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Pikasyuu
So, this is kind of a loose concept.
The forums have been less active than they were in 2003-2008, and we've had a few new members that don't have an opportunity to post as much and/or don't come into irc, which is where a lot of the socializing/getting to know you activities happen. (/server dfx.at + #burrito, jsyk)
So I was wondering - say you meet someone and you get one opportunity to translate who you are to them with a story from your life. Which one would you tell? Why? Could you tell it here so the rest of us can munch popcorn and enjoy your tales of woe and triumph?

Go go gadget introspect, Matazone~

ETA: or 283798349 (max) stories because this is a whole thread and i love stories. stop reading the rules, half of you have cursed in posts and yet you listen to me!? bah humbug etc. :P
vicrawr
I don't have any stories like that. Is that a story?
Pikasyuu
omfg, NO. minus two participation points. story on, vicatron!
SPEAKERfortheLOST
er... well ok... there was this one time at band camp... where this one thing happened to this one guy and this other chick did this odd thing with a balloon and most of the time was spent doing things not related to band at all... ya. thats it.
Daria
I've had this thread open in a tab for the last couple of days now. I have plenty of stories that describe the kind of person I am, but to narrow it down to just one is impossible D:
Pikasyuu
then tell them all! it's a whole thread. :P
Daria
Pick a title:

Car journeys with Steve
Watching mum clean
The Yellow Submarine and sick
Being caught with chocolate raisins
Lost jewellery
And lost keys
Parisian men are short
Let me paint you the scene
Night skating
Old writing and untruths
vicrawr
I vote night skating.

Also, if I come up with a story, can I be vicatron forever?
Pikasyuu
'Parisian men are short'

And yes, Vic ;)
SPEAKERfortheLOST
How about: "Car journeys with mum in the yellow submarine while searching for the lost night skating parisian men who tell untruths in new writing of chocolate raisins that caught their keys with some jewelery of Steve's" ? I want to hear that one.
Daria
Speaker, in that case, you have my life story biggrin.gif

Vic gets to go first. Watch this space.
Phyllis
Okay, since no one else seems to want to go first, I guess I will!

I asked IRC to choose between my top two stories, but they chose both. And then Katii called me a rule reading Girl Scout for trying to narrow it down to one. tongue.gif

The first story has already been heard by most people who know me well. It is the tale of my battle with the hellbeast known as BIRDMOTH. I shall save the second story for another day, after other people have posted theirs.

I was going to be lazy and post the blog entry I made right after the horrible event took place, but there's no way I can. I felt the need to express my fear at the time, you see, and apparently I chose swearing as my medium. That, and capslock. So, kiddies, here's the forum-appropriate version.

Picture it: Sicily, 1921. Wait, no, that's not right. Eastern Oregon, 2006. I was sitting in my room at my parents' house, studying for my last round of college finals. It was only May, but it was already so hot that it felt like I was living in Satan's crotch. So, obviously, my window was open.

One thing you should know, before we go any further: moths terrify me. Always have, always will. If you dare to tell me they are harmless, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. They are CREEPY. All fuzzy antennae and papery wings and wild, disoriented flying that gets them stuck in curly hair...euuurgh! Ahem. Anyway. biggrin.gif In spite of my crippling fear, I managed to shoo away the few tiny moths that flew in the window.

Those little b****es sent their big brother after me.

No, it was more than their big brother. This thing...it was the god of all scary night creatures. I'm pretty sure it looked something like this*, but with more evil. It may well have been part bald eagle.

My mom worked the night shift, so there was no chance of her saving me. My dad was sound asleep downstairs, unaware of my imminent death by fuzzy antennae. I screamed and flailed, waving a throw pillow at the BIRDMOTH and hoping Dad would wake up and come to my rescue.

He didn't. Not even my over-enthusiastic door slamming when I herded BIRDMOTH into the hall managed to wake him. It was...not my proudest moment. There I was, cowering from an insect in a room that was becoming hotter by the second (oh, you bet I closed the window after that). I had no food, no water, and worse...I had to pee.

Armed with Literature: Reading, Reacting, Writing (2064 pages — suck it, BIRDMOTH), I decided to risk a trip to the bathroom. BIRDMOTH was waiting for me, of course. It knew my every move. It had probably been peeking in my window at night, planning this attack for weeks.

