My brain, large scissors and a fat kid rolling down a hill

I wish I had an off-button attached to my head. Not one of those standard buttons that stick out, mind you. I mean, I wouldn’t want to turn my brain off by accident. Just imagine, standing in line at the grocery store or the bank (okay, maybe not the bank. Nobody goes to the bank anymore) and you just scratch your head and all of a sudden it’s lights out. But if I could get a button on a time switch, or something, that would be perfect.

You see, my brain refuses to turn itself off after I’ve gone to bed. Even when it’s been more or less non-functional all day long, it suddenly springs to life once I’m horizontal.

It’s especially when the brain-ball of wrinkly gel starts to imagine repetitive movements that it becomes impossible to stop. Last night, for example, I started (for some reason) to think of a kid on a swing. It went back and forth, back and forth, refusing to stop. So I had to think up a pair of huge scissors to cut the swing down. But then the fat brat started rolling down the hill. Obviously I had to place I rather large rock in his path. There was a muffled splat and then the situation was under control. This time...

So… Does this mean I’m weird?

Would I shoot you? Why, of course not...

A few years ago, I read a Garfield strip where Garfield's owner asked him and his not-so-furry canine bud if they wanted to go for a walk. It went something along the lines of "Do you wanna go for a walk.... Do you?..... Do you?..... You wanna go walkies?.... Do you?..... Do you?" and so on and so forth. All the while, his pets were becoming more and more frenzied, until they turned on him.

Then, last night, there was a story in the news about some guy in Bosnia who had been out fox hunting (shame on him) with his dog. He'd been minding his own business, when he suddenly heard a shot and felt a sting in his leg. He turned around and saw Man's Best Friend with its hairy paw on the trigger. They say that he might have to amputate his foot. I bet he was one of those walkies-people and his pooch knew how to hold a grudge.

Then again, if I had some weirdo following me around wherever I went, collecting my poops, I'd probably shoot him, too...


Pic of pug by Chance Agrella for http://www.freerangestock.com/details.php?gid=&sgid=&pid=1460

Goddess with lovely temple dog needs religion

…with its own temple somewhere warm and sunny. Preferably with a great view overlooking the ocean.
Must be monotheistic. None of that sharing-the-glory-with-some-hairy-greek-in-a-bathtowel-sort-of-thing.

Gloomy looking robes with large hoods, mysterious chanting and large, booming bells are encouraged.

Colourful, bed sheet-like outfits, singing accompanied by silly bouncing and the ringing of cutesy bells will be punished by immediate beheading.

Some missionary activity expected.

Good possibilities for crusading involved.

Lookie - I'm Nicola Tesla

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.


A minister's son from Simljan in Austria-Hungary, you were precocious from an early age. At three you could multiply three-digit numbers in your head and calculate how many seconds visitors to your home had lived. In awe of your older brother Dane, you shot a pea-shooter at his horse, causing it to throw him and inflict injuries from which he later died. This tragedy haunted you ever after. You frequently suffered bouts of illness with hallucinations throughout your life. During one affliction of cholera, you encountered the writing of Mark Twain, with whom you were later to be close friends. Later, another, this time mystery, illness inexplicably heightened your senses to a painful extent, only relenting when you hit upon the idea of the alternating current motor.

You developed an aversion to human contact, particularly involving hair, and a fear of pearls; when one would-be lover kissed you, you ran away in agony. Later, you insisted that any repeated actions in your day-to-day life had to be divisible by three, or, better yet, twenty-seven. You would, for example, continue walking until you had executed the required number of footsteps. You refused to eat anything until you had calculated its exact volume. Saltine crackers were a favourite for their uniformity in this respect. In the midst of important work, you forgot trivial details such as eating, sleeping or, on one memorable occasion, who you were.

