in order to complete my plan for global domination, that is.
Well, not really, but I ran across this Advertising Slogan Generator, and I was like...hey, I think it's always good to be prepared in case I ever have to become marketable. I can stow these ideas in the far recesses of my mind and slap them on a t-shirt somewhere down the line, if need be. I am hoping the need will never be, cause they kind of suck and I would never put them on anything. They are entertaining, however. I know some of them made me laugh...so here you go.
Got a Melia? You're in Luck.
The Melia Effect.
Smart. Beautiful. Melia.
Super Melia is Almost Here.
Melia Stays Sharp 'til The Bottom of the Glass.
Tense, Nervous, Melia?
There Ain't No Party Like A Melia Party.
I'd Walk a Mile for a Melia.
Any Time, Any Place, Melia.
When You've Got Melia, Flaunt It.
Go find your own slogans: http://www.thesurrealist.co.uk/slogan.cgi?word=mexcellent
Friday, December 16, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
To the people that come up with new ideas for talk shows...
Giving Tyra Banks her own show...seriously?!
Flipping through channels last night I witnessed her looking into the camera, zoomed in on a face filled with the highest capacity of plastic genuiness, as she was saying: "In a minute we'll be back with Jennifer, the bully that set Rachel's hair on FIRE!"
And she kept using that same phrase in different ways:
"Your daughter set this girl's HAIR on fire!"
"Did you think it was okay to set her hair on fire?!"
"It is not normal to set someone's HAIR on FIRE!"
Oh, Tyra...you make me laugh. I would like to see your weave on FIRE!
For the love of god, are you freakin' kidding me?! I would rather watch Laguna Beach, and that's saying something.
Flipping through channels last night I witnessed her looking into the camera, zoomed in on a face filled with the highest capacity of plastic genuiness, as she was saying: "In a minute we'll be back with Jennifer, the bully that set Rachel's hair on FIRE!"
And she kept using that same phrase in different ways:
"Your daughter set this girl's HAIR on fire!"
"Did you think it was okay to set her hair on fire?!"
"It is not normal to set someone's HAIR on FIRE!"
Oh, Tyra...you make me laugh. I would like to see your weave on FIRE!
For the love of god, are you freakin' kidding me?! I would rather watch Laguna Beach, and that's saying something.
Monday, December 12, 2005
I haven't forgotten about you...
I am simply guilty of neglect.
I don't even really know where to begin, it's been so long since I have posted anything.
I could recap entire weekends spent out of town, or give minute details that would be of no interest to anyone save myself, so I will just write about the highlights.
1. I took my last final ever last Wednesday. Dr. Thompson handed me the Compostion and Rhetoric final and said, "Is this your last final?" To which I replied, "Yes." And she said, "Well, it's been a long road." To which I just uttered, "Indeed." I finished my final, walked out the door, and realized that that class was most likely the last class I will ever sit in. I am not going to lie, there was a momentary panic, especially since I have been in school, with nothing longer than a three month break, for over eighteen years. I am scared, because I am the kind of person that must have structure, but I am also excited, because I can now focus all of my energy towards my thesis and MA Exams.
2. I went to Austin and saw Maria Bamford with Ashley, Shannon, and Toby. I will post photos from that excursion at a later date. I have them, I just too lazy to deal with Flickr right now. After seeing Maria, who is quite possibly the funniest person ever, these events occured in what I can only deem pretty close to this order: hookah bar, a girl named Tiffin with at least eight piercings on her face alone, an apple pie and the offer of whiskey to go with it, the purchase of Heineken but not the drinking of it, a 15 minute nap on Tiffin's (who I met a few hours previous) bed, acting as human dictionary for Tiffin's boyfriend who worked at the said hookah bar, not sleeping, waking Ashley and Toby up at 7:30am from the coffee shop next door where Shannon and I had been since 3:30am talking, delirium, a quesadilla, eight cups of coffee, a waiter Shannon referred to as Brad the entire time we were at the coffee shop...even when we learned that his name was actually John...or something. A long car ride back with good conversation, a skilled and well-rested driver, and not enough Diet Coke.