This next bit is a tad hazy. I'm pretty sure there were swords involved, along with rather a lot of pain and blood and fire, but it's equally likely that I just smacked the f***er with my giant textbook until it stopped twitching.

I contemplated mounting its head on my wall as a warning to all other moths, but I'd already put myself through the trauma of getting close enough to thwack it. I didn't want to go near the corpse; I wasn't entirely certain that its followers wouldn't come along and reanimate it.

So, I decided to handle my enemy's remains the way any war-hardened soldier would: I asked my mommy to take care of it the next day. biggrin.gif

There you go, Katii. Happy now? tongue.gif

* May be a slight (okay, huge) exaggeration.
LoLo
QUOTE (Phyllis @ Feb 9 2011, 11:58 AM) *
They are CREEPY. All fuzzy antennae and papery wings and wild, disoriented flying that gets them stuck in curly hair...euuurgh! Ahem. Anyway. biggrin.gif In spite of my crippling fear, I managed to shoo away the few tiny moths that flew in the window.


They also smell god awful.
I_am_the_best
^^Wow, that does sound quite terrifying! The wings are lovely, but when the actual body of it is so large, I can imagine it being quite scary!

It's really strange, I've met quite a few people who are scared of moths, but I've always been brought up (by my mum, at least) to treat them with lots of respect. If a moth come into our house, we mustn't shoo it out, and we'll say 'have you seen that big moth that's on the kitchen wall?', 'yes, it's lovely isnt't it?'. It's just with moths though, no other animals!
Cath Sparrow
My mum was doing a biology degree as I was growing up and one of the parts was a moth trap to count species in the garden so we have a similar reaction in our house as well. Still hate being dive bombed by them though.
Ashbless
Cry havoc and release the cats?
It doesn't count as me killing the moth if I just happen to point a moth-killing pussycat at yon bug, does it? biggrin.gif
It'd amuse yes-she's-still-visiting cat tremendously to play chase the bug.

I'll get back to you on a story.
Hobbes
QUOTE (Pikasyuu @ Feb 6 2011, 08:45 PM) *
So I was wondering - say you meet someone and you get one opportunity to translate who you are to them with a story from your life. Which one would you tell? Why? Could you tell it here so the rest of us can munch popcorn and enjoy your tales of woe and triumph?


Oi, give us your story smile.gif

Whilst I am sure I have some stories from my life, I am not sure whether I could rely on them to define me? Whilst I ponder, I think our dear thread-starter should offer her own, so that we may follow her example.

wink.gif
elphaba2
Syuu story! Plus I want to hear about car journeys with Steve from the Darizard.

Someday I will write a proper account of the Bike Caper I took last July, because it's pretty much the last thing I did that I was proud of and it makes me happy to brag about it. Basically I bought a bike, taught myself to fix it, sewed some bike bags and zoomed from Montreal to New York, crashing with strangers and distant relatives and eating raisins. Swimmin in cricks! Chasing deer on empty highways at sunrise! ACH.

Yep, definitely my most excellent self was around in July.
Phyllis
QUOTE (Hobbits @ Feb 14 2011, 04:32 PM) *
Whilst I am sure I have some stories from my life, I am not sure whether I could rely on them to define me?

It is tricky. I think I chose the BIRDMOTH thing because it's a story I tend to tell everyone (spreading awareness about the evilness of moths is very important!). It has absolutely nothing to do with it being already mostly written out in considerably more colourful language in a blog post. Nope. innocent.gif

And I agree...a syuu story is needed! tongue.gif

Elphaba, that sounds more awesome than pretty much anything I've ever done. I travelled by land from OR to NY when I was 18, but I did so on a Greyhound bus. Met many crazy people, but there was no chasing of deer on empty highways at sunrise. Colour me jealous! biggrin.gif

Back when I was doing Project 365 (one photo every day for a year...I got to 100 something then stopped sad.gif ) and running low on ideas, a friend recommended I take a photo of a bunch of things that demonstrated various aspects of my personality. That was considerably easier than coming up with just one story to define me!
Daria
I already have Elphaba's choice written up, so a quick copypasta means she gets her choice first:

When a cigarette is first lit, it has a very different smell than to the rest of the smoke. It is an almost enjoyable sweet scent, which hits your nostrils and makes you want to have more- always a disappointment when the rest of the smell comes your way and you are engulfed by the smog. Whenever I smell one being lit, I am brought straight back to my childhood of car journeys with Steve.

