Shannon > Recent Status Updates

"Nothing. It's just a nickname—his last name is Kishimoto. He gets mad when we chop it in half. Gets sensitive about it."
"Well why do you chop it in half?"
He snorts. "Because it's hard as hell to pronounce."
"How is that an excuse?"
He frowns. "What?"
"You got mad that I called you Blondie and not Winston ..."

This might tie with LKH's parallel parking scene for most inane conversation.

"You've been asleep for almost fourteen hours. We gave you a pretty powerful sedative." Looks at his watch. "You seem to be doing well." Hesitates. "You look very well, actually. Stunning, really."

Must every dude have a hard-on for her? Seriously?

I'm an old creaky staircase when I wake up.

Huh. I bet that's awkward. You're a person then you wake up and BOOM staircase.

The world is fading in and out of focus, shades of gray flickering as stilted frames, broken movements. Suddenly nothing makes sense. Suddenly everything is confusing me. Suddenly my head is a piece of pavement and I'm being trampled to death.

Funny, I felt the same thing while reading this book ...

I never would've thought his dark hair would be so soft. Like melted chocolate.

Thank God they're okay.
I could die of relief.

I wish she would. Kekeke ...

He nods after an infinite moment.

-__-

Infinite? Moment? Wouldn't she still be waiting for his nod then? Because infinite means ... infinite? No?

-__-

Adam is stunned. "So he's ... dead?"
"I don't know," I finally admit, ashamed. I drop my eyes, study the grooves in the steering wheel. "I don't know for sure."

I'm glad she has the sense to feel ashamed, but good lord, if you're going to shoot someone, aim to kill! Or at least make sure they're dead or seriously wounded before you run away. This is such an obvious ploy to keep the villain in the story.

I offer him a smile. Try to keep my organs from falling out. Hope the holes in my head aren't showing.

Wut.

I practically rip his clothes off. There's a small pocket sewn into the lining of his cargo pants. I slip my hand inside and retrieve a compact pocketknife. A butterfly knife. I've seen these before.
They're illegal.

Such an odd thing to think of. Grenade launchers are illegal too, but if you find one and you can use it to survive your attackers you probably wouldn't ponder the legality of things at the moment.

I tuck caution in my pocket and hope I can reach for it if I need to.

Her pockets sure hold a lot of things.

I wish he would say something to Kenji—I wish he would tell him that we're together officially, exclusively.
But he doesn't.
And I don't know why.
"I don't think you should decide until the swelling goes down," Kenji continues matter-of-factly. "It's only fair. I have a pretty spectacular face."

First off, this move by Adam is slightly douchey, secondly, I think I'm a bit smitten with Kenji.

The sun is revolving around the moon when he responds.

Oh yeah? Really? That makes sense. Totally.

I've searched the world for all the right words and my mouth is full of nothing.

I touch the word on his lips and he kisses my fingers. His eyes are two pools of perfection, open, honest, humble.

I can hear our heartbeats in the silence between us. I study the shape of his lips, the strong lines of his face, the eyelashes any girl would kill for, the deep dark blue of the eyes I've learned to swim in.

His lips are spelling secrets and my ears are spilling ink, staining my skin with his stories.

Really, when you see these sentences one after another can you even believe they were printed?

It's raining today. The sky is weeping for us.

No. Stop that. It's raining. Just raining.

I'm up.
Spinning.
Scanning.
Scared.
They found us is the only thing I can think of. My stomach is a flimsy crepe, my heart a raging woodpecker, my blood a river of anxiety.

My novel a hyperbolic mess ...

James and Adam glance back at me and I melt into pink Play-Doh.

My heart fails for a moment.
There are 400 cotton balls caught in my windpipe.

Wow. That's unfortunate.

I finished Shatter Me on the plane yesterday, but I haven't gotten a chance to add the quotes I highlighted. Instead of clogging up the feed with my updates (which I just kind of did with Kaling's book, heh) I'm going to delete them from my feed after I post them. If you want to see the crack-fest that was this book though, click here for all of my updates.

Of the two, I actually liked this one better than Tina Fey's. I like the way Kaling thinks, and there wasn't a single part where I was bored or skimming - which happens most of the time with me and non-fiction. I hope she writes a novel next, because I'd love to keep reading her work.

Why didn't you talk about whether women are funny or not?
I just felt that by commenting on that in any real way, it would be tacit approval of it as a legitimate debate, which it isn't. It would be the same as addressing the issue of "Should dogs and cats be able to care for our children? They're in the house anyway." I try not to make it a habit to seriously debate nonsensical hot-button issues.

Thrown-Together Disaster Funeral is my new HGTV show. It's a makeover funeral show where three flamboyant gay guys and a judgmental sassy broad (think Wanda Sykes) crash a tacky funeral and fix it. Wanda's catchphrase is "Nuh-uh. Everyone out of this church. This funeral is a disaster."

I would rather have someone read my diary than look at my iPod playlists. It's not because I have embarrassing playlists called "Setting the Mood for Sex-Time" or whatever. My playlists are humiliating because my workout mixes have dorky titles, like "Go For It, Girl!" and "You Can Do It, Mindy!" Some of the playlists are simply two songs on repeat 15 times, like I'm a psycho getting pumped up to murder the president

The seamstress quickly added about a foot of canvas material to the back, pinned it together, and put it on me. It fit like a glove—er, a glove that is kind of ugly and makeshift on the back. But on the front? Perfection. If I ever do a voice in a Disney movie where I'm the princess whose friends are a bunch of inanimate household objects who come to life, I hope mine are a swatch of canvas and some sassy safety pins

Skinny girls like Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen look ethereal and gorgeous in hippie clothes with lots of volume. I love the bohemian look, but when I try it, I look like a chubby gypsy. Also, chubby people can never truly pull off ethereal the same way skinny people can never be jolly. The only fat ethereal person I can think of was Anna Nicole Smith, and in her case, ethereal might have meant "drugged."

Since I am not model skinny, but also not super fat and fabulously owning my hugeness, I fall in that nebulous "normal American woman" size that legions of fashion stylists detest. For the record, I'm a size eight (this week, anyway). Many stylists hate that size, because I think, to them, it shows that I lack the discipline to be an ascetic or the confident sassy abandon to be a total fatty hedonist.

I remember at the Parks and Recreation premiere, Amy Poehler was looking for her husband toward the end of the night.
AMY: Hey guys. Have you seen Arnett? I can't find him.
We didn't know where he was, and she shook her head good-naturedly, like, "That guy," and went on looking for him. I had never heard a woman call her husband by his last name, like she was a player on the same sports team Will was on.

As an adult, I've met an ocean of divorced people. I might even know more divorced people than married people, because I live in godless Los Angeles, where if you're engaged it simply means you're publicly announcing that you are dating a person monogamously.

My big celebrity crush was Pierce Brosnan. Pierce Brosnan is such an uncreative crush that it sounds like the panicked choice of a closeted lesbian teenager. I was thirteen and watching Mrs. Doubtfire in the theater with my friends. There is a scene in which Pierce Brosnan gets out of a pool, Cheryl Tiegs-style. He is manly and glistening: he has a thick swatch of chest hair. It was a minor sexual awakening.