Your inventions, always eccentric, began on a suitably bizarre note. The first was a frog-catching device that was so successful, and hence so emulated by your fellow children, that local frogs were almost eradicated. You also created a turbine powered by gluing sixteen May bugs to a tiny windmill. The insects panicked and flapped their wings furiously, powering the contraption for hours on end. This worked admirably until a small child came along and ate all the creatures alive, after which you never again touched another insect.
Prompted by dreams of attaining the then-ridiculed goal of achieving an alternating-current motor, you went to America in the hope of teaming up with Thomas Edison. Edison snubbed you, but promised fifty thousand dollars if you could improve his own direct-current motor by 20% efficiency. You succeeded. Edison did not pay up. It was not long until you created an AC motor by yourself.

Now successful, you set up a small laboratory, with a few assistants and almost no written records whatsoever. Despite it being destroyed by fire, you invented the Tesla Coil, impressing even the least astute observer with man-made lightning and lights lit seemingly by magic. Moving to Colorado Springs, you created a machine capable of sending ten million volts into the Earth's surface, which even while being started up caused lightning to shoot from fire hydrants and sparks to singe feet through shoes all over the town. When calibrated to be in tune with the planet's resonance, it created what is still the largest man-made electrical surge ever, an arc over 130 feet long. Unfortunately, it set the local power plant aflame.

You returned to New York, incidentally toying with the nascent idea of something eerily like today's internet. Although the wealthiest man in America withdrew funding for a larger, more powerful resonator in short order, it did not stop you announcing the ability to split the world in two. You grew ever more diverse in your inventions: remote-controlled boats and submarines, bladeless turbines, and, finally, a death ray.

While whether the ray ever existed is still doubtful, it is said that you notified the Peary polar expedition to report anything strange in the tundra, and turned on the ray. First, nothing happened; then it disintegrated an owl; finally, reports reached you of the mysterious Tunguska explosion, upon which news you dismantled the apparatus immediately.
An offer during WWII to recreate it was, thankfully, never acted upon by then-President Wilson. Turning to other matters, you investigated the forerunner of radar, to widespread derision.

Your inventions grew stranger. One oscillator caused earthquakes in Manhattan. You adapted this for medical purposes, claiming various health benefits for your devices. You found they let you work for days without sleep; Mark Twain enjoyed the experience until the sudden onset of diarrhoea. You claimed to receive signals in quasi-Morse Code from Mars, explored the initial stages of quantum physics; proposed a "wall of light", using carefully-calibrated electromagnetic radiation, that would allegedly enable teleportation, anti-gravity airships and time travel; and proposed a basic design for a machine for photographing thoughts.

You died aged 87 in New York, sharing an apartment with the flock of pigeons who were by then your only friends.

Ridiculed throughout your life (Superman fought the evil Dr. Tesla in 1940s comics), you were posthumously declared the father of the fluorescent bulb, the vacuum tube amplifier and the X-ray machine, and the Supreme Court named you as the legal inventor of the radio in place of Marconi. Wardenclyffe, the tower once housing your death ray, was dynamited several times to stop it falling into the hands of spies. It was strangely hard to topple, and even then could not be broken up.

Monkeys swimming in a circle

The class that I was… uhm… blessed to be a part of from the age of seven to fifteen, consisted of 25 monkey-brains (and a small handful of normal people). That’s right; monkey-brains. I honestly think that they all escaped from a lab, or something. I once saw a documentary where a bunch of scientist were doing research on monkeys. One of them was given lipstick and a large mirror and immediately began to smear its face with it. That’s half of the girls in my class, right there.




But I digress.

Once a week, our teacher would herd us all into a pool where we were supposed to swim around and around in a large circle. It didn’t take me very long to realise that this was a tremendous waste of time, since there was no way to swim in a circle with close to 30 people without being kicked in the face by the idiot swimming in front of you. Neither could you increase the space between you and the aforementioned idiot, without whacking the moron behind you (not that that necessarily was a bad thing). So I ended up trying to find a mode of swimming where I wouldn’t be kicked or kick, yet at the same time stay floating just enough so that I wouldn’t drown. It would not stand. And since I’m not a monkey-brain, I quickly came up with a cunning plan.

