'Who am I' she asks : A creative explosion of paradoxical remarks the student replied.



Tell me something.

 These weren’t the original words I wanted to say.

I watched a grown man failing the resistance to validate himself in the window reflection on the train ride home. Quick tug to his hair, shake of a head. Repeat. Touch to the bridge of the nose, quick sniff of the index. Repeat. Almost like he was superstitious. A prayer that his real life prominence lived up to the one in his mind.

This repetition realized my impatience for the world’s loose vanity. But I’ll get to that.

Sometimes life can feel rather unmitigated and similar to an ass.

That’s what I wanted to say.

Life comes at you in so many different ways, we owe ourselves as authors here online. I feel like I’m googling the same words over again as I come across this trend to ensure my sanity;

Allegory, cipher, maxim, parable, adage

When they say farm to table, I think of this precise trail of words – small digestive pieces of information that the modern viewer is capable of. And yet when I come across bloggers that showcase their life in these precise bubbles; when the shots are too candid, the select words too deliberate. When I can feel the loose coolness behind the scenes, like a grown man who can hardly stand himself on the train, I immediately opt out.

I don’t want you to sell me your life.

I want the odd blogger with their due aplomb, their black comedic humor, their observations.

Recalling that man in my mind, I wonder what it must feel like to be so sensitive to one’s appearance. Was his lack of self truant from our seemingly collective desire to know-all/be-all? I had it in my right mind to smack his hat, afloat on its brim as not ruin his hairstyle, right down and tell him to cut it out. That I can’t fathom how simultaneously as a female, I would have the fear of men walking in the dark despite myself, yet have the strength to not fidget seeing my own reflection.

People still often mistake me for older. I don’t remember when the internet was connected to your phone lines. I never had a walkman. I hardly remember an Ipod. So what panel decides that my person appears to supersede my otherwise inadequacy in world trivia?

I switched off the alternative rock and just let myself be swayed by the acoustic sounds of mellow indie/pop. It felt less like a front putting up a fight against the world. Suppose this is what one means to settle into your skin. Likely I overestimated these thoughts as one does walking alone at midnight. So instead I arrived home and put my effort into furthermore contemplating the ‘extra bit’ that dangles while my cats trot away from me.

Take yourself a little less seriously.

Permission Granted

You don’t have to be gracious about it…there are times to be gracious and there are times to take different approaches.
-Newborn mom & girlfriend of mine.

They say you’re growing even if you take two steps forward and one step back.

It’s hard to recite those seemingly lurid moments of your most foul thoughts unfurl. Particularly in the dark early hours when your conscience thinks it can circumvent morality.

A throbbing two weeks later, and I’ve still been having a tough time with the break up.

What’s wrong with me? I tend to think.

I easily disown these feelings and thoughts later in the day; so caught up in trying to be mentally wiser and tougher than I am, I even believe it every so often over the course of a day. When the sun has risen, I temporarily misplace my memories of him and I hardly feel anything at all – until tomorrow morning at 5:30am. Quietly. Secretly. I’ll just lay there with my eyes closed and think. Churning, angry, accusatory thoughts – quickly trying to absolve that blubbering girl who took on the emotional toll of her own introspective transparency. Unknowingly tightening my limbs as if I could either fight or flight from my own self.

But there is beauty in life. And so many more laughter to be had.

My old roommate, who has since moved across the country and have been traveling almost a decade, started her own blog (CrazyMagnetMe) recently to recount her many notable anecdotes. Her humor just lit my heart on fire. Here’s a woman who enjoys herself and her time. How did you so easily fetch me out of my own head?

With permission granted, I’m grateful to have these natural feminine forces in life that allows me my childish spite. They remind me this ironically gentle rage, does not denote a lack thereof. What’s a love-hate relationship after all? As if anybody has ever coined that.


I recently came across a beautiful blogger who decided to share very eloquently her experiences and transcendence regarding the daunting sexual tightrope our society holds over women of certain ages, or for that matter, for women of all ages.

Now, I don’t know if she would ever be notified of this rather random across-the-country link, but if you do happen to come across this somewhere on the blogosphere, I thank you Erica for the liberation you have given so many women out there. And although I do not prescribe to your outspoken audience as an eighteen year old blogger, I think yours was single handedly the catalyst for this young naive not-yet-women lady to feel pleased with her sexuality, in a long while now.


