Hacked By BALA SNIPER
Hacked By GeNErAL
Greetz : RxR – Kuroi’SH .. @nd all friends.
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#You Have Been Trolled !
There are a number of things in this world that make me feel insecure. Overhead luggage bins, for example, or the pressure of a waiter asking if I know what I want — just once I would like to have the confidence to order a meal at a restaurant without re-opening the menu.
But I never thought lasagna would be on that list.
Every night, I step off my elevator and straight into olfactory bliss courtesy of my neighbor’s cooking. The first night, it was nice! Who doesn’t want to be greeted by the smell of a home-cooked meal? The second night, it made me hungry. I just hope she didn’t notice as I awkwardly pressed my face against the door and deeply inhaled the sweet perfume of chocolate and chip.
After that, however, the aromatic onslaught started to chip away at my self-confidence little by little. Lingering vapors from the aforementioned lasagna mocked my fingers as they tap tap tapped my sushi order into seamless. Whiffs of freshly baked scones stalked me as I carried my burnt clumps of corn muffin to the trash compactor. The sizzle of a wok and the scent of homemade Pad See Ewe brought back terrifying memories of the great Pad See Eww disaster of 2011.
As the weeks wore on, those smells became an ongoing nightly reminder that I don’t always measure up to the standards I set for my adult self at some point between age 0 and age now. My adult self should know how to change a flat tire. My adult self should not have New Years Resolutions that involve meeting her favorite celebrity or getting a bartender to wear a funny hat. My adult self should not be able to name at least three people who blame her culinary “talents” for temporary gastrointestinal “problems.” Of course these are totally arbitrary standards, but they’re lodged in my brain, and extricating them is all but impossible.
However, tonight, I had a little victory. I pulled my frozen pizza out of the oven and walked downstairs to get my laundry before dinner. When I got back, the whole hallway smelled delicious. Italian herbs and spices, Fresh mozzarella. Hand-crafted artisan crust. All coming from my apartment.
I had prepared a meal that I wanted to eat, and I made my hallway smell like Italy. That is something to be proud of, regardless of if I did it the way I thought I “should.”
That said, maybe my adult self shouldn’t be taking life lessons from DiGiorno.
Until about 10 minutes ago, the answer to that question was a mystery. Given that I am only halfway through Season 1 of “The Killing,” I was hoping it would remain a mystery until I made it to the finale of Season 2, when the big reveal would…well, reveal itself.
I watch TV on my iPhone while I exercise – thank God for unlimited data plans — and I tend to get pretty emotionally invested in my stories; I’m still reeling from Edgar’s untimely demise on 24 – the silent clocks ticks forever for you, my friend. I started The Killing a few weeks ago and have been happily mulling over my own theories and questions since then, as well as fighting off a growing depression from watching hour after hour of the gray, ambient misery mist that envelops Seattle.
Anyway, I was on the treadmill, watching Holder do his thing, and I took my headphones off for a second. “Is that the Killing?” asked the guy on the machine next to me. He looked like a younger version of The Governor on “The Walking Dead,” so of course I liked him immediately.
My exact response was “Yeah, I just started – I’m a few episodes into season 1.”
You’d think that “Yeah, I just started” combined with “I’m a few episode into season 1” would be a clear indication that I had not in fact finished the show and that I did not in fact know who did The Killing’s killing.
To my treadmilling friend, however, it apparently was an invitation to blurt out “Oh, man, I can’t believe how it ended! I never would have guessed it was BLEEEEEEP.” (That’s me censoring in order to save anyone reading this from enduring the same spoiler I just experienced.)
I never would have guessed it either. Because I hadn’t even met one of the characters he mentioned. And the ones I had met had given me no reason to assume that they might be killers. And now I don’t even need to guess. That’s what happens when someone tells you something.
Sigh. Maybe this is karma for that time I spilled the beans on Boone dying. And on who killed Laura Palmer. And on the Season 2 finale of Boardwalk Empire. Actually, I really don’t have any right to complain, do I?
Dear San Francisco,
We met when I was twenty-two and just out of college. You were hip and dynamic and a little dangerous – nothing like the cities I’d gotten used to growing up on the east coast. I liked you immediately. Your limitless energy and the seemingly endless array of new experiences (Critical Mass, Bay to Breakers, Big Wheels) you could offer up made every day exciting and fresh. I couldn’t imagine having more fun
But then our honeymoon gave way to reality, and the key differences in our core personalities began to show. All those things on which we didn’t see eye to eye that started off as pesky annoyances ultimately became deal breakers. You never could fully address my distaste for playing “Will I or Won’t I be Shanked By That Bum?” every time I left the house. I could never deal with your utter inability to make a decision even hour to hour about what weather you wanted to display. Of course, there was a lot of good stuff — the trivia nights, the amazing food, the awesome friends, the ability to keep my butt and legs toned simply by walking a few blocks — that made me stick around, but after four years I knew it was time to call it quits.
