t get malnourished. I’ll plant a vegetable garden with potatoes and carrots and onions. And okay, okay, listen to the best part: there’d be no guys in five thousand miles! Wahoot. No I don’t really mean that.

And chickens. Add chickens to the list.

Someone said strong people don’t run away from, they run away to. Fuckit then. Who ever said I have to be strong?

But yeah this is just a fantasy. Because: a.) I know nil about planting a garden. Any garden, unless you count science-class experimental bean sprouts b.) I don’t know what type of mushroom goes in mushroom soup, seeing as I only get away with Knorr or Campbell’s; I don’t want to die of fungi poisoning c.) This piece of prime real estate would cost me how many bajillions of pesos, and the cow and chickens are not even included in the package. Bummer.

Do you believe that man is not a ground animal? I do. I believe there is an innate desire in all of us to fly, glide or swim---to feel weightless. This realization struck me as I watched a small dot of a kite last Sunday after biking. I used to ask, where’s the joy of flying a dumb kite? You hold the string, the kite flies, you don’t. You keep on holding the string, standing on a small piece of earth, watching. Holding. And that is it.

But I think…what matters is the pull of the delicate contraption of paper, plastic and walis tingting, the pull from the sky to the hand grasping the string. The exhilaration of the inanimate object is communicated to the kite-flyer---the exhilaration of flying.

My train of thought was interrupted as I almost ran over a wittle wittle puppy. My player almost hit the concrete and I was close to doing the same as I pulled the brake. Stupid puppy, I muttered under my breath. Unlike most females, I am not very fond of very cute things. I tend to look at them suspiciously lest they turn into a nightmare any minute now. Yeah I’m that sick, so back off.

Must be dreaming or
We’re onto something

Frou Frou sings, and I go home.


[This is a post for last Sunday. It was written on scratch paper, after I sneaked away from myself while cramming for my Macroeconomics exam. Am I cool or what?]

This Boring Piece of Window

I used to have mice as pets, those little, white, fluffy things that shit and pee on you as they cavort over your arm. I fed them bits of cabbage and uncooked oatmeal, and they show their gratitude by escaping from their cage after one, two weeks of easy life. Soon enough I find half-white and half-black mice furtively darting under the couch or behind the stove. So much for loyalty.
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Do you know what I like most about Robinson's Place Manila? It's got all sorts of people there. Promdis, jologs, snotty rich kids, snottier middle-class kids, foreigners, hookers, corporate employees, everyone! That mall is my favorite people-watching place. It's like a window to the shadows of other universes. Complex lives all combined in one area, open to observation, criticism, amazement, envy---name it. Instant intellectual heaven.
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I think I am slightly claustrophobic. Whenever I'm anywhere with four walls, I want to be beside a window. This applies to restaurants and buses. Especially buses. I can't stand the mass of butts rubbing on my shoulder, cutting off the air and the light. Thus, I have formed an affection for windows. I have even determined two classifications for them: interesting windows and boring windows.

Interesting windows have a lot of people passing in front of them, doing mundane but interesting things. It may be a guy lazily scratching his arse. Or a woman dragging three bratty children with her to a crossing. Or a badly-dressed, awkward-looking tween pre-occupied with her cellphone. Or a piece of human shit. Things like that. Boring windows, on the other hand, look out to a street where people just walk by with a blank expression on their faces, everything settled, everyone quiet, trudging to their destinations. Nothing happens.
---

I just explained things very very badly and this is also very badly written. However, if there's one thing I learned as a fanciful okay writer, it is to never say sorry for anything. And I mean never.

Don't Read This; This Is Just A Waste of Your Time. How I Knew? Well, It Was A Waste Of Mine. Feed Your Boredom Somewhere Else Where It's Sunny.

What am I doing now? Waiting. Waiting for something to write here. Someone to text or call me up. Something to eat. Something to listen to. Someone to fix himself up. Something to...well. We all know I dislike Wednesdays to the very tip of my...toes.

I want to get out of here. This restlessness is getting to my nerves. Good thing there's bowling tomorrow, I can take it all out. Oh. And that Buddhist temple is just across the street from it. I just might visit.

The Word 'Inevitable' Sounds So Hopeless

"...when both partners in a relationship are overly demanding, when each expects the other to live in his or her world, to always be there to join in his or her chosen activities, an ego battle inevitably develops."

-The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield

Oh my fucking underpants. This passage sounds like it came off a pathetic self-help book written by a bored American housewife. Anyone can think this up, even with half a working brain.