I scratched my thighs, legs and arms and claimed to be allergic to the chlorine in the water. And my teacher actually believed me (I guess that might made him a monkey-brain, as well). So from that day on, I spent every swim class in a little, green room with a book. Nobody kicked me, and I didn’t have to swallow a bunch of icky water that 30 other people had wriggled around in. The room also had a window, so that I could watch the other poor bastards as they swam and tried (mostly without success) to avoid flying feet and arms. Perfect.

Could this strategy be transferred to gym, I wondered? And indeed it could. I had a wrist injury. I didn’t fake it. It actually required surgery at one point. Our teacher was fairly strict about his students showing him reports from home when they were going to sit out on the oh so fascinating rounds of volleyball or football, which was all that the classes consisted of. All of the monkey-brains thought that both these things were tremendous fun. If they could chase a ball for a couple of hours and then go into the locker rooms and inhale half a can of hairspray (and in those days they had the kind of spray that looked like dust if you used to much of it), they were perfectly happy.

Then one day when I had forgotten to bring my gym clothes, I discovered that the same rule didn’t apply to me. The coach seemed to assume that it was because of my poor, fragile wrists. I had started to feel that if I had to catch another damn ball, I would break someone’s face with it out of pure frustration and boredom, so I couldn’t let this opportunity just slip away. From that day on, I never had gym again. Nobody questioned it.

I did read a lot of books, though. And I got a B.

Monkey and a duck by Scottobear for www.Flickr.com

Philosophical thoughts and bunny slippers

Today is about as exciting as watching my half-dead rubbertree plant try to decide on whether it should attempt another growth spurt or just wither away once and for all. I know, because that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing.

Personally I gave up on a final growth spurt eons ago. I’ll just have to live with having hit my peak at 5’2. This, of course, is no problem if you’re living in, say, China, but here in good, old Scandinavia it basically means that I frequently visit the salon to get my roots dyed, since people spend a lot of time looking down on the top of my head.

The practical thing about this situation, is that very few seem to pay much attention to my footwear. I could probably get away with wearing fussy bunny slippers. The kind with really long ears. I once had a pair or doggie slippers that my mum got me for Christmas. They were oh so comfy, plus that they made excellent playmates for the pooch when I wasn’t using them. The three of them could sit and talk for hours on end. They were very close.

At some point of the morning I started to contemplate such fascinating philosophical questions like whether or not life can suck and blow at the same time. If so, wouldn’t that be confusing for the person inhabiting that life? What would you wear for a situation like that, anyway?

Maybe bunny slippers.

Tag

I’ve been tagged by Jocelyn, so I will now present you with a list of weird things that have happened to me in the past. Six things, to be exact. Now, since this whole blog, more or less, is about weird things that have happened to me, it won’t be that much of a change. Change is bad, after all. Everyone over the age of 70 knows that.

I am completely incapable of remembering my first of anything. Well, with a few obvious exceptions, of course. My first day of school? Not a chance. My first visit to the circus? Nope. It’s as if my brain needs a certain amount of repetition in order to make an event worth remembering. Not that the school-thing hasn’t been repeated a gazillion times, but I’ve already mentioned something about my presence of mind in classes, haven’t I?

My first kiss: One of the few firsts that I’m able to remember. Mostly because it was horrible. I was five years old and in the woods, playing with the boy who lived next door to us, and he wanted to kiss. Since I couldn’t come up with anything better to do, I said yes. He then tried to make my teeth cave in, using his lips. Afterwards he wanted to kiss me again, and I ran like never before.

