Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

Archives for January 2002

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The other day in Public Relations we were talking about dealing with emergencies. The section was entitled: Crisis Management. I turned to Laurel and said “This is so cool! He’s going to talk about me.”


I definitely caught me teacher looking at my strangely as i headed each page in bold red letter with my personal spelling of crisis. I think he might speak the language that actually spells it that way. Did you know that the three attributes of a crisis are that it threatens central goals, involves short decision making time, and involves an element of surprise? It is a stage in which all future events will be determined. It is a situation that threatens the effective completion of high priority goals.

Sure, he was talking about the Exxon Valdez more than he was making veiled references to my personal life, but i still managed to take six pages of notes just in case any of it applied.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/9028841/

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The first time it goes off is around six in the morning, for no discernible reason. I mean, it obviously goes off because i set it to go off then, but Lindsay is constantly asking me why i set my alarm to ring four hours ahead of time. No reason other than it’s like a two-minute warning for having to wake up and deal with another day.

I was happy to have the warning this morning, since the day seemed especially dreary. I didn’t even need to look out of my tiny back window to know; i could feel the chill sliding in through the cracks and twisting up to raise goose-bumps on my legs. Deciding to sleep through my first two classes was not the most wrenching decision i’ve ever had to make.


The other thing Lindsay can’t seem to understand is why my alarm rings over and over again. I tell her it’s a warning… life ahead in four hours… three hours… until finally it’s just “Time to wake up. Fucking Blastoff.” Apparently, one ring is enough to convey the message to her. Today the blastoff ring was #6, and the reason i got me out of bed was because the sun had decided to accompany it. I was up and navigating the mess of my floor to turn down the alarm before Courtney could start screaming, and i could feel the diffuse runny-egg yellow of a damp sun on my back. The day had made an ugly duckling transformation for me, and i felt as though i was headed for something not entirely dissimilar.


It’s strange to go from kneading a palmful of shampoo past damp curls down to the suffocated scalp beneath to sliding a dime sized drop down the middle of centimeter long strands on the top of my head. It’s the shortest my hair has ever been. Stepping out past my fish-curtain i caught my nude reflection in the mirror, and something seemed different other than my hair. No new pimples, no unexpected muscles. It was something about how the slope of my shoulders changes, the line of my neck becomes smoother. And, something else as well — as if my haircut was emblematic of some greater change that was working its way out from my heart and up through the skin.

I wasn’t sure of what the change might be, but i hoped it would go well with my grey turtleneck and sexy jeans.

It wasn’t until i had gotten halfway to my destination of skipping class that i started feeling the way my reflection looked. Nothing tangible, but my change in carriage had seeped down from my neck and shoulders and out from my gut to pervade my whole being. By the time i got down to the Green Room i definitely felt different, although to everyone in the room it read as something closer to narcissistic conceit. Really, could i help wanting to have attention paid to me? I had Changed and they wanted to talk about midterms. Ridiculous.


Amazing what a $10 haircut, losing three pounds, and being in my scientifically determined sexual prime can do for morale. Whatever. I try not to dissect the positive moments of life too much. I just felt … fuckable. And, not just hot or easy or anything like that, but like someone covetable. Someone other people have strong opinions on. And, well, fuckable sounded like a good adjective at the time, but now that i’m looking at it in writing i can see where that narcissistic angle came in.


So, maybe it wasn’t so different from most other days, really, but usually i’m more of a pity fuck, you know?

Nevermind.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/9028072/

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Okay, so the Bloggie nominations are up and (surprise!) Crushing Krisis didn’t get nominated for Best Non-Weblog Content (though Fury did!). You’d think i’d be bummed out about this, but NO i am not. Why? Scroll down to Best Temporary or Periodic Weblog … see that? SurvivorBlog2 and PuppetMaster both got nominated … both blogs that i spent a good deal of my time contributing to. Would i rather have my music recognized over some other “content” that got noticed? Sure. But, am i happy that my continual whoring process contributed to the total of eight nominations for the evil empire that is Little Yellow Different. Make sure you read EVERYTHING that you can before you vote for your favourite, but please keep one sexy gaysian bitch and either one of his two blog-fucks of RealityTV in mind the entire time :p


More scientific voting suggestions forthcoming.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/9006897/

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Is it my imagination, or is the link to me from Joannou‘s sidebar new? I’ve never read them, but i know the name … which means they live in the same general link-family as i do, but haven’t ever clicked through before. Speaking of people from my link-family, the ever-loved Bertie got her omnisexual creation SurvivorCam nominated for a South by SouthWest people’s choice award. Of course, to win, some people have to choose her, so i suggest you read Ernie’s detailing of why Bertie should win and then vote.

You know, doing this at 1am every night sortof takes the fun out of it.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/8994399/

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Songs have been absolutely blindsiding me lately, and it’s exciting and frustrating all at once. Suddenly i don’t seem to be writing about myself anymore, but those oft-invoked nearly-fictional characters that all songwriters have wandering around in their head. It’s exciting because i seem to have suddenly inherited the mystical powers of an actual writer, but it’s altogether frustrating because i can’t seem to write about what i’m feeling. I wrote “So Hard” based on a single line i had written in a blank IM window, and it seemed as though it would be a throw-away lark until i found myself playing it every time i picked up my guitar. Similarly, last week i began to write “Seams” simply about how the cold makes my walk home seem twice as long, but it transformed into a lament that was entirely indicative of my feelings while being about someone not quite myself.


So, tonight when Andy quipped via IM that he had intentions on writing a song with the line
“You have no proof I said I love you” in it for his non-existent grad-student band i should have known not to joke about writing it. Cause, well, what started out as idly typing a handful of phrases into an empty window wound up writing a whole damn song… all the fault of the following few lines: “Another envelope taped closed. Sharpie marker employed to print out my address. The shredded letter inside leaves your message fairly clear: Return to sender, i guess.”

Actually, Andy had intentions of “You have no proof I said I love you” being the title of his song and, while i’m not sure if it is anymore, we’ve definitely wound up with a song about torn up letters, battered old shoeboxes, accidental hand jobs in the back seats of sedans, and a vitriolic serenade from a suburban front lawn. And, well, since i generally seem to avoid titles longer than four words, let’s just call it “proof” for now, okay? Audio forthcoming, as soon as it stops being 1am :p

Meanwhile, it’s late and i may be a total moron, so here’s a reminder of what i need to read when i wake up tomorrow: CityStories, GlacierGrrl, Andy’s new post.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/8959739/