So why didn't I?
---

I think I've been using the word 'pathetic' too often lately here. The impact has long worn out, but I can't think of a better substitute at the mo'.
---

I'm not one of those born with the gift of patience. I find that as I get more commited to a person (not only romantically), my patience invariably decreases. But if the wait is worth it, that is, if i can be reasonably sure that it is in fact worth it, then I don't mind so much. I'm the practical one here, and as someone so bluntly put it (I had a Vague Feeling that whispered I should take offense, but I am a little deaf now), I am always after that which is most convenient. So blunt, that statement. Still it did not draw blood.
---

Expecting is a bad habit. As the cliche goes though, old habits die hard. But can they fade away? Maybe they fade away. Well I want them to.
---

One thing you must know about me: I am detached. I deal with problems by detachment. I've been doing it all my life, it works as well as (takes a deep breath) Clean and Clear Pimple Clearing Speed Gel, I have no consumer complaints. Sweet. So while I am saying all these seemingly emotionally charged things, and while you are imagining a dumb girl with tears verging on the corners of her kholed eyes, I sit, type and listen amusingly to Bakekang. That show is so funny for its own good, methinks.

A General Review of Life. Mine, Specifically.

What I want more than anything else in the world is nothing. Sure I want tons of stuff seeing as I am probably the most materialistic person I know; thing is, I have no burning desire to acquire anything beyond everything at all. I just cavort through life in a seemingly pointless manner.

I say, where are the days when romance was the The Thing? When it was all or nothing? When things like love and hate, good and evil, beauty and truth were defined in absolutes? It’s just probably, no, definitely me, but an inordinate number of things in life in general strike me as bland and ascetic. To my mind, the level of artificiality in the 21st century has risen to dizzying, depressing, and suicidal heights. Fuck it. Sure this is the Age of Raging Hormones, of Capitalism, of Rock n’ Roll, of Homosexuality, and a bunch of other seemingly romantic notions. But it all seems to me superficial, manufactured, and shallow. I think deep down, something is dying within the human race. Something important (imagine Gandalf or Aslan saying this, I swear you won’t snigger).

I’m pretty sure I’m sounding like one heck of a bored, bitter girl right now. Well FYI I’m not. I live a fun life. I have great friends, okay grades, and though my romantic situation is notably unstable as of the mo’, it’s alive and kicking my non-existent balls hard.

It’s fun. Everything’s so fun and happy and good, and I say this with a minimum amount of sarcasm.

It’s all fun.

But pointless.

What have I done in 19 years? I won a few academic competitions which gave me an enormous ego fuck back in high school, but I hardly remember them now, much less the feeling. Medals are dead, cold, useless things. They’re only warm four-point-five seconds after some honcho hangs them on your stringy neck.

With the above-mentioned wisdom gained so early, I do not attempt to spend my college days as I did in high school. ‘Reclusive’ would be a fair adjective to describe my activities in the university. To go back to the question: what have I done in 19 years? Nothing too important. I just exist. Period. So now what?

Maybe I need a religion. You know, one of those thingummys that keep a lot of people in an opium-high. It would be, like, everything I do and don’t do would have a reason, a point! Whenever I feel miserable I’d have a good explanation: it’d be [insert name of deity HERE]’s will. The package would come with set, working morals, commandments, an afterlife and all those other stuff that keep people half-sane. Yeah. Religion appears to be a brilliant idea.

But like I keep asking: who would I be kidding? I don’t indulge in blind faith, too bad for me. Religion takes too much of that, and I don’t know how long I can keep it up, assuming that I can rationalize it to existence first. No deal.

Ah hell, don’t mind me. I’m just having one of those existential fits again. Do carry on, I just need a donut, and I’ll resume being happy.

The Sacred Day of Capitalistic Hearts

As a self-effacing girl with self-effacing friends, spending self-effacing time with them is the best way to spend Valentine's Day. We cavorted our afternoon away at that cryogenic crypt also known as the Senate building, 45 minutes of which I spent drooling on the table of the conference room where a long and boring lecture was delivered. Well, why isn't anyone surprised?

After the fieldtrip, we went to that conglomeration of restaurants located besides CCP and had dinner. We tried to watch the sunset and wished it was somewhere in front of us rather than off-left; it's just so depressing, don't you think? No? Oh-kay. Then we scooted off to Vito Cruz in a taxi with a driver who muttered something totally incomprehensible about Jollibee---where was I?---we scooted off to Vito Cruz to Cello's for some donuts. So far, so good. The whole Valentine's thingummy seemed like a bad nightmare far removed from my little dateless world.