A lovely barbeque: my friend, Tommy, and I decided that we wanted to have a bbq. It seemed like a very adult thing to do, and we were, after all, nearly eight years old. It was high time we started doing grown-up stuff. The fact that we didn’t have any food didn’t face us at all. Who needs food when you have large bits of Styrofoam? We had a strong suspicion that our parents would interfere with our brilliant plan, should we be seen while burning something, so we found a perfect hiding place underneath his father’s big truck. Of course someone ended up seeing the smoke and they completely freaked out. Just because we were underneath the gas tank. Talk about being overly sensitive.

Thorboy: he was my doll. I hated to play with dolls when I was a kid. Thorboy, however, was an anatomically correct boy doll. That’s right – he had a little thingy. Not only that, he came equipped with a little bottle which you could fill with water and use to feed him. The water would then run through his little doll body and out of his little thingy. In the end, I ran so much water through poor Thorboy, he rotted on the inside and my mum threw him away.

When my alarm goes off in the morning, I have to press the snooze button twice, otherwise I feel like I haven’t fully enjoyed my morning snooze time. However, that means that I don’t get up until 20 minutes after the alarm goes off for the first time. Sooo… I now set my alarm 20 minutes earlier, just so that I can push the snooze button. Yes, I know I’m sick.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling domestic, I bake doggie cookies (yes, there is such a thing). Baby porridge is a key ingredient in these little culinary canine delights. Also, my dog has a baby toothbrush – right now it’s a purple one in the shape of Barney the dinosaur - for when I need to clean her teeth (that guy who claimed that there was nothing like the smell of napalm in the morning, never woke up with a dog breathing on him). One day I met this lady by the grocery isle, who had apparently snuck a peek into my shopping basket on previous occasions, and she starts talking to me. Suddenly she asks me about my baby. My brain tries to run away screaming. In stead I simply say that I’ve never had a baby, offering no explanation to the baby stuff in my little, blue basket, although she looked very curious indeed (Hellholers are very curious people). She probably thought I was going to eat it myself. Serves her right.

The Voice of Obligation meets Mumbles

The other day I woke up at 5:30 am. I don’t know why. If you ask me, there’s no good reason for anyone to have practical knowledge of 5:30 am unless your house is on fire. Really, I would have been quite content just knowing that it existed out there somewhere between 5 and 6.

What annoyed me the most about my very rude awakening, was that I had to get up half an hour later to get ready for class, and that I’d only really fallen asleep around two. I briefly considered skipping my class. I have been ignoring that particular class for a whole month, and lightning still hasn’t struck me yet. But my sense of obligation (which I like to refer to as temporary insanity) insisted that I would have to turn up at least once.

So I did. And as soon as the professor walked into the room, that nagging little feeling that I made a mistake started to pick at the back of my brain. He has long, splintered hair, a gigantic sweater, slimpants (SLIMPANTS!!!) and walked with tiny little steps, like those of a little girl, while he stared at something in the middle of the room that only he could see.

He then proceeded to sit on a chair, all the way in the corner, with his hands cluthing his knees and his eyelid pinched shut. He looked like he was in pain. Over the next couple of hours I learned that the I’m-giving-birth-to-an-alien-rectally-look was, in fact, his thinking look and not some evidence of great physical torment. His words all travelled in pairs. He spoke (no, mumbled) two of them, and then had a long pause where the alien seemed to bother him before letting out another two.

I realized that three hours of sleep wasn’t enough for me to keep awake during this ordeal. I looked out of the window and wished that I could tear my head off and throw it out into the parking lot, so that I would no longer have to be in the room. At that moment, Mumbles said “…The one thing you cannot amputate, of course, is your head”. I don’t know what the context was.

In the end, I managed to suffer through two hours, but then I absolutely had to go. I wasn’t the only one. My voice of obligation and my lazybones all agreed that I was never to return to that class ever again.

Don't make me boil your bunny, mister!

A friend of mine has recently decided to take the big step and move in with her boyfriend. He is also a friend of mine, whose apartment I’ve seen on several occasions. I would like to take this moment to say that I admire her guts tremendously. Last week he told someone that he didn’t have any pets, and I thought to myself that I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I was him. But I digress.

