London, trains, and boogers

There is a man across from me on this train with his finger so far up his nose I’m worried he might accidentally nip brain matter.

From the looks of him, it wouldn’t be the first time.

He clearly thinks lifting the Tom Clancy novel high enough covers this semi-scandalous activity.

There’s a wedding ring on his finger.

That’s a lucky lady awaiting him at home, that’s all I can say.  I bet she’s prepared some dinner, got a big smile on her face, and probably has no idea her husband digs for nasal gold on public transportation.

Wait, I bet she knows.

Maybe she just doesn’t care.

Maybe that’s what marriage is.  Not caring if your partner pokes around in various orifices in public, provided the holes in question are on their own body and not somebody else’s….

I wonder if he does that in bed.  Laying there next to her, flicking his crusty friends off the side.  Inevitably, they pile up in the carpet, a carnage of days past.  She lies there, next to this, engrossed in episodes of reality tv.

She’s probably not innocent in this either.  Any woman who lets her husband think that Tom Clancy can hide his booger fest 2012 probably has quite a few questionable habits lurking on her end of the dining table.

Maybe they do it together.  Maybe they were having problems, nearing divorce, and they decided to hit up counseling.  Maybe the counselor suggested team-building activities.  Sitting up late one night, they got to talking.  Ideas flowing, their interest in finding an activity they could share sparked something they’d thought lost.

The thought of breaking social convention via nose-picking seemed exciting.  Relatively harmless, yet still frowned upon.

Yea, I bet they discovered picking their noses together.  A secret revolting ritual no one else understands.  Maybe he’s going to go home and announce he managed to pull one over on the blonde girl sitting across from him on the train.

He’ll proudly tell the love of his life that the mystery girl across from him had no idea what he was up to.  Working like a spy, he managed to unhook the little devil from the depths of his nose from behind Clancy.

A regular 007.

She’ll tell him she got a good one in the cereal aisle of the grocery store.  Oh the stories they’ll share, this married couple.

I guess I’ll just let him keep thinking he’s pulling this off.  If it’s for love, after all, why bother interrupting.  Not to mention I can’t identify a bonus to announcing to someone that you’re aware of their activities.  It’s not like I’m the booger police after all.

Now, if he was free-farting, I might have a problem.  God help the couple that does that on public transportation for the sanctity of marriage.

Oh good, I just got to London.

Maybe I’ll let Zilla out of the suitcase to roam a bit.

Hopefully she won’t tell this guy she saw his activities.

I’d hate to break up a happy marriage after all.

Remember remember the 5th of November, zombies, and my potential viking master

Today I’m hoping to see a zombie.

I flew from Paris to Manchester yesterday with my boss.  We’re staying in Huddersfield, and according to a brochure I found in the hotel lobby, the Dungeon of York promises ghosts.

Ghosts, and potentially zombies.

The ghosts have been lingering around York since 1551 when the putrid plague brought forth pussing boils, rotting corpses, and the lingering scent of all things horrifying.  Creatures and items which fall under this category include (but not limited to) ghosts, snakes, witches, bigger ghosts, vampires (the real kind, there will be no mention of that series here dear readers), Lord Voldemort, Hannibal, anyone dedicated to killing in the serial fashion, beets, and of course, zombies.

What better method of zombie creation than a horrendous plague?  The bodies are already there, and I don’t imagine zombies hump, so their reproduction must somehow be linked to disease.

Hence, my assumption there is such a thing as the zombies of York.

Also a logical conclusion is that they are lingering just outside this hotel room in the woods across the street.  I can practically hear them shuffling through the leaves in search of innocent blood.

Ok, so if it was really innocent they were after, maybe I wouldn’t be their girl.  Let’s say-American blood.  Yea, I bet those York zombies can’t wait to take a bite out of a Yank.  Which would ultimately make me a Yank-York-Zombie, and last time I checked, that’s not on my to-do list.

Also, I’m on the ground floor so they wouldn’t have to climb to find me or anything.  They’d basically just have to cross the street (crosswalk provided for their safety), break my window, and create a whole new monster for their clan.

Great.

The York Dungeon evidently also hosts an exhibit on something called the Bloody Vikings.  Next to the blurb: “Keep your wits about you as the Vikings go bersek in York-where will you run when the Vikings raid?”, is what looks like a bloody gladiator with a really mean face.

