Current mood: irate
Oh my god, I am the movie theater nazi. This drives me absofriggin nuts. When you are in the movie theater - shut up. I just went to see "Letters from Iwo Jima" and this dude two seats to the right of me is talking out loud. Not whispering, not even trying to be quiet, he's just talking. I had to shush him twice! Grr. And, oh the best part, halfway through the movie this ass took his shoes off and his feet fucking stank. Put your shoes on and shut up nasty man, this is not your living room!
Special note to those who bring young children (can't walk yet) into R rated movies.. WE ALL HATE YOU. When you walk in the room with your baby, we all hate you, when you stand in the aisle with your crying baby, you may still be able to see the movie, but we can still hear your crying baby and we all hate you. If you can afford $18 to take you and the wifey-poo to a movie, then you can afford a babysitter. I don't have children yet. I like to go to the movie theater. You had kids, you give that up, sorry!
But OH MY GOD. Stop talking. Stop it!
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Friday, January 19, 2007
I remember my grandpa...
Current mood: numb
He died this past March but I keep thinking about the little things. I remember his laugh, the way he'd lean back and squint his eyes and shake while he chuckled. I remember the white t-shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots he always wore. His rough hands, worn from years in the garden. His dark, thick hair. How he'd sit at the end of the kitchen table and peel a potato or apple with the knife he always kept in his pocket. The mornings when we visited the little house in Tennessee the family would sit and have coffee, he always drank his coffee black. The days he's spend tending his garden with his dog at his side. The nights when we'd all sit at the table and play cards and eat saltines with peanut butter. The workshop in back of the house (that was always locked) with the swing and the table and all the things he made. His rough, gravely voice and the way he'd say "yun't to?" and "gitonouttahere." How he had no fear and we'd watch him kill snakes for us as kids so we could play outside safely. His black truck, and the creek that runs by the house and the days he'd zip around in his 4-wheeler or the lawn mower. The smell and the feel of his house when he was in it. The day he let Damon drive his car. The birdhouse he made for me because my mother bought presents for everyone and forgot about me. The deep hole he made in the creek when we were kids so we could go swimming on those hot summer days.
The last time I came down to see him, he still remembered me. The night he died I had just fallen asleep on the couch across from him. There were ninteen people in the house that night, and only three stayed up. He waited for it to be quiet. I like to remember healthy grandpa. I miss my grandpa.
He died this past March but I keep thinking about the little things. I remember his laugh, the way he'd lean back and squint his eyes and shake while he chuckled. I remember the white t-shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots he always wore. His rough hands, worn from years in the garden. His dark, thick hair. How he'd sit at the end of the kitchen table and peel a potato or apple with the knife he always kept in his pocket. The mornings when we visited the little house in Tennessee the family would sit and have coffee, he always drank his coffee black. The days he's spend tending his garden with his dog at his side. The nights when we'd all sit at the table and play cards and eat saltines with peanut butter. The workshop in back of the house (that was always locked) with the swing and the table and all the things he made. His rough, gravely voice and the way he'd say "yun't to?" and "gitonouttahere." How he had no fear and we'd watch him kill snakes for us as kids so we could play outside safely. His black truck, and the creek that runs by the house and the days he'd zip around in his 4-wheeler or the lawn mower. The smell and the feel of his house when he was in it. The day he let Damon drive his car. The birdhouse he made for me because my mother bought presents for everyone and forgot about me. The deep hole he made in the creek when we were kids so we could go swimming on those hot summer days.
The last time I came down to see him, he still remembered me. The night he died I had just fallen asleep on the couch across from him. There were ninteen people in the house that night, and only three stayed up. He waited for it to be quiet. I like to remember healthy grandpa. I miss my grandpa.
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