I used to love these times- just the two of us in the car, talking about anything and everything- science mainly, though. He was like a great encyclopaedia of facts about everything- why is the sky blue? Who made the pyramids? How does a LCD screen work? What makes ice float? How does a computer work? What shape is the universe? – it seemed any question I had, he could answer it. Whether I understood the answer or not was negligible, it was these precious moments of time between us which seemed to count for everything.
When we lived in Withersdale Street, my brother and sister were at highschool and would get the bus home. I was still in primary school, and would be picked up in the afternoons by either Mum or Steve. They would wait in the car and I would go and meet them, throw my stuff in the back of the car and off we would go, driving home. A few minutes into the journey with Steve (about when we got to the Fressingfield turning) he would get out the packet of Marlborough from one of the pockets of his black leather jacket. Holding the wheel with one hand, still talking to me, looking at the road, to me, back to the road, down to the cigarette packet, he would tap it and one would pop up. Lifting the packet to his mouth, he would take the cigarette between his lips, flick his lighter open with a “swish” like a sword being drawn, roll the flint wheel with his thumb and light it. It would be a few moments before the smell would drift across to the front passenger’s seat, snaking its way through the air making curious patterns and get to my nose. Still talking, the cigarette jiggling up and down in his mouth, he would pause only to take that one first inhale- he seemed to savour it the most. He would take the cigarette into his right hand, wind down the window a fraction and continue with his words.
I remember the window was never wound down enough to take away all the smoke, nor would mine ever stay closed so it would all exit through his. I couldn’t stand being in that smoky car; breathing through my hand and taking shallow short breaths to try and inhale as little as possible. That precious gap in the window would never stay there long enough, either- it would be wound up before all the smoke had cleared and we would be left with stagnant wisps curling about the dashboard.
The journey would take about two cigarettes to complete on a winter’s day. In the summer, all the windows would be wound down and we would drive fast along the little lanes- the smoke would whip round into the back and depart from the rear right window. The fields would be green, the sky blue, the trees full of leaves, and he would only smoke one cigarette. I never found the reason for this- perhaps there wasn’t one.
We would get home, my knowledge of the world improved by a little bit, probably not to talk until tea time when the table is a hubbub of conversations amidst the clatter of dishes and serving spoons.
Daria
Night Skating

You probably all know the prelude to this story, but in case you don't:
I first met Wytu at Snoo's 21st birthday pub crawl in Norwich in July 2006, with Novander and a couple of other friends. We talked online afterwards, and he was an invaluable friend to me when I moved to Paris and didn't have many friends I could be close with. We started seeing each other when he came to my mum's house with me after I came back from Paris, to go to a gig in late October 2006.
I wasn't happy when I was living in Paris, I wasn't happy when I moved back in with my mum in the countryside. Wytu was, really, my only source of happiness and I would work in a café 12 miles from home during the week to then get a bus to the train station on a Friday, a train to London, and spend all my wages over the weekend to come back to work on a Tuesday. Full of exploring the city, wandering about, eating strawberry laces and making funny faces, these weekends would be a break from feeling stressed and isolated at my mum's house.

It was December, and I was in love. We hadn't mentioned the L-word yet, although I told him that I liked him 2.0 (because it was lessthanthree) and I wanted to tell him I loved him when the time felt right. In London there were temporary ice rinks going up for the festive season. I booked us tickets for the one outside of the Natural History museum on a Friday evening. The Friday came, I finished work earlier than usual, got the bus then train, got to Liverpool street, got to Mile End, walked to his house, met him, kissed him, knew it was the right time. We got ready, and headed out to the museum.