Note: for the photos in between, it was inspired dearly as my own representation of a personal phone-idea of a boudoir photoshoot, so please don’t try for measure against a professional. It was simply a first ever. Cheers to that. I now enthusiastically agree that every women should indulge in this art form. It makes you feel absolutely ethereal.

From time to time over this global journal I share, in between all my none practical humor and occasional intelligent comment, I talked about my past sexual experiences. None of which were something you would giggle over with a few past-time girlfriends over coffee. Deep down I do think I have a trust issue. I have an issue with relying on people. I have an issue with not being able to stop myself wanting to trust somebody, and sometimes, sometimes, acting on it. And of course, instantly regretting it, and then goes questions of my sanity, but that’s another story. At nights I remember a similar issue on a sort of abandonment or another. I would recall how incredibly awkward and unsatisfying sex was. How cheap and thickly tangible you would feel in the discomfort of your own skin, speaking largely and fairly accurately of teenage-hood; it wasn’t even vanilla sex. It was arguably worse. It wasn’t something I necessarily dug up, unless I really felt like being a bitch to myself. Then maybe, but I’d get over it.


This past January of 2015, I was let go of my job. It wasn’t that shitty to be relieved from an overcompensating manager who threw his weight around. I was sad, but I tried to get over it. It just so happens that the male coworker whom I sat across had developed quite the sexual theory regarding my supposed representation of a certain kink, promoted most thoroughly in modern pornography. An Asian female with large glasses and tongue piercings among my other body modifications. So he acted upon it, very much so aggressively over text message. It kind of threw me into a time loop. It’s like I have not improved at all since two years ago, the last time I indulged physically – Man it has been awhile – It made me feel sadly unattractive; I questioned my ability to be a character – as if my entire persona was overshadowed by a few choices in the way I liked my body decor.


So I drew the line, and I cried when he got mad even if it was just an almost-stranger-coworker. It made me cry all the way to the gym where I worked out some stress. In retrospect, I think that’s where the sexual tension came from. The next day I might have pursued ever so secretively in that feminine way all the ladies in the world knows how to work her way into. Well I got it, this fellow coworker’s number, whom was rumored to be into me, so we chatted. Sexted to be precise. Casual words were thrown around, fantasies were indulged. I told myself it was cute, something I was entitled to enjoy as a single female with needs. Two days, then three days, and now five, that’s all we had spoken about – all we had in common really. We never actually did anything though, as ironically mother nature was overstaying her welcome. In between I told him about my age, as he was 25. I didn’t really care for it, but another thing I loath myself for is my age among other things. I struggled with my humble cleavage. I compared myself to fellow Caucasian peers – their eyes, their hair texture, everything. And perhaps all the people reading this who are to the right of that figure may think I’m crazy, and you are perfectly right to do so, practically everyone around me thinks so too, but it’s just a thing.


I hated how I was the last to be independent. I hated how my mother would curse and moan about finally packing up her bags after she was done raising me. She loves me, but those words never, ever ventured further than the back of my head where it lingered when I needed an extra self beating.

So I told him. And that I hadn’t been with anyone for these past two years while I worked through the junk in my head, running the marks down my arms and doing other mentally incorrigible things. He told me I worried too much, ironically. I was relieved, but still all we talked about was sex. All he messaged me for was how hard he got and how we need to just get together, so I took a court case against myself: Here’s a perfectly attractive guy who was actually decent while I was on the job, and here was my shot to just do something out of character…And here’s a small version of myself who binges on Disney and watches her close family members, mother, sister and cousins fall in love and stay devoted to a partner for the last 5 years. I said that those crazy things just don’t happen for people like me.


I ultimately told him I couldn’t do it. After reading Erica’s word, granted she’s much more wise in the subject, sex seemed such a beautiful euphoric place that everyone should explore ideally with a trusted partner. And between this man and I, there had not been one formal conversation where I could test any chance of a witty banter against my closet sarcasm. He says he’s not mad, but we haven’t really spoken since.


It feels alright though. Somehow this event made me catch up with a few of my past male friends. Two of whom I actually trust without having to compensate sexually. So tonight, I toast that I no longer banter with myself morally(for the moment anyway, who knows where this nutcase will put herself through next). I celebrate my own body shape and feel delight in my sexuality; that it makes me not a victim, nor a tease, that most importantly I don’t owe anybody a god damn thing with regards to my body, but just someone who’s starting to get more comfortable in her own skin.


Oh and one last thing, for a happy ending, because I believe in that stuff –  This Duck went for an interview in a downtown hotel hospitality position and chances are high that she landed herself a more suitable role ! Keep posted !