This is not the face you want to sit next to on public transportation, that’s for sure.

Still, he’s far more attractive than the plague-zombies, and I’m guessing if he bashes in my window, I’ll probably have to be some kind of gladiator-slave-wench.  If that happens, I hope Hollywood is involved in the costume design because I am going to need some serious hair and makeup maintenance to pull of that look with any kind of dignity.

There is also a labyrinth of shadowy mirrors.  I’m not entirely sure what this entails, but it claims to be from the lost Roman legion, and judging by the screaming child in the image, it is either related to murder, or David Bowie invented spandex in the Roman era.

It’s a shame I don’t have time to go to the museum itself to do more research.  I’d like to be properly prepared for all of the horrendous horror which may quickly find its way to me today.

There are a lot of gruesome shenanigans that have occurred in York at one time or another.  It’s amazing anyone would choose to live here.

Maybe I should purchase binoculars to search f0r the zombies from the treetops.

You know, for anthropological purposes.   I wouldn’t want to get too close, but I can hardly pass up the opportunity to go zombie-watching.

Love story: or my lack of tits until age 20.

Fifth grade.

Stretch pants.  Side ponytail.  Bart Simpson t-shirt.

Seat next to me occupied by one boy.

The boy.

Blonde hair.  Dimples.  Guns & Roses tshirt.

Swoon.

Seat on other side of me occupied by another boy.

Specifically not the boy.

Jeans. Red t-shirt.  Plastic digital watch used to communicate with ‘spies’.

Wrinkle nose, roll eyes, try to ignore any and all sounds eminating from his desk.

Lean a little closer to the boy to ask a question.

Flip hair.  Twirl pencil.  Smile.

Something hits my face.

It has been launched from the other side.

And then again.

Bouncing off my cheek, a fruitsnack falls onto my desk.

Followed by inane giggling.

Blush away from the boy.

Turn to glare at the other boy.

He is sitting on his package of fruit snacks.

A look of sheer determination on his face.

Breath held, brow furrowed he focuses.

Then, a fart.

Onto a fruit snack.

A fruit snack he then tries to launch at my face.

A fart fruit.

The boy now checking out another girl.

She already has tits.

I don’t.

For the next ten years.

I will attract nothing.

But more fart fruit.

Strainer on head, corn-chip baths, and new pants

Future me popped up today.

I really hate it when she does this.

Standing there with what looks like a strainer woven with pipe cleaners on her head, she puts her hands on her hips and clears her throat until I acknowledge her presence.

As if I’m not busy enough sorting out current self.  I’m expected to entertain future Ryan just because she falls in love with a mad-scientist sometime around 2019 and steals his time machine after she finds him in bed with her tailor?

Sigh.

She never has anything positive to say.  Just a whole lotta judgement about what 29 year old Zilla is doing with her life.  Well you know what?  We can’t all be mad-scientist muses.  It’s a select group lady, and clearly; I’m not there yet.

The first time she showed up she was 84 year old me.  She got all offended that I couldn’t recognize her.  Also, she smelled like Fritos so it’s good to know that they serve those in whichever asylum becomes my home in 2064.

Today was 53 year old Ryan.  Rocking stilettos and massive jewellery.  I couldn’t get her to tell me how she came to own such lovely possessions, which was annoying.  She smelled good though, so the descent into bathing in corn-chips clearly doesn’t happen until much, much later.

She told me to keep writing and to be more responsible.  I raised my eyebrow at her on the latter point, but she pretended like she didn’t notice.

No one wearing kitchen supplies as a helmet has the right to lecture me on responsibility.

She wouldn’t tell me winning lottery numbers (claims she wouldn’t remember them even if she tried-of all things, I find this most believable).  She wouldn’t tell me if she has children or if they drive her crazy.  Though the long sigh and nod of exhaustion indicate a daughter capable of my own antics in my future.

She laughs menacingly when I ask her how many times she’s been married.

Which of course I find comforting.

The only thing she’ll tell me is to keep writing.

Seems to have done her some good.  Her sense of humor still dominates her personality.  She deleted the first draft of this post.  Her expression while doing so indicated she thought that was downright hysterical and thus merited a victory dance.

53 year old Ryan dances no better than her younger version.

Then she popped out of the air while giggling.  The last I heard was a shout that sounded like:

‘stock up on tight pants in 2011.  You’re gonna need them!!”

