Fruit of the loom

When I was little my siblings and I would treat a pomegranate (we called it a Chinese apple) like it was chocolate covered strawberries. It was as if the word got out before my mother came home from grocery shopping. I kid you not, we would clear off the kitchen table (I miss that kitchen it was soo big) and cover it in newspaper. It was most definitely a big deal because we were collectively cleaning as a group (which we NEVER did) there had to have been a prize. It didn’t last long but my older sister in the house came up with this game on who could clean their room the fastest. I mean it was like she offered money (which also encouraged to do the right thing). It was entertaining when the thrill to beat my brothers died out. We were so ridiculously competitive, mainly because of my dad and we had nothing better to do.

My father always (still does) playfully compare his children and forced us to compete. But my father is too smart he would then drill into our heads that we should not compete then make us share the glory. For example if the prize for cleaning up the room was a donut (always hid the goodies) he would make us split one or give us all one. He wanted us to stay together no matter the circumstance. 

But anyway I just recently ripped into a Chinese apple and good god, I even took a break to give it my undivided attention. There is no way to experience one without getting a little messy. I think I am genuinely attracted to pomegranates though. 

memories?

Is it me or does it seem wrong to take pictures of people while their suffering and in pain. What exactly is suppose to come from those photos. When I see photos from slavery I’m extra confused, its unknown if the photographers are slave owners or just bystanders. But why exactly is it a good idea to record that I guess for proof I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense. Hearing it isn’t enough we need to take 1,000 pictures and run it through every channel on tv and circulate them through the internet. I know about memories I’m no photographer but I’m the loser at the dinner table taking pictures. I take pictures of EVERYTHING and EVERYONE, all the people in school I hated and loved I have photos of all the them, my bullies. I don’t delete I keep all the bad, blurry, and disgusting photos. If someone pulls out of photo of me from 5th grade in my nappy ass pink tails and thick eyebrows I will laugh it up and enjoy it. I just don’t know how excited I’ll be if someone pulls out a photo of me covered in ash and dirt, crying, bleeding, with no shoes on. I think I would be pretty embarrassed.

Skip to 35 seconds.

Sorry its one of those days where long distance starts to kick your ass.