Since I'm a stuck-up bitch with a fairly colossal ego, I decided to test my resolve regarding my arguments against Valentine's Day. They are:

1.) Valentine's Day is a purely capitalistic exercise
2.) Affection must be displayed every day, not only on one pre-set date
3.) The damn day makes single people feel so horrible, more so when they are not single in the first fucking place

The Test was quite simple: I just entered the concentration camp of the lovey-doveys, i.e., Robinson's Place Manila. I sat on a stupid bench watching stupid couples with stupid balloons and flowers with a stupid expression on my face---don't ask what. Suffice it to say, I felt horrible.

Conclusion is, no matter how smart you fancy you are, rational arguments convince nothing more than that grey matter called your brain. Not your hypothalamus, unfortunately. Not that. Also: cynicism and a heightened sense of irony are no match for the hormones and general euphoria spawned by Valentine's Day. Lastly, avoid malls next year unless you're with someone you can blow your payday money on and not feel sorry the next morning.

I sound bitter. So maybe I am. Aren't you, too?

Ms. Sleepyhead

As mentioned in my last post, I sleep anywhere now. Before I know it, my head is lolling off to one side even if I'm listening to highly energetic music, say, of Scary Kids Scaring Kids. This usually happens when I'm commuting. I do it in classes too, and benches, and floors. When I wake up, a general feeling of heaviness ensues---like indeterminate echoes along the halls by unknown ghosts. Yeah, humor me.

I did not use to be sleepy. In highschool and early in college, I slept early and woke early, no fuss, and I didn't need music to keep me up. Coffee was also an almost unknown concept then. And now? I'm not used to being tired, dreary, and plastered. But it seems as if I have to evolve faster recently, or I'll just fall off my feet one of these days and get run over by a goddamn speeding bicycle.

I would just love to do something about this little problem; however, I am too tired to go about it. Heck, I don't even have the energy to read Mostly Harmless by Douglas Adams, the last book in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series! Gods! It's Douglas Adams! What is wrong with me? Something horrible, to my mind.

I'm sure I'll get out of this rut in a while. Sleeping early, however, is not working as of the moment. Gahd.


PS---I am newly in love. Jomar, please give me your guitar? I cannot bear to be away from it else my poor heart shall break into tiny little morbid gory pieces.

XIX

Nineteen is just a transition. I don’t care much for the age itself, but what it means: I’m one year nearer twenty, one year nearer the two-decade mark ending my teenage stage. As if it was something to mourn for, no. But it is something to miss.

Time is an illusion, age (and pretty much everything else) is a state of mind. I’m not in the mood to preach—is this a change? Perhaps, a symptom of getting older. The whole the-world-is-against-me-and-don’t-understand-me phase is old enough to be discarded for something more practical, lasting and devoid of romance. What?

Surrender.

At nineteen, I don’t think I have the right to sound world weary yet. I still have a long way to go, with a closet three fourths full of tragedy waiting to be worn like black ill-fitting clothing. But don’t you think everyone is forced to grow up faster nowadays? Technological innovations, social revolutions and individual rebellions hasten the pace of this permanence which is change. I am told I don’t sound like anyone below twenty. Maybe this observation pertains to the general cynicism, hypocrisy and world weariness which I seem to exude like miasma.

Random, maybe fun question: am I a happy person and/or am I happy? I think there’s a difference. I don’t look like a happy person most days, because I’m always mooning and gloomy as I stalk the halls of the university. I am not a happy person to be with most times too: I’ll snub you if I don’t like you or even if I liked you I would still snub you if I find that we have nothing interesting to say to each other. By all appearances, I am not, I repeat, usually a happy person. But I’m usually happy.

I have existential angst and realize the pure and applied pointless which is life. But I’m not the sort who lets it get in the way of my hedonistic tendencies, which are relatively shallow. Clothes, good conversation, books, shoes, fulfilling relationships—these make me happy. I try not to look for absolutes or for things which can never be found. Sometimes I ask: who am I kidding? I know there are things beyond myself and my world which maybe I should spend my lifetime trying to understand. But that wouldn’t make me happy, would it? This is the road I choose to take, so far at nineteen. A road of denial and contentment.

Who am I kidding? Well, just me. And I’m happy at it.

Purposive Delay of Scholarly Issues

For the life of me, I can’t believe I survived this week. Just one more report to go for tomorrow and I’m…three more research papers, three reaction papers/critiques, one Philo 11 homework, some number of exams I’m scared of finding out…and I’m done! What the funk.