Unsex me,
As words might
So we may disown our own experiences
And give breathe to those human changelings, inked at heart.

Of lowly temptations,
They fray the fringes of my conscience
Smelling of old, wet coffee
Which I had wanted, bitterly
But of course, came sourly instead.

A few inebriated lads calls out
“Hey baby”, “Hi”.

“Well fuck you then.”

Tonight, the words survived.

Well, I’ve Been Back and Forth

Recently I find myself pondering in a lot of ways what I represent. Particularly on my blog if you are really going to solidify the epitome of a human being into a concrete (somewhat, web and all) substance.

I come across bloggers from time to time that seamlessly share their life stories and find that I don’t find that weird. It is completely strange though, if you really think about it. Then some days I feel inspire – or ambitious – and try to write you some not-so-funny anecdotes about my life, or just another sincerely irrelevant event that only true artists can make a topic of. Turns out I didn’t find them all that funny. Sarcastic? Yes. Puny? Almost indefinitely. Then I tried my hand at some inspirational writing, and though it was well received, I felt like such a phony. I mean, who talks like that?

Right, you guys do.

So who is the Duck exactly? What with her faulty poetry and handsome literature, if the Duck does in fact say so herself. Honestly though, they are much too complicated, if I weren’t inside my own brain with all the excessive background noises going on for each piece I don’t think I would like to read them either. Don’t worry about it, you don’t owe me a thing.

I just figured as well that the ‘Laughing Duck’ as a title is truly the biggest scam on the internet. Some works were truly done by one sullen, lonesome ducklet. So lots of duck hunting soul searching has been coming about. In fact, this entire post too, was taken after another blogger’s voice. Sigh.

But anyway, you don’t mind right? Go figure.

In Sharing Our Lot

I’ll often read something quite private out here and understand the feeling that the author feels safe to do so. So many people pour out their troubles and discontent, alongside their secret desires and frankly strange obsessions; posted and updated to their blogosphere, vulnerable for the next person to see. I try to wrap my head around this phenomenon. How safe can one feel exposed and yet secured between the two of us.

Who am I precisely to the next person who may stumble upon my blog? Do I care to revise and edit my current post so that it will undeniably burst in figurative terms trying to embody all of me, just so that it may per chance captivate you, so that I may appear significant and sophisticated in some way.

Who do we blog for?

Sometimes during the day an excellent phrase might flow through my mind and I would think to myself what, “what a great phrase” and entertain the idea of the next masterpiece I will post. On my worse days, I feel the need to share with you all how truly revolting my experiences may be. I try to find words that will take on the bluntness of my emotions while trying not to think about any specific individual who may read them, but just another anonymous figure who have taken a few intimate moments to share with me.

Recently, I find that I am truly the lowest in being lonesome.

I believe this emptiness is not one of pure physical senses, though that may play a large part, but as well for once I am touching the fringe of what people may call their salvated completion with something Holy. Though I don’t count myself to be an overtly religious person, I feel that we may all just want to be a part of something greater than ourselves, and as I speak those thoughts I am mindful that I have never truly submitted myself to be a person of faith. I may even go as far to say that I am not faithful, perfectly aware of the ambiguous meaning behind it. I don’t really understand it, but if what I had said earlier in this post were to be true, then why would we not put our best foot forward for all these anonymous figures to be impressed? Wasn’t that my goal?

I share with you guys words that I would not say aloud. They are so private and despicable, in want for the purely selfish reason of sharing something. I recall standing in the shower, greasy wet hair because I have not showered for the last two days, a slant body, quite starved of proper nutrition, dry weathered lips, just holding myself and pissing in the rain; I feel it may somewhat summarize the feeling of being here. I am naked.

I think alas I may begin to know how it feels for other bloggers to share their life. In the strangest of ways you wish to let other people know who you are so that they may pay their respects(?) They may even like your work; commend you. At the same time I still slightly shrink away from any comments though I would love the feedback. Some days I would check voraciously for a sign of life – somebody who read this and liked it, but could I ever stand the thought of someone reading this in front of me? I want you to read it, but I also want this to be all my own. I want you to expose me.

What am I aiming for when I share with you my thoughts? Does it truly matter whatever it may be that I am wallowing in. I just wish to write forever, trying to disclaim my conscience. A purge of provocation. A whole another world I want to hide in forever, even with all these people I love around me, ‘I cannot cater to you, I am so sorry’.I cringe because I am lonely. Maybe it is something as simple as wanting sex – though I cannot let myself loose that far – I am just trying to figure out what I want, versus what I really need, since sometimes they truly could be two different things.