3. Girls Weekend Volumes 3 and 4 took place in the Metroplex. Pretty much the same madness--Katy, Ashley, and me. Vol. 3 featured the return of Mikey the Minister, which continually astounds me. To recap, we met him during Girls Weekend Vol. 2 at a bar called The Library. Then, a month later, we go to a different bar that none of us had ever been to, went to a random room at this bar, and there...leaning against the wall...was Mikey. I saw him, did a double take, and said, "MIKEY!!!" He remembered us and we spent the rest of the evening hanging out with him (and a few other guys we still believe to be terrorists in training) on the dance floor. For more interesting photos from that weekend, see http://rockwithrobotron.blogspot.com. Ashley's got the goods when it comes to the photographic gems from that weekend. The guy (you can only see his back in the photo) that I am dancing with was nice...but he was the victim of Melia's first giving of a fake phone number. I felt horrible afterwards... because I lied, not because I ever wanted to see him again. Vol. 4 was this past weekend and we mostly just shopped for Ashley's new apartment. It was a lot of fun, but it flew by too quickly. We did manage to make our way to David's Bridal to pick up my dress for Emily's wedding, which is this weekend. I can't believe it.
I can't think of anything else to write about right now. I am in the middle of this incredible memoir, and I would really like to finish it tonight. Do yourself a favor, and if you like memoirs, pick up anything by Mary Karr. You will never turn back.
To all my friends wrapping up their finals, good luck. For all of you that are sick, start feeling better soon. And for anyone looking to hear some good music, come out to The Zone this Friday and Saturday; Core 47 is playing and it's going to be an awesome show.
I don't even really know where to begin, it's been so long since I have posted anything.
I could recap entire weekends spent out of town, or give minute details that would be of no interest to anyone save myself, so I will just write about the highlights.
1. I took my last final ever last Wednesday. Dr. Thompson handed me the Compostion and Rhetoric final and said, "Is this your last final?" To which I replied, "Yes." And she said, "Well, it's been a long road." To which I just uttered, "Indeed." I finished my final, walked out the door, and realized that that class was most likely the last class I will ever sit in. I am not going to lie, there was a momentary panic, especially since I have been in school, with nothing longer than a three month break, for over eighteen years. I am scared, because I am the kind of person that must have structure, but I am also excited, because I can now focus all of my energy towards my thesis and MA Exams.
2. I went to Austin and saw Maria Bamford with Ashley, Shannon, and Toby. I will post photos from that excursion at a later date. I have them, I just too lazy to deal with Flickr right now. After seeing Maria, who is quite possibly the funniest person ever, these events occured in what I can only deem pretty close to this order: hookah bar, a girl named Tiffin with at least eight piercings on her face alone, an apple pie and the offer of whiskey to go with it, the purchase of Heineken but not the drinking of it, a 15 minute nap on Tiffin's (who I met a few hours previous) bed, acting as human dictionary for Tiffin's boyfriend who worked at the said hookah bar, not sleeping, waking Ashley and Toby up at 7:30am from the coffee shop next door where Shannon and I had been since 3:30am talking, delirium, a quesadilla, eight cups of coffee, a waiter Shannon referred to as Brad the entire time we were at the coffee shop...even when we learned that his name was actually John...or something. A long car ride back with good conversation, a skilled and well-rested driver, and not enough Diet Coke.
3. Girls Weekend Volumes 3 and 4 took place in the Metroplex. Pretty much the same madness--Katy, Ashley, and me. Vol. 3 featured the return of Mikey the Minister, which continually astounds me. To recap, we met him during Girls Weekend Vol. 2 at a bar called The Library. Then, a month later, we go to a different bar that none of us had ever been to, went to a random room at this bar, and there...leaning against the wall...was Mikey. I saw him, did a double take, and said, "MIKEY!!!" He remembered us and we spent the rest of the evening hanging out with him (and a few other guys we still believe to be terrorists in training) on the dance floor. For more interesting photos from that weekend, see http://rockwithrobotron.blogspot.com. Ashley's got the goods when it comes to the photographic gems from that weekend. The guy (you can only see his back in the photo) that I am dancing with was nice...but he was the victim of Melia's first giving of a fake phone number. I felt horrible afterwards... because I lied, not because I ever wanted to see him again. Vol. 4 was this past weekend and we mostly just shopped for Ashley's new apartment. It was a lot of fun, but it flew by too quickly. We did manage to make our way to David's Bridal to pick up my dress for Emily's wedding, which is this weekend. I can't believe it.
