Angela Types

I haven't posted a "things on the floor" list in a very long time. I'll tell you what's on the floor around me now, and then give you a list from 2005 that I stumbled upon today. And I'm actually going to modify the list to include the table and various work surfaces. I've apparently graduated from using the floor as storage. yay! My workspace: a postcard from Austin for Jared, personalized, addressed, and unstamped business section of the Dallas Morning News 320GB external HD cell phone Love Poems by Nikki Giovanni The Prophet sketch book (which I do not sketch in, but use as a notebook. I hate lines on paper) too many pens, pencils, sharpies, and paintbrushes to count all stuffed inside of a stained glass chicken various notes wirrten on the back of receipts, cards, and a ton of napkins. I just can't be confined to a notebook! empty coffee cup 7 earrings, not pairs mind you. but 7 individual ones. Floor: Bruce, in his cone 5 pairs of shoes: sneakers,...

While researching one of my characters...I stumbled upon this treasure trove of paraphilias Enjoy!

I found Bruce rather by accident about 6 years ago while running errands for my grieving grandmother. She had just lost her third child (of six) and asked me to deliver various payments and run general errands around town.  I found myself at the florist placing orders for the funeral, painfully selecting "elegant but not too flashy" thank you cards, dropping a check off for an urn, and lastly paying the gas bill (Don't be late! That's due! {not for another two weeks it wasn't} It'll ruin my credit if I'm late!) My grandmother was the queen of early. She had me convinced that my inspection and registration stickers actually expired the month PRIOR to what the sticker indicates. I would hurriedly rush to the mechanic for an inspection on the 31st of the month, out of breath- "Please don't take me to jail!" My college roommate discovered what I'd been doing and she set the record straight.  Ironically, empowered with this new lackadaisy atti...

pics or shens  I know, I know. But she's got the type of beauty that moves faster than my 1 point 3 mega-pixel phone shooter her black heels waiver ever more with  forced femininity learned and absorbed  from working mother's of 7 whose familial deposits cascade over the sides of  these dainty shoes and those tight skirts that keep a running tab of her shared mitochondria in the form of wider this.  droopier that

Below is a letter I wrote to a friend when I was 20 and he was 19 or so. It amazes me not because it's particularly sage advice, or even well crafted. I cringe at the unnecessary commas and typos and spelling errors. But it amazes me because even now, 5+ years later I'm still using the isolation model as a means for personal growth. I'm starting to think that I was on to something.  I'm still unsure of this blog's direction, but since this is my little corner of the web-o-sphere I'll share whatever I like. :) Please share your thoughts, warm-fuzzies, stories of growth, etc. in the comments section. Happy first week of Fall!! Hey, we just got off the phone, and I came back to my homework, and you know how it takes me years to process things. Ok, I think that my not being in your life has been exactly what you needed. This time apart was good for you, and I think you might need more. I mean, you said today, you're trying to change everyhting about yourself, an...

The results of a recent study were published this month in The Journal of Sexual Medicine.  Sexologists found that a woman's gait may be associated with her orgasmic ability.  There are so many things to consider in those first two sentences. Let's break 'em on down, shall we?  1. There is an entire scientific journal that reports (monthly!) on Sexual Medicine. There's a world of reporting beyond our "Increase your member, pleasure nightly!" SPAM.  2. Perhaps our guidance counselors could have held our hormone crazed teenaged attentions if they'd said, "Or, if you don't want to be a teacher, you could study to be a Sexologist".  3. It takes ability for a woman to have an orgasm, but not her PARTNER'S ability, nope, it's hers. So, a few scientists round up some ladies and ask them a few questions about their sexual activity. Then they film them walking in public from a distance. Then they give the walking footage to some sexologists an...

In 2005 I was living the high (mediocre) life in the city of Angels, L.A. working in this business we (they, or someone) called show. I wasn't just working in television, I was working in live television. And as if that wasn't enough of a chaotic setting for a great story for you, I also happened to be working for the first (yes, FIRST EVER) GLBTQ television network, appropriately called: Q Television Network with absolutely no experience. The details of how I found myself living in LA as a fresh college senior dropout from the tiny little hipster hotspot of Denton, TX will come later; because rest assured, I had no lifelong desire to work in production. I was a poetry major after all. On this particular sunny day I'm sitting in my office, with my staff (yes, at 23 I had a STAFF! Small, but still...) when I receive an email on my Sidekick. The sender was Jon, a new friend I'd made who worked in acquisitions. The subject was: Mini Kiss just ate the last bagel. The b...

When I return home from work Bruce greets me in a manic explosion of joyous wailing, jumping, and kisses. I sometimes imagine him at home with his well used worry beads, licking them all day long. "Will she ever return? Where is she? How long has she been gone? Why can't I tell how long it's been?!" I let him outside and he keeps an eye on me while he's marking this tree. I see him twitch his nose, look down at the ground and actually jump away as if screaming "What the f*&k is this?!" I walk over to investigate and there's this rat staring up at us. Bruce is by the front door at this point, he's abandoned me. Woman’s best friend my ass. Like any god (and rat) fearing American, I grab a stick and poke it. It's dead but it looks alive. I poke it a little more so I can see if it's missing any parts, or search for some cause of death. Bupkiss. It looks young; around my age in rat years. So, old age shouldn't be the cause. I C...

As I'm slopping crunchy bits into Bruce's bowl (and watching his drool drip onto the tile) my cell phone rings. I look at the caller ID, this time it's my boss. "Heey Angela! Good morning!" He sounds like he just woke up. "Hey Schmark (tee hee) good morning." "I'm running a little behind for the morning meeting, but I'm about to walk out the door, sorry about that. I think Schmandrew is running behind too. Has he talked to you this morning? He said he was going to call you..." My boss, like Schmandrew, also likes to talk. A lot. Working with the two of them has had an interesting effect on me. I'm usually a very talkative outgoing person, especially at work. But getting so frustrated at their chitter chatter all day while I'm trying to work has pushed me to rebel in a most obvious way- I am quiet. I am very quiet. So much so that they think I'm shy. Me. Shy. All this quiet is probably the reason I started this ...

So it's Tuesday at 6:14 a.m. I am a rockstar. I am jogging with my dog, plowing through my novel's plot points in my head and feeling fan-bloody-tastic. And thennnn..... my alarm goes off. I snooze for the next hour while my pudgy dog snores next to me. After the 6th snooze button, I hoist myself off of the bed and down the hall to clean all the only-in-my-dreams exercise sweat off. As the foamy white toothpaste drips down my chin I think of old people. Old people eating breakfast. I don't usually eat breakfast. Will I ever be old if I don't like breakfast? Are there old people that don't eat breakfast? Surely not. Bruce (my faithful corgi mix) flops his body down with a fleshy thud at my feet. The rush of air from his flop blew the thoughts of old people and breakfast from my head and I leave them suspended in the bathroom near the stacks of washcloths. I grab Bruce's leash and let him lead the way around the neighborhood. As I'm passing the Hillary '08...