The whole week was fun, but I found myself falling flat on my face on the bed every night. I fall asleep anywhere now---baby buses, aircon buses, benches, any place where I can remain static. I dislike this lifestyle. I’m a sedentary sort of person so all this activity is physical overload.

I’ll write about my thoughts on turning nineteen next time. Fark this report, as usual, I’m purposively delaying my scholarly issues, i.e. cramming. Later.

An Imaginary Analogy That Everyone Shall Miss

I fancy that I am an okay writer. This fancy is one of the foundations of my identity, meaning that it is unstable at best---that if this fancy morphs into a will-o’-wisp, I shall be lost.

While I have a bloated writer’s ego, I know when something I turn out is awful, or worse, mediocre. It’s this feeling you get the next second after you throw that bowling bowl and be sure that it will not hit a pin even if the said pin was five feet wide. It’s the same feeling you get when you swing that dos-por-dos at a pot of candy, money and flour, and be sure that you will hurt only air. This feeling manifests after I write something: an essay, a poem, or a song. A colossal ego and its vast army of defense mechanisms are sitting ducks to, this. Whatever it is.

Sometimes I know just why I failed (isn’t it failure when you did not live up, not to what other people expect of you, but what you expect of yourself?) and since a finished piece is not a sad, un-editable past, I can correct my mistakes. Sometimes it’s a misspelling, wrong grammar, an awkward-sounding phrase or statement---something concrete. But most times the mistakes are not obvious. I know something is wrong with the finished piece, something gone awry during the whole effort of creation. Something. Not knowing what it is makes me feel discontented and unfulfilled.

The unknown nature of the error leaves me incapable of doing anything about it. Wouldn’t it be easier if ten thousand readings can convince me that the mysterious mistake is just a manifestation of my screwed imagination? But nothing is ever easy, is it. I can always ignore my discontent and frustration with how my writing turned out and go on sharing it with other people. That’s it, ignoring. When all else fails to make a bad feeling go away, just ignore it. Ignore it. You won’t be denying its existence, or trying to rationalize it to extinction. You just refuse to acknowledge it.

I think, if one dwells too much on mistakes, they take on dimensions of importance they do not really have. While nothing can be done about mysterious mistakes, something can be done about feeling inordinately bad because of them. This is how I get by as a fanciful okay writer, doing fanciful okay brain farts.

Just so nothing will break.

Fieldtrip Yay!

It’s been nigh four years since I had a fieldtrip. The years in between was a life spent pining for a fieldtrip. The next few years will be a life pining for another fieldtrip. I’m a fieldtrip buff. So while I narrate this four-year long accumulation of frustration and desire, suffer the sucky pictures taken by the palsied hands of three self-confessed camwhores.


Ay, germonster.

The first stop was at a Hindu temple, located at (why are we not shocked?) Mahatma Gandhi St. along UN Avenue. We had a cool bus, with nice drink holders, ash trays and that pouch thingie in front of you where you put the trash. And where did we go? Sa kabilang kanto!



We were asked to remove our shoes before entering the temple proper. Me having this sardonic and sadistic humor, I narrated the horrors of athlete’s foot.


Kachichas Scare: Green Socks (Betch’s), Striped Mismatched Socks (Lizette’s), Bare Feet (Mishee’s). Make a wild guess as to who gets attacked by the kachichas germonster.


Ultrawave!

I liked the temple. The air smelled sweet, the wide space gave me an illusion of peace, and this Nepalese guy lecturer gave us a chunk of food served by hand---literally. The gunk was okay, if you don’t think about all those things Captain Safeguardian warned you about. And I doubt if anyone understood his heavily accented rendition of English while explaining the Hindu religion. Fieldtrips were made to be fun, in my world.

The next temple was the Sikh’s. It was along UN Avenue. Do you know how it feels to ride a fancy air-conditioned bus to somewhere within walking distance? And paying P550 for it? Well. Before entering, all of us were asked to remove our shoes and socks and wear a bandanna. The lecturer was straightforward and asked us to ask questions. Dedma. There was so much dead air, it could have strangled all of us dead and kicked our butts for good measure. Whatever happened to UP students being dynamic and inquisitive?


I know. They became camwhores.


Sikh food, tastes like espasol, sweet, chewy, looks like poop. Served by hand.

Lunch time. Guess where we ate lunch, at three, two, one…Robinson’s Place Manila! Wahoot wahoot! At this point my sarcasm fails to sustain me.