I can't think of anything else to write about right now. I am in the middle of this incredible memoir, and I would really like to finish it tonight. Do yourself a favor, and if you like memoirs, pick up anything by Mary Karr. You will never turn back.
To all my friends wrapping up their finals, good luck. For all of you that are sick, start feeling better soon. And for anyone looking to hear some good music, come out to The Zone this Friday and Saturday; Core 47 is playing and it's going to be an awesome show.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
I have never been much of a breakfast person...
but recently I have been craving oatmeal like crazy. We're talking breakfast...dinner. Really, just about any time. Give me the funny looking Quaker guy, some milk, a two packets of Splenda and I am a happy camper.
Today, as I was laying in bed eating a bowl of oatmeal I started thinking about a poetry reading I went to a few years ago. I was lucky enough to not only hear Galway Kinnell read his poetry, but I got to meet him after the reading. It was incredible, as he is (in the literary world) extremely distinguished and I enjoy his poetry quite a bit. After reading several well-known poems that he selected, he read one I had never heard entitled: "Oatmeal". I immediately fell in love with this selection because it made me laugh and the imagery is fantastic. I thought I would share it with you.
I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health
if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have
breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary
companion. Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge,
as he called it, with John Keats.
Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:
due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime,
and unusual willingness to disintegrate, oatmeal should
not be eaten alone.
He said that in his opinion, however, it is perfectly okay to eat
it with an imaginary companion, and that he himself had
enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund Spenser and John
Milton.
Even if eating oatmeal with an imaginary companion is not as
wholesome as Keats claims, still, you can learn something
from it.
Yesterday morning, for instance, Keats told me about writing the
"Ode to a Nightingale."
He had a heck of a time finishing it; those were his words "Oi 'ad
a 'eck of a toime," he said, more or less, speaking through
his porridge.
He wrote it quickly, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in his
pocket,
but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the stanzas,
and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and they
made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if
they got it right.
An entire stanza may have slipped into the lining of his jacket
through a hole in his pocket.
He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas,
and the way here and there a line will go into the
configuration of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up
and peer about, and then lay itself down slightly off the mark,
causing the poem to move forward with a reckless, shining wobble.
He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about
the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some
stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse.
I would not have known any of this but for my reluctance to eat oatmeal
alone.
When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn."
He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words
lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.
He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there
is much of one.
But he did say the sight of a just-harvested oat field go thim started
on it, and two of the lines, "For Summer has o'er-brimmed their
clammy cells" and "Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours,"
came to him while eating oatmeal alone.
I can see him drawing a spoon through the stuff, gazing into the glimmering
furrows, muttering.
Maybe there is no sublime; only the shining of the amnion's tatters.
For supper tonight I am going to have a baked potato left over from lunch.
I am aware that a leftover baked potato is damp, slippery, and simultaneously
gummy and crumbly, and therefore I'm going to invite Patrick Kavanagh
to join me.
Today, as I was laying in bed eating a bowl of oatmeal I started thinking about a poetry reading I went to a few years ago. I was lucky enough to not only hear Galway Kinnell read his poetry, but I got to meet him after the reading. It was incredible, as he is (in the literary world) extremely distinguished and I enjoy his poetry quite a bit. After reading several well-known poems that he selected, he read one I had never heard entitled: "Oatmeal". I immediately fell in love with this selection because it made me laugh and the imagery is fantastic. I thought I would share it with you.
I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health
if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have
breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary
companion. Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge,
as he called it, with John Keats.
Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:
due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime,
and unusual willingness to disintegrate, oatmeal should
not be eaten alone.
He said that in his opinion, however, it is perfectly okay to eat
it with an imaginary companion, and that he himself had
enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund Spenser and John
Milton.
Even if eating oatmeal with an imaginary companion is not as
wholesome as Keats claims, still, you can learn something
from it.
Yesterday morning, for instance, Keats told me about writing the
"Ode to a Nightingale."
