After watching Never Say Never I think I legitimately have some kind of low-grade Bieber fever. I don't think you can watch baby!Justin and not like him.
Someday I will learn how to apply eyeliner in a way that doesn't make me look sad. I think my Chinky eyes tilt downward, though...
Sweater: uncle's. Skirt: secondhand, gift. Tights: generic. Boots: Steven by Steve Madden.In other news, HUGO'S BACK (with every Hugo entry now double-tagged as Hugo and Write One Leaf because Write One Leaf is far more informative, but Hugo is my baby).
ARE Y'ALL READY FOR THIS?
W1L 010: Write one leaf about moving your hands.
PERSONAL CHALLENGE #1: Don't use parallel structure.Because while my original response to this prompt was probably fun to read, I'm not sure I want anything that has the phrase "fwap fwap fwap" in my archives. Also, I'm issuing myself a personal challenge early in the game to give myself some structure.
I was once made fun of because all of my hand gestures extend from the elbow and involve only my forearms and hands, like a T-Rex. I prefer to think of myself as a Utahraptor.
I am typing this on a Thursday night while the rest of this household is asleep because technically my fingers are part of my hands, and so my hands are moving and tonight I can pretend to be a Utahraptor in peace. My first act as a Utahraptor will be to ask this: What is the point of me?
When I clawed and snouted my way out of my egg, I didn’t think to myself, perhaps I ought to stay in here where it is warm and cozy and there are no egg-stealing dinosaurs for me to be aware of, because Nature did not give me a choice. No one chooses if he himself will be born, and it is an unfortunate side effect of living that it is very hard to choose whether to die.
But if one day every instance of my species will be wiped out and my brothers and sisters will be heated to roughly three hundred twenty degrees Fahrenheit for the sole purpose of transporting a package to Belcourt, North Dakota where one Judd Johnson can eat his way through a seventy-two count case of Twinkies while reveling in the twenty-first century marvel that is free gay-for-pay pornography, what is the point of me? Why was I so compelled to reach for the sunlight and stretch my little limbs? Why did I have to exist, and why wasn’t I given a choice?
Because dinosaurs don’t have rights.
Now it’s Friday and I am feeling pointless and like a waste of space, so I am moving my hands and thinking my way out of this hole I have dug for myself, which was quite a feat in itself, considering how ill-suited these raptor claws are for digging. But it’s a strange hole, and I don’t remember if I put it there myself, or if that’s just what I’ve told myself.
It seems to me that all people spend their lives circling around an enormous hole, but sometimes the scenery is so nice they forget about it for a while, and it’s like the hole isn’t even there. Sometimes the scenery is terrible, and it’s like all of a sudden this enormous hole appears out of nowhere because there’s nothing else to look at, and you can’t help but look and get closer and wonder how far down it goes and what’s at the bottom.
I don’t know if I dug this hole or if someone put it there to fuck with me. Is it a test? Should I build a bridge across it? Gather a team and rappel down the sides? Fill it in with dirt and money and daytime television and fair-weather friends? Will they fall forever when you tip them in by the truckload? Why should a Utahraptor concern itself with trucks and money and daytime television when it doesn’t even have the opposable thumbs necessary for flicking through five hundred and sixty-seven channels from the comfort of its own couch?
Why did I not live one hundred twenty-four million years ago so that my existence today would have fueled the gas stove on which the water for J. K. Rowling’s tea was boiled the morning she finished writing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows?
I would have been so useful.
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