Sam oh Sam, where have you been all my life? Fag.

The next temple was Taoist, along Coastal Road. It was the farthest point in the whole trip, so I felt a little pacified and generally comforted. I would just looove to post pictures of Betch and Mishee snoozing (titties!), but they know too much blackmail-ish details about me, so.




This is the point where my camera died on me. Low batt. Next, we went to the Buddhist temple near Rizal Memorial Stadium, along Adriatico Street. The lecture was interesting, and I am interested in Buddhism itself---it being atheist, and also because I am attracted to some features of the Buddhist way of life. Mishee, Betch and I intend to go back to the temple to take a pot shot at enlightenment. So, if you meet three girls, two fat and one thin(!), walking around with shaved heads, you know who they are.

The trip was happy and all that. Blah blah. Good night, get a life.

Germonster

I get a kick out of that Safeguard 'Safeguardians' commercial. It's the stupidest thing I've seen this month, and I laugh out loud at the hardcore line: ay, germonster! Amputa.

Captain Safeguardian (I believe he is called): Hindi ko ibibigay ang diarrhea mutagen sayo, Germax!
Germax: (after a long explanation on just what the fuck the diarrhea mutagen is for) Akin na ang diarrhea mutagen!
Captain Safeguardian: Eto o. Saksak mo sa baga mo leche.

Well I made that last line up. That's not a child-friendly line, is it? If you haven't seen the commercial, don't attempt to at night. It usually airs on mornings, when kids are watching the cartoons. Yes I'm a kid, and I watch the cartoons and those Japanese superhero shows. I Love Ultraman! Best comedy show ever. I know how to do the Ultrawave, stupohs, so back off.

On other things. I'm rarely busy, mostly because I'm lazy. I guess I tend to do things which are horribly unimportant to my general academic and/or mental and/or physical well-being. Example: I shuffle to my room carrying a bowl of Korn Bits. I set the bowl of Korn Bits on my battered coffee slash study table. This action triggers an avalanche of photocopied readings and piled books read for the past month or so. I stare at the mountain of paper. I stare at the Korn Bits. I stare back and forth trying to figure out what to do. I stare at the ceiling and live happily ever after doing absolutely nothing.

As I was saying, I rarely get busy. I don't have much of what they call a social-life, seeing as one of my hobbies involve a ceiling and a forsaken bowl of MSG-saturated junk food. When I DO get busy though, the heavens take revenge. All the papers and reports pile up, all the social engagements seem to sprout like unwanted boogers, all the important things decide to side against indolent me. Why oh why? Karmic damage? Probably.

My schedule for this week is hell. One hardcore report, one impromptu speech, one birthday partay, one debut, one performance, one film-showing, two 'meeting of minds' (gods what will I ever do without euphemisms?), two symposia, three papers. Fuck. And did I mention I was busy? Yes? Douche bag.

I Hate Nice People. In A Nice Way.

I know this is old, old, OLD news, but I'm a bitch. I have this vague feeling somewhere (emo line coming up) in this stone called a heart that that statement used to sting. Or it may just be my freak of an imagination.

But yeah. I have the bitchy qualities other bitches may envy. Sometimes I scare people; again, I have this vague feeling that I'm supposed to be guilty about it. But I'm not. I think it's because only one person has the guts to tell me off---the other one I fired, or so I believe. Now there's a replacement. This person says it doesn't hurt to be nice. I roll my eyes and resume my 'attitude', this person twitches an eyebrow as I turn away. Big deal.

It doesn't hurt to be nice? It does. People walk all over you. They take you for granted, they bully you to your hair roots. What kind of life is that? I'd rather fancy I scare people than people fancy scaring me. Being overly nice is being sick. Stupidly sick. Before you know it you're caught in a loop and can't do shit to save yourself from users.

I understand that symbiotic relationships must of necessity exist---use and be used. That's why I 'hate' nice people in a nice way. They delectably ruin the balance.


A side note:

gayrunnerness: once upon a time there was this bald frog with a bad wiggayrunnerness: no one could really figure out why a frog would need a wig in the first place, since frogs really dont have hair
gayrunnerness: --not in places we can see, anyway
gayrunnerness: this frog was so self conscious about being bald that one day the wind blew his wig off the tippity top of his head and when he saw his reflection in the pond he choked on the leg he bit off this toot guy named toot and died.
gayrunnerness: the flies lived happily ever after--which lasted about 24 hours. the end.
gayrunnerness: oh, and liz lived happily ever after too