He had a heck of a time finishing it; those were his words "Oi 'ad
a 'eck of a toime," he said, more or less, speaking through
his porridge.
He wrote it quickly, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in his
pocket,
but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the stanzas,
and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and they
made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if
they got it right.
An entire stanza may have slipped into the lining of his jacket
through a hole in his pocket.
He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas,
and the way here and there a line will go into the
configuration of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up
and peer about, and then lay itself down slightly off the mark,
causing the poem to move forward with a reckless, shining wobble.
He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about
the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some
stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse.
I would not have known any of this but for my reluctance to eat oatmeal
alone.
When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn."
He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words
lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.
He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there
is much of one.
But he did say the sight of a just-harvested oat field go thim started
on it, and two of the lines, "For Summer has o'er-brimmed their
clammy cells" and "Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours,"
came to him while eating oatmeal alone.
I can see him drawing a spoon through the stuff, gazing into the glimmering
furrows, muttering.
Maybe there is no sublime; only the shining of the amnion's tatters.
For supper tonight I am going to have a baked potato left over from lunch.
I am aware that a leftover baked potato is damp, slippery, and simultaneously
gummy and crumbly, and therefore I'm going to invite Patrick Kavanagh
to join me.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
An Open Letter to Sylvia...
I sit here and read your words,
strewn across these crisp white pages
and I think about how you used them for kindling.
Your shy-awkward smile makes me wonder what thoughts circled
in your head as the photographer pressed, index finger down,
stealing your soul, trapping you in a moment I can buy.
The last pages filled with raw potential,
a life of boundless talent, a beautiful mind,
but sorrow that flowed through veins like Formaldehyde.
The weight it must take to force one’s heart to move,
cutting all ties, breathing in death’s fumes,
the cries of children fading away as eyelids closed.
And as I think of brilliance slighted, works of art
unfinished and burned, I suddenly catch a glimpse of you.
It was life, and the brain’s chaotic swirl. The panic, the heaviness. Life.
strewn across these crisp white pages
and I think about how you used them for kindling.
Your shy-awkward smile makes me wonder what thoughts circled
in your head as the photographer pressed, index finger down,
stealing your soul, trapping you in a moment I can buy.
The last pages filled with raw potential,
a life of boundless talent, a beautiful mind,
but sorrow that flowed through veins like Formaldehyde.
The weight it must take to force one’s heart to move,
cutting all ties, breathing in death’s fumes,
the cries of children fading away as eyelids closed.
And as I think of brilliance slighted, works of art
unfinished and burned, I suddenly catch a glimpse of you.
It was life, and the brain’s chaotic swirl. The panic, the heaviness. Life.
In conferring with a girl at work...
she asked, sarcastically, "Melia, have you always been a smart ass?"
I wasn't sure how to respond without being a smart ass, so I told her I would do some research and get back to her.
This research led me to lengthy conversations with close friends, painful and self-searching dinners with ex-boyfriends, and a few long and draining therapy sessions, but all in all...it really just comes down to this photograph.
I was five and a half in this photo, and I can only assume that the smart ass-yness began long before this was even taken. This is the same look I give to said co-worker multiple times every day.
I think it may be contagious as well, because you see the cute strawberry blonde kid in the oversized coat? That's my little brother Miles, and now he has joined the ranks. You can check out his thoughts on life at:
http://becauseimawesome.blogspot.com
And let me tell you now, he is awesome.
I wasn't sure how to respond without being a smart ass, so I told her I would do some research and get back to her.
This research led me to lengthy conversations with close friends, painful and self-searching dinners with ex-boyfriends, and a few long and draining therapy sessions, but all in all...it really just comes down to this photograph.
I was five and a half in this photo, and I can only assume that the smart ass-yness began long before this was even taken. This is the same look I give to said co-worker multiple times every day.
I think it may be contagious as well, because you see the cute strawberry blonde kid in the oversized coat? That's my little brother Miles, and now he has joined the ranks. You can check out his thoughts on life at:
http://becauseimawesome.blogspot.com
And let me tell you now, he is awesome.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Nightminds...
Just lay it all down.
Put your face into my neck and let it fall out.
I know...
I know...
I know...
Put your face into my neck and let it fall out.
I know...
I know...
I know...
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