I feel I am missing something in life, and in sharing our lot maybe we can try to find out what that is.

Update and a Steal

It’s been about a week and a bit since I last posted anything or even really frequented the blogosphere, which is sad. Even more sad that I alternately feel worse and turn to avoid blogging even more, and then feel more like a dipshit. It’s a beautiful win win cycle.

So because this is the one time that I am actually awake – which has been quite the rarity in the past week; I’m quite sure I’m officially one of the ‘bad kids’ now for having fallen asleep in practically every class at least twice. And here I have always wondered the art of sleeping in public. Hm. Lots of random loud outbursts that shudders you awake. Or the occasional cat-dream-chase that caused me to elliptically jerk and hit the person next to me. What a laughing commotion that caused. Is this how tough skin and class clowns begin?

Otherwise, my sister and I actually got Christmas shopping out of the way, and for once I am entirely too glad to have paired up with her in the purchase of my mother’s gift – something I believe to finally be worth her while since the three years ago that I began making home made gifts. Either that, or I have completely ran out of ideas and skills. Except that now I am completely broke. Happy holidays and good spirits everyone! Truly, only the poor does say money doesn’t mean everything!

On the other hand my mother is suffering from a case of anaemia and possibly something else as well, so best of hope to her and that winter won’t be taking it’s worse toll this year.

In terms of work, the Duck is also very humbled and glad to have referred her friends to her job – some struggles out there are just too real to be true. They are only supposed to be the perverse sadistic type that the Duck reveres and wishes to write one day. Characters, I say. So hip-hip cheerios to those guys (:

I’d end in a poem, but I found that the only one I had written as of a recent was a rather hard hitting angry slam poetry, so maybe not on this post…but a nice 7:30 am picture to end the day accompanied by a charming little thing that the Duck read in class. Oh and the fact that this link of unlikely animal friendship makes me very happy. Humour me.

snow morning

The Drawer

She opened the drawer and he fell out. She helped him to get up and to allay his embarrassment. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Next time I’ll open the drawer more carefully – you probably won’t be there.”

* And plus that I received an award as a 2013 blog.. Just give me a minute to beat the time line.. Drone. Snooze. Zzzzz

Fear Of The Social Media Post

Every time an idea comes up for what I should write via the Duck’s blog, the first question I ask myself is always – is this some douchebaggery along the lines of twitter#Idon’tcare, tumblr#notsohotguys, myspace#dyingcyberspace, instagram#uselesslifelines,  facebook#letmeinviteyou56timestoagameyoudon’twanttoplay.

That last one is a lie, I’m absolutely obsessed with candy crush out there. And I am so definitely that person who spams people for lives. So sue me, I’m a Duck, only got this one life.

Hence whenever I come home and have some totally irrelevant story to share, I wonder to myself, good wiggles, am I possibly just ostentatiously elaborating my ideas beyond “Omg, it was so fun to chill with @DiddyKong and @WreckitRalph. Getting the bad guy vibe.” So that it may pass in disguise as some smart mouthing bloggery instead of just a regular girl who’s day consists of asking herself why her cat doesn’t love her?

Is the Duck just that good? Or your readership just that bad.

And no, it has never quite occurred to me that blogging might just be the same as all those other crap crowd sites out there. It’s just that us bloggers have some wickedly handsome charms in typing completely borderline inappropriate content like the way the Duck randomly sputtles to makes her first impression.

Regardless, let’s give some props for all those deflated sites in keeping my webbers grounded.

Facebook – where you tell people the immediate forecast.
“Omg, did you hear that lightning?!” 

No sir, I must’ve died for the past 10 minutes as the remake of the Ox’s magical windstorm swept through. It’s just you who’ve noticed out of the 25 others who’ve posted the exact same thing.

It’s also the place for my dorky friends to #humblebrag and try lame jokes at engineers.
“First year back from UBC. Wasn’t that bad.” 

My Duck’s behind it wasn’t. All your AP vs building your own robotic crab was not lost on me. I ought to punch you.

“Teacher told us to get off of our phones, we’re engineers, we’ve got no life anyway.”

But for that, I won’t.

