Saturday, July 15, 2006
I bought The Ballad of Cable Hogue. It's a Sam Peckinpah movie I have been dying to see for a while. I watched part of it on the bus and felt like a bit of an ass while whipping out my iBook to watch a 36 year old western (I wrote 34 year old at first because I like to pretend it's 2004, I am still 25 and not living at my parents' place). I skipped through all the sex scenes because well not only do I like to watch fractured movies, but I also think anything of a sexual nature on an Acadian lines bus is kind of well, repulsive.
I remember one time in elementary school, Cyril Piercey pulled out his penis through a hole in his jogging pants. It wasn't so much the whole 'pulling out' that disturbed me, but that he clearly wasn't wearing any underwear. Talk about 'sweat' pants.
It's these sorts of traumatic memories that stopped me from ever owning a pair of jogging pants past grade six. I've got a prostate the size of a honeydew and a head full of bad memories
I stopped posting here for a plethora of reasons, I've either forgotten those reasons, grown a thicker skin or decided I was stupid. When I was a kid I used to lie in bed at night wondering how long it would take for people to forget the things that I had done, either hurtful, stupid or embarrassing. I used to ruminate about the nature of memory, particularly my grandmother's memory, because it seemed like I was always getting scolded by her.. This was because I was routinely doing things to piss her off. I don't really think my grandmother liked me. You'd think I could deal with other people being pissed off at me by now because of these early experiences, but that's not happening.
I guess I shouldn't speak ill of the dead. I am pretty good at it though and it's not like it'll ever get back to them.
The day my grandfather died, I scratched my brother's eye. He had to wear a patch at the funeral. I think it made him look pretty cool and he probably should, by now, forgive me. Apparently it takes him a long time to forget the stupid, and somewhat hurtful, things I have done.
I remember one time in elementary school, Cyril Piercey pulled out his penis through a hole in his jogging pants. It wasn't so much the whole 'pulling out' that disturbed me, but that he clearly wasn't wearing any underwear. Talk about 'sweat' pants.
It's these sorts of traumatic memories that stopped me from ever owning a pair of jogging pants past grade six. I've got a prostate the size of a honeydew and a head full of bad memories
I stopped posting here for a plethora of reasons, I've either forgotten those reasons, grown a thicker skin or decided I was stupid. When I was a kid I used to lie in bed at night wondering how long it would take for people to forget the things that I had done, either hurtful, stupid or embarrassing. I used to ruminate about the nature of memory, particularly my grandmother's memory, because it seemed like I was always getting scolded by her.. This was because I was routinely doing things to piss her off. I don't really think my grandmother liked me. You'd think I could deal with other people being pissed off at me by now because of these early experiences, but that's not happening.
I guess I shouldn't speak ill of the dead. I am pretty good at it though and it's not like it'll ever get back to them.
The day my grandfather died, I scratched my brother's eye. He had to wear a patch at the funeral. I think it made him look pretty cool and he probably should, by now, forgive me. Apparently it takes him a long time to forget the stupid, and somewhat hurtful, things I have done.
