I bought a ton a flowers...

[scribblemyname]

Memed from likeadeuce:

• Comment with "I got drunk and bought a ton of flowers"
• I'll respond by asking you five questions so I can get to know you better.
• Update your journal with the answers to the questions.
• Include this explanation in the post and offer to ask other people questions. (If you want. Totally optional.)

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Originally published at Liana Mir. You can comment here or there.

Comments

Response, Part 1

[lithiumlaughter.livejournal.com]

1) My French grandmother always served us proper French breakfasts whenever we spent the night. In case you don't know, this involves a cup of hot chocolate. Always. Pastries, maybe eggs, but always a cup of hot chocolate. It was simply how it was done.
Then there was a place called the Globe in the town I was raised in. My biological dad thought it was awesome, and took me and my siblings there every once in a while. We weren't really the right crowd -- I was ten, and my siblings younger. It was a coffee place/pool hall. I developed a taste for flavoured steamed milk, and a fondness for the darkly lit, fascinating place that felt so grown up to me. I mean, all the adults there! Drinking fancy coffees! Shooting pool!
This fancy steamed milk led to slightly milky tea at my other grandmother's. Then straight up tea.
Then, when I was eighteen, I ended up trundling upstairs on a weekend to find my mum flipping through the newspaper with a cuppa. I ended up just grabbing a mug, poured myself some, and it was history from there. It tasted right, it felt right, and so I never saw a point to breaking the habit.
As to a shine rubbing off it? Most likely not. The two of us are pretty comfortable: two cups a day, maybe three on the weekend. It's a comfort thing. And I can do without it -- I did it in Quebec, where my Mom and Dad there didn't drink coffee, so I made ridiculously strong breakfast teas instead. Still. Coffee and mornings are a little bit synonymous for me. I think it's a comfort thing, really. A nice hot cup of coffee to start the day.
So, coffee. Unless ulcers or some such become an issue. Then we may have to talk about cutting down or cutting it out.

2)If it can rip my heart out and make me try and grasp it back -- or maybe even try to push it further in to the hands that are holding it -- whether it be through the entire thing (The entirety of "Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out"), or through just one line ("If the ropes binding your soul are your own wrists, I will cut them." - "The Promise", by Sharon Olds), then you've got me.
"Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out" had me bawling the first time I read it through. (You want a better story. Who wouldn’t??...God, I could just go on and on quoting that poem) I adore imagery, don't get me wrong, but I'm a sucker for the visceral emotional reaction. Hit me where it hurts. Hit me in that soft spot just under my ribcage with the slow knife, and I'm yours.
As to poetry that bothers me? The really horrible angsty poetry I wrote when I was in high school. There's a notebook of it somewhere that I'm not sure if I should keep, or burn.

Re: Response, Part 1

[scribblemyname]

First off, I love your French grandmother and the comfort food of coffee. (I'm finding coffee popping up all over my stories right now.) Each day, I drink three hot cups of tea (they must be hot), one for the health benefits (it's always yerba maté sweetened with stevia), one in the middle of the day to warm up, and an evening cup because it seems to end me right.

And then, this. Litany. You have hooked me. I love it. It makes my fingers itch for poetry again. Oh, I love it, I love it, and I'm finding that the poems I write that I love the best are not so much visceral, but they do what that poem did for me—open up my insides. I can't even describe what that poem did when I read it, but I love it. Thank you for sharing it.