Tumblr – where all the shenanigans of who’s the ugliest derp on the cover goes down.
“His abs; so hot” or “Her boobs; so soft” 

Sorry to break it to you, but Photoshop isn’t hot. Or it’s just his face. Or it’s just you. Yeah it’s you. I just want to piss you off. And plastic boobs aren’t soft. Or the girl’s got no boobs. Either way.

I’ve also witnessed quite a few ‘re-tumbles’ if that’s the right term (as you can see, I don’t have this) of hideous optimum.

A good guy will do (&*TR along with (*@^%# and &#I for a girl. 

Sorry hon, what you need is a mom. Or a dad. Or a counselor. Unless you dirty minds out there thought of something I had not anticipated until I proof-read this.
I think we should just all be more bitter. – “A real person is acrimonious” I think that should go viral.

Twitter – Personally it’s like the ultimate rights to stalking grounds. It’s hips to joint with craigslist. Or it’s your unfiltered crummy thoughts.

“Just went to the gym. Getting a power shake. Buying yogurt in a few.”

I don’t give. So kill me, I eat sugar filled cereal and drink..viola, regular water so I’m not hijacked on some level of stupid in order to look big and tough. Or thin and frail, the other way around.

Today, it has also become the modern day ‘assimilation ground’ for teachers to try and be hip.

Parent meeting/interview @7pm tomorrow night! Come to the gym for some hasta la vista!”

It’s like watching Bambi on ice.

Instagram – Has now become your free entry to overly saturated and tampered with food items from a variety of places you have neither the time nor money to go to.

Or shin diggles, it could be a hoe fest of selfies. Camera up. Smiles !
It’s a lie when they say S.m.i.l.e – one size fits all.

And the pedestal goes to……..

The Duck

For being such a wonderful hypocrite in fulfilling the criterias of :  sharing #Idontgive information half the time, with the other half completed by #crazycatladylove on this wondrous blog she just complained of of it’s intrinsic foundation.

This, is love.
This, is love.

At least I may alleviate this situation (and my bad examples) with the fact that I have none of these other than Facebook.

But I really do think we’re so much better. Maybe it’s the way we rinseandwipe© things and claim to be assholes 

He Nodded, and It’s Not a Love Story

I’ve never felt a post readily bubble up all abouts the inside of the Duck. It is a strange feeling.

Today I must say, was a rather good day. Even if I didn’t get to eat squat; Chocolate bunnies or marshmallow Peepers and otherwise. In retrospect, I should say I am unfulfilled in this most monumental act of Easter.

I have to begrudgingly admit that I don’t really know the true essence of Easter, but if the Duck may proclaim herself, it has to do with something nice. And we all know just how nice the Duck is.

sunshine award

Just to give myself you actual credits, I’ve somehow been put on the spotlight of sunshine. The Duck isn’t a big fan of hot summer days. Sunshine today made my hard groomsmenship and my lovely preened feathers go to waste. Sunshine then tried to make up for it by becoming a Sunshine Award. Just for me.

I guess we’re even.

Given to me by Jenny Li ; pardon me for sounding ageist but my goodness the thoughts in that bio for a 14 year old. I don’t even remember when I was fourteen,granted it wasn’t that entirely long ago. It’s a little depressing.

Whatever, the Duck remains her own species.

So, as we all know, since this is an entirely different and way better modest species, I’m going to evade the spotlight a bit. More specifically, I’m going to skip on ahead to my own definition of why I deserve the award was made for me, much as I dislike sunshine. 

The beginning of the story sucks. It makes the Duck out to be such a introverted bad guy, not really putting the effort to socialize with new people when she’s really just depressed to be dragged out onto the beach in these brief deceitful spring days of Raincouver. Of which she was totally right to anticipate would drop to normal degrees once evening hits. And they had made fun of her for wearing normal clothing. Like jeans, and a sweatshirt, or a scarf. My feathers’ all fluff and hardly anything else.

So even if its with poor reason, the Duck was rather glad to be in familiar territory and on her way to cuddle up with her baby (cat). That’s when it happened. If you want to put a label on it, this little epiphany, or really just another story for the Duck to brag about occurred because of her misguided good mood. See, introverts and somewhat agoraphobics are good people too.

I walked across the bus station to get some change for bus fare at the local restaurant, and there was a man sitting down by the door way. He was probably early twenties. Pale skin, straggly long brown hair. A coquettish gentlemen’s hat upside down on the ground. Lip piercing, the butt of a cigarette smoking. He asked me for change, of which I surprisingly replied in complete honesty that I was walking into the restaurant to get change myself. He lightly inquired perhaps when I came out.

