|08-10-2009, 05:33 PM||#146|
Join Date: Feb 2005
Location: in the labyrinth of shared happiness
yeah, I don't like thinking about fish and bananas together either, but somebody's gotta do it.
1. While sitting at your desk, lift your right foot off the floor and make clockwise circles.
2. Now, while doing this, draw the number "6" in the air with your right hand.
3. Your foot will change direction.
|08-14-2009, 10:20 PM||#149|
no more nice girl
Join Date: Jan 2004
Doesn't any-one have any really good ghost stories? I'm missing those. There's an abandoned section at my work in a state of demolition. It has corridors and all the old bedroom doors are open and there are old beds and old curtains and odd bits of furniture stacked up and walls half knocked down. When you walk past, it feels like people are looking out at you from them. I hear and see things and it's all in my head but it's to the point where at night, I won't walk through there, I walk the long route instead.
He really shatters the myth of white supremacy once and for all.
|08-15-2009, 01:57 AM||#150|
Join Date: Jan 2003
A teenager, I was alone at home on a Friday night in the family home (which was a three-bedroom rented rowhouse). There was nothing much on TV so I decided to watch When A Stranger Calls (1979). The plot revolved around the old story of the menacing psychopath calling from inside the house. I hated being alone at night in that place -- the door to the basement was directly across from the half bath's door, and the latch fit poorly such that it would swing open at random intervals if not closed soundly. So I would walk by it on the way to the kitchen... and squeeeeaaaaaaaaak it would open to reveal some grocery bags and the dark maw of the cold basement. Or I'd be in the bathroom and hear a screeaaaaaaaaaak, open the door and see the basement door slowly gaping open. I developed a habit of obsessively checking that the door latch was firmly closed whenever I went past, which was disturbing in itself because I could feel... the basement... just behind my hand.
(As far as I know, all that was in the basement was a washer/dryer, some old toys, and a lifetime supply of canned peas and Pears soap, but still. It was dark and cold and I would NEVER. go down there if I were alone at home. I still have nightmares about it.)
So I watched the stupid movie. And I got scared half out of my mind, which wasn't all that far to go. So I called my sister, who lived with her new husband in the same rowhouse complex, a couple of hundred yards away.
I didn't call her often, though she has always been a very good sister. She chatted with me about the movie and chided me for watching something so scary when I was home alone. Suddenly, there was a series of sharp clicks, like someone pressing the receiver cutoff button (old rotary phones had such things) repeatedly. I gasped.
"Did you hear that?" I asked her.
The clicks sounded again. "That!" My heart threatened to leave my chest and I broke into a cold sweat. I eyed the basement door.
Another series of clicking sounded. "DON'T YOU HEAR THAT?" I screech-whispered, clutching the phone in terror-slick hands.
"I don't hear a thing," said my sister. "Maybe you should go up and check. I'll stay on the phone if you want."
"NO!!!!" I shouted. "I don't want to check!!!" I looked around wildly.
"Look, get a big knife. Go up and check, and I'll be right here on the phone," my sister reassured me.
"NO!!!" I reiterated, a little more quietly.
"Do you want me to come over?" she asked.
My pride kicked in. "No, don't come over," I said, however reluctantly. "I'm sure it's nothing."
"Well, I can if you want," she said. And we went on for a bit like that, with her offering and me declining and gradually calming down. There were no more clicks. And eventually I signed off and went back to the couch with a big knife and watched something else and fell asleep until my parents came home at 2 AM, and laughed at my story.
Now, I'm not saying anything, really. But to be honest? I think my sister has a much more wicked sense of humour than I've given her credit for.
Because how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. -- Annie Dillard
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