I never stopped thinking about you, though, and now seeing you again after all this time has brought back those happy memories. It makes me nostalgic and question just a little if might be worth giving things another go. I can certainly see that you’ve tried to become what I always wanted. You’re more reliable than you were when we were last together — NextMuni’s “arriving in 2 minutes” now actually yields a bus in 2 minutes, not 60. You’re warmer than you used to be — literally, 70 degrees at the Fillmore Jazz Festival in (the normally frigid) July. You seem less volatile, too – I’ve spent over a week here without a single frightening encounter with an overly aggressive homeless person. Could things be different if I came back? Could we could actually make it work this time?
But as I walked to the bus last night, breathing fog and shivering in my t-shirt in the 50 degree air (which, mere hours before, had been 75 degrees), a rat ran across my foot and a man with a shopping cart full of old electronics and newspapers swore at me. And I knew you hadn’t really changed in a sustainable way. You tried, but we still face all the same issues. You can’t alter who you are for me, and I wouldn’t want you too.
I’ll always love you, SF, but we are not right for each other. You deserve a resident who doesn’t want you to change and who relishes your inconsistencies and loves you as you are, and I deserve a city where I don’t need a black market to access plastic bags or foie gras. But I’ll always look back on our time together fondly and with gratitude that I had the chance to know you and for the lasting richness, color and frequent and unexpected nudity you brought to my life.
When I said I wanted to meet people in New York, this is not quite what I had in mind.
This morning, I planned to drop my rent check off in my building’s management office. The last time I was in the office was when I signed my lease in early May, but I have a pretty good memory (NOTE: in retrospect, I doubt this statement) and was certain that the office was located on the 24th floor in apartment D. So certain that I did not even consider the possibility that I might be mistaken. In fact, if you had asked me to bet my life on the office being in 24-D, I would have done it. So, I came back from my run, stepped onto the elevator and pushed “24” with the kind of confidence that one feels when she is so sure she is right about something that she is almost guaranteed to be heading towards a stupid and easily avoidable misstep.
Upon arriving at floor 24, I walked to apartment D, opened the door and entered. “No knock?” you might ask. “Why, no!” I would have answered. “There’s no need to knock if you know where you are going!”
What followed was one of the most uncomfortable and confusing single minutes of my life.
It took my brain about 10 seconds to process that the room I had entered did not match my memory of the management office and another 10 seconds to realize that I was standing in a living room. (I’d like to blame exhaustion and dehydration from running in the heat, but it was 65 degrees and cloudy when I went out.)
Another 5 seconds to realize I had just walked into a stranger’s apartment.
5 more seconds for the resident of said apartment to walk out of the kitchen and see me standing there, in my sweaty clothes, looking disoriented, with Ed Sheeran seeping softly from my earbuds.
5 seconds for her to process that there was a stranger in her apartment.
5 seconds for her to ask me who I was.
5 seconds of stunned silence on my part where I stood there, mouth open, eyes moving between her and the rent check in my hand, as if that would clarify everything.
15 seconds of explanation and profuse apologies. I thought about asking her why she didn’t lock her door to prevent things like this from happening, but then it occurred to me that she could probably count the number of times this had happened on one finger. Maybe now she’ll be more careful.
After a few laughs, a few more “I’m so sorry’s!” and a silent thanks that she had merely been making coffee, I made my way to the correct location and deposited my checks. I then proceeded to walk around the block and cringe about 6000 times.
Fortunately, embarrassment rolls off me like water on a duck’s back, but I do have one regret: that was probably the only time where an exaggerated cat burglar backwards tiptoe out of the room would have not only been justified but also appropriate. A major missed opportunity.
On this rainy New York City Friday, I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I found the exhibit of nineteenth century European artists especially evocative. The color, depth and passion expressed by the artists’ brushes truly inspired me….enough to spend the afternoon ignoring the audio tour I had purchased. Instead, I quietly annotated each painting for myself and giggled just softly enough so as not to disturb my fellow cultural patrons. Much like the perfect wine complements a fine meal, today I discovered that the perfect iPhone camera and sense of snarkiness complements fine art.
It’s amazing how they got the wolves to pose for so long!
An artist who captured the true essence of the Earl’s personality.
Match.com first date nightmare.
An early attempt to counteract the portrait adding 10 lbs.
Match.com first date nightmare, part duex.
“No, really, Uncle Alfonso, the hat will be GREAT for the portrait…”
No one understood why little Lindsay’s birds never seemed to last very long.
Hacked By GeNErAL
Greetz : Kuroi’SH, RxR, K3L0T3X
\!/Just for Fun ~Hacked By GeNErAL\!/
Hacked By GeNErAL! !