So it’s really not my fault that I went shopping this afternoon.

Was just taking the advice of someone older, wiser, and more sophisticated.

I’m pretty sure that’s a universal law.  Just like gravity and (evidently down the road) time travel.

So that’s why I have new pants.

Who can blame me?

A giant, too many vaginas, and an Iphone

A giant initiated conversation with me in a bar a few months ago by inquiring as to whether or not I had ever done any nude modeling.

For the record, when I say giant, I mean this creature:

I was somewhere between sizing him up and answering his question, when he busted out his Iphone, scrolled through a group of black and white photos and said:

“seriously, I ask because I am an artist”

Usually when a man in a bar approaches me claiming to be an artist I brace myself for a long-winded monologue laced with philosophy references.  This time however, I was too preoccupied with sizing up his monstrous features to prepare for the inevitable speech and nearly choked on my wine when he proclaimed:

“It’s all about vagina placement.  See, I mean the placement of the vagina in the shot-do you understand what I’m saying?”

At this point I responded with the first thought that popped into my head:

“I mean, I know where mine is, but that’s pretty much as far as my interest in such things takes me”

Which of course, was my downfall.  Evidently, this was the oversized man’s cue to scroll through nude picture after nude picture, and explain to me in detail why the various vaginas were placed in each location within the frame.

At one point he began discussing the importance of labia shape.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens to me when I attend a function designed to unite english speaking ex-pats.

Individuals seek me out and unroll their portfolios to discuss vagina placement, labia size, and the various problems that may or may not occur when shooting such subjects in a desert.

Last I checked, I do not own a t-shirt reading: ‘talk to me about genitalia!!’

Yet somehow, for whatever reason: my face inspires aforementioned artistic discussion.

Next time I’m staying in, ordering take-out, and watching a National Geographic Special.  At least that way, if labia enters the frame, I won’t have to listen to an oversized idiot mutter to me through excessive mouth-breathing and sweaty gasps why vagina placement is important.

Parisian metro

If all the world’s a stage, then the Parisian metro should be raising ticket prices.  Theatre of all forms lurk inside the cavernous walls of the this city’s underground public transportation system.

The absurd, grotesque, comical, romantic, in-the-round, fourth-wall, and musical all manage to co-exist throughout the tunnels, stops, and cars as one hops from location to location.  Above ground the city maintains a gorgeous plethora of sites, art, and architecture,  but underneath-the actors never stop playing.

Perhaps you need a short cast-bio to really understand what I’m talking about.  Let me display tonight’s program for those of you who are new to Paris.

The role of the absurd shall be performed by the woman I once witnessed changing her pantyhose in a metro car, while it was moving, while standing.

The role of the grotesque has a profound number of understudies, but tonight shall be performed by the man who pulled out his penis and rubbed it while staring at me.  When I refused to look at his disgusting member, he spat on my shoes.  And they were my Chucks, which are my favorite.

The role of the comic shall be performed by the idiot who muttered disgusting profanity to my friend and I before attempting to dive off the metro as the doors were closing. I say attempted because his jacket got stuck in the door and he required our help out of the situation before being let free.

The romantic goes to the homeless couple I once witnessed having sex underneath a piece of cardboard, next to a poster displaying a Louvre exhibit.  Seems the two were quite taken by the art housed above them.

The in-the-round theatre exhibit goes out to the groups of little Parisian thugs who like to enter one car at opposite ends and move their way toward the middle, harassing everyone in their way.  In particular, the group who once set the ends of my friend’s hair on fire, and then stole her phone.

The fourth-wall acting method shall be performed by the schizophrenic who lurks on line ten.  He once sat next to me and shouted about farm animals for ten minutes (there was no one else on the train)-but never acknowledged my presence.  I must say, he kept that fourth wall barrier up quite well.

and finally

The musical cast shall be performed by a collection of the many accordion players who insist on playing the obnoxious songs they think we adore.  These cast members will undoubtedly be shoving their overturned hats in your faces immediately after completing said songs.  Never mind that you’ve already paid for a ticket to ride the metro-they have separate licenses allowing them further income.  From you.  For no reason other than playing an instrument that should have died with the polka.

If you need me, I’ll be up above.  Walking my dog.  Sorry, just couldn’t bring myself to buy another ticket.