I’m not going to lie, I rather guiltily shrugged, not knowing what I would really do had I gotten change.

Life made it easy for the Duck. The restaurant was closing for the day. Else the Asian women there were being mean because they said they didn’t have anymore cash. I went out and told him that also. I couldn’t help him. He wished me a good day and looked grimly forward.

As of this day, I’m going to be very grateful to the Vietnamese restaurant my mother and I went to yesterday for giving me change. And the waiter there even remembered my mother – for her terrible Vietnamese skills no less. Nothing brings two people closer than a common uhm, victim right?

I don’t know what struck me as I walked out of that restaurant, I just knew, half muffled conscience that I was going to give him the rest of the change that I didn’t need. It came out to be $3.25. I know it isn’t winning the lottery, and this isn’t a reality TV show, and I’m hardly a saint, and he definitely did not pull the whole bowing with over exaggerated courtesy and showering of redundant complimentary remarks. It was one of those moments where it somehow happened so swiftly that when you try to recall it later on, everything just comes out unsure. You can’t account for the details, because the emotion attached to the situation had completely overridden anything else. That’s what it was like for me as I waved good bye to him on the bus, desperately hoping that he would look my way, and as it happened he looked just as my bus departed. He didn’t wave back, which I won’t lie and say I wasn’t a tad disappointed. But he did something better. Something seemingly so innate of him I couldn’t have asked for more. He paused, and simply nodded in acknowledgement.

I wish I could’ve seen his face clearer because I had neither contacts nor glasses. I won’t lie about this either. For a strangling few minutes, I questioned myself of the motive driving me to do something so reckless, to even bring about questioning looks from other passengers. I wondered whether or not I should’ve, or should actually run up even after sitting myself on the bus to ask him to promise me he would indeed use the money he has gained, and I know he had some more because the fist he reached towards me clinked with my change, only for the usage of necessary food. Or more specifically chicken chow mein as he had told me. Otherwise, I fantasized whether or not I should’ve told him some encouraging words without trying too hard to sound like an arrogant bastard. I did in fact fear the all time fear of giving a stranger, an easily mistaken stranger, change.

It’s not a huge surprise that the Duck is rather gullible, and on some levels, very naive as well. So yes, I asked myself, was that $3.25 wasted on the contribution of some euphoric shot? Could he have simply been a very collected liar to reply so calmly and thank me with such mundane modesty it shocked and delighted me in the realism of it ?

Even though his face is unclear in my head, the only remarkable thing I can recall being his lip piercing and his swath of dark clothing from head to toes, it was that nod that ultimately satisfied all.

With that simple acknowledgement of me even after I had given my part and he his. Even after he had no obligations to feign any kindness towards me. Right at the moment when my bus was leaving and from which then on we would probably never see each other again, he still saw me. And I hope he knows that I see him also.

I hope that the people walking past him would not judge too quickly in their minds his supposedly rugged character, because even from my view and blurred vision, I could almost see the sneer contorting their faces when they eyed him peripherally and whispered something to their company at hand. I hope even if they do not choose to give him any change, they could at least drop a smile and not look in condescension. I hope they find it in themselves to have some empathy for someone who, although many would digress, could’ve easily been me.

I’m well aware that many people may think me stupid and childish to conjure up this flattery and image of a good soul. He is neither, at least to the extent of my knowledge. And I’m very aware afterwards that he may be laughing right now and thinking me a crazy Asian nut. I don’t really care. I’ve been told many times before that I fall too easily for these ‘acts’. So I won’t be asking you what you think of my action. But I will ask, how do you react to someone who asks you for change on the street? Does their appearance change your decision? If in general you put up an indifference, do you ever feel guilt as you walk past them?

For me, walking home today, my webbed feet were surprisingly light. And that’s speaking for the steel-toed boots I had on.

**There are indeed questions tagging alongside this award, frankly this has become a long, and for some, probably tiresome post so please hop on over to Jenny to witness the probing inquiries of which the blogosphere can more closely stalk understand you.

Hopefully you’ve all made it here for my nominees (no limit to numbers). I do want to say that I believe every one of you I follow deserve this award, its definition being someone who ‘positively and creatively inspire others on the blogosphere’, but damn it if I’m too lazy to only direct this to the people that are overly VERY happy/optimistic. The kind that you know is right in what they’re teaching/saying, but you just want to smuffle on a bad day. Or ye know, they make me laugh. Yeah, cheerios to you guys.

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celeste lee cloud

writer & artist

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