The rink was surrounded by trees covered in fairy lights and there was a stall selling mulled wine, the smell wafting across the square. The moon was full, christmas songs by old crooners playing on the sound system and the slice-slice sound of skates on ice being punctuated by laughter and squeals when someone slipped.
We skated around for a bit, doing circuits that turned into a spiral getting closer and closer to the centre until we were in the middle of everyone orbiting us. Standing face to face, slightly wobbly on skates, I looked at Wytu. He looked at me and smiled. I told him I loved him.
Mata
Aww!

Mine is shorter and less full of romance and dramtic close calls with fire breathing moths.

About thirteen years ago I was very lonely. I'd had a bad break up and due to the nature of the relationship I also didn't have any close friends in Winchester. I was sleeping very badly, working hard at a job and throwing myself into my studies. At night I would go out running through the city and the surrounding countryside, sometimes for many hours - I didn't seem to get tired, I could just run for as long as I wanted. (The only time I turned around was when I realised that, yes, this was probably becoming a motorway, and no, it probably wasn't going to turn back towards Winchester anywhere in the next ten miles).

I discovered that quite often there would be small parties on top of a nearby hill, called St Catherine's. I believe it is man-made and it is very steep. Climbing up it through the woods and up the steep grassy sides was always tricky in the dark. It was a way of finding company, and I made a few casual friends through doing it, which was better than nothing.

There is a maze cut into the grass at the top of the hill. This is an old-fashioned maze, where there is only one path and the point is to follow it to the end. There is nothing to stop you walking straight to the middle and the middle is jus a patch of grass. The story runs that it was cut there by a student at Winchester College before he killed himself - I don't know if that's true.

One night when the hill was empty, with the city lights spread out in the distance below, I stood at the start of the maze. It was raining lightly. It was summer, but the rain and a light breeze made it cold. For some reason I took off all of my clothes and slowly walked the path of the maze, barefoot and naked. I reached the middle and the only thing I found there was myself.

I think that was a turning point in my life, but I couldn't tell you exactly why.
Phantom
There are lots of stories I can tell with a lot of different feelings and memories.
I have the feeling I want to write something, but am not sure what to tell.
I always have the feeling I want to give more because I know I have it.
but never know how to give it.. or when for that matter.

So I am going to tell a story that has not yet happened.

I am a dreamer,

always on my way, always looking for the new things. Thinking and
dreaming all night and day. Sometimes it is very hard and other days
it feels like there was never a thing like the nightmare I often have to
wake up in.
I escaped in my dreams, and they lead me to my future like they always did.
They are always the flashes like I lived that memory already.

I am now almost 21 but in my dreams I have always been 25.
I am travelling, on my bike trough India. I meet all kinds of people
that make me scared of the bigger meaning that lies above my head,
they show me that always looking for other dreams is a purpose.
They let me live, they and all the other people I met during my trip
towards the nothing I am driving to. I almost reached Australia,
not knowing what it is what I want to see or experience there.
All I see myself is laughing and enjoying the little moments that feel free.


Other moments I walk in the dark woods of Norway feeling my feet
freezing off because of the hard winter that is going on. I am looking
for someone, not knowing what that person should mean to me.
All I find is the beauty of nature, the mystic owls and the colours of the barks
that seem to protect me against my own heart.

I left my family, my life I am going to America. Not sure if I am chasing what
everybody else already went for. I am riding my bike looking at the large
trees that pass me. I stumble on a festival, it seems very cosy. I meet a girl
I am not going to talk to her but she is very close to my heart.
Like I can feel her heartbeat and she supports mine. Longing for her lips against mine,
I drive further away, away again.

When I come back to myself I am always wondering if I am running for something
or for feelings. Since I was about 13 when my nightmares where almost impossible
for me to carry, I am always wondering, did I already found it.

I like to believe like the Indians did, that the dream world is the world you are living in.
I always feel like I am looking for some kind of adventure, and looking back
that is always what I am chasing. I am leaving the decision to my dreams when the
day comes that I am going to live those memories.

x-
Daria
That's beautiful, Sharazad. And Mata!

I've realised that all my stories are about other people. Maybe that says more about me than the stories themselves?

Syuu I will write up Parisian Men Are Short sometime soon. Schoolwork has been eating me
Phantom
Thank you Daria,
The stories everyone here share are beautiful on it's on way, although
the situation may not always have been pleasant.
The story Mata shared was really inspiring so thanks for sharing!

--S
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