My point is that my good friend is now walking (or skipping) along wearing the pink goggles of luuuve. That’s not all, though. She wants us all to put on the pink goggles of luuuve, even me, and in order to help me do this, she bought me a very pink book (almost as pink as the goggles) called Pocket Superflirt (no, not in a dirty way).

The books introduction guarantees that if you would only slip pocket Superflirt in your handag next time you go out, you’ll never have to go home alone again… Because that wouldn’t come off as just a tiny little bit desperate. No, of course not.

I can just picture the tremendous success I’m destined to have when I try to pick up the stud at the bar while consulting my little, pink book with the words SUPERFLIRT written on it in capital letters, almost as big as the book itself. Sure he’ll want to be my boyfriend. He’d be to scared to turn me down, in case I’d start stalking him and boil his pets.

Pic 1 by Bulldog1 for www.Flickr.com

Pic 2 by Today is a good day for www.Flickr.com

The toilet mafia

Last night, I decided to be a very good girl. Or at least a very good student. Lately my study ethics has been lower than most known and unknown bottom-dwellers, but now the decision to learn was made. So I found my hideously yellow compendium and stuck my nose in it with great enthusiasm.

Over the next couple of hours, said enthusiasm plummeted back down to bottom-dweller level. By the beginning of the third hour, my eyelids were starting to sag.

All of a sudden, I was standing in a very long, very grey and very narrow hallway. The walls were lined with stalls containing toilets in various states of disrepair, which was hard to ignore despite of the attempt to distract the users from this fact by hanging pretty pictures in gold frames inside the stalls.

Next to me, was my friend Anne. She hopped up and down and clearly needed to pee. However, she was sceptical of using one of the stalls, because it was a well known fact that they were operated by the mafia, even though there didn’t seem to be any goons around at that particular moment. But when you have to, you have to, and that’s all there is to say on the subject.

So she went…

And then something bad happened… Something really bad… Anne broke one of the picture frames. Next thing I know, we’re running down the endless hallways of stalls, chased by angry members of the mob, while we were throwing the corpse of the frame back and forth between us, saying stuff like:

“You take it”
“I don’t want it”
“Well, you broke it”

Then I woke up with magic marker all over my face. But at least I can pee now without being chased by the mafia.

Overcompensation

Being sick sucks. I was fairly optimistic about my health this year, actually. And although everyone around me were regularly forced to stop what they were doing in order to have coughing fits which left their faces a shiny kinda purplish colour and their eyes bulging, my denial remained strong – this would not happen to me.

But then it did.

I’ve spent my whole weekend being all pathetic, and I now have a tremendous need to compensate for it. However, I’m still sick and, on top of everything, it’s Monday.

Have you ever noticed that tiny little germs have looong names. They’ll come up to you and say stuff like “Hello, my name is Varicellovirus Alphaherpesvirinae Herpesviridae. How are you? Wonderful. That’s about to change, buddy.” They’re obviously trying to compensate for something, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what that would be. A tiny, little germ can can do plenty.

Ambition and complicated hats

Just before new years, I met this psychic woman. She claimed that I had once been a princess in a past life. This mainly tells me two things:

1) I obviously could have been more ambitious.

This woman said that I was a princess in a time when royalty saw common people as little more than animals (yes, you are all far, far below me). Wasn’t it kinda normal for the children of kings and queens to murder their family and take the throne back when they had such modern attitudes? I mean, what kinda lily livered, yellow, dumbass princess was I, anyway? How hard is it to put a dash of poison into a goblet? They did it all the time in those Shakespeare plays. Back then, the usage of poison was seemingly as common as the use of multivitamins are today. Although the results may differ somewhat.

Obviously I was one of those scrawny, pale things with black circles underneath the eyes who coughed a lot and died young (insert eyeroll here).

2) I will now start wearing large, complicated hats and refer to myself as "we".

Ship Ohoy!

Today I am going to make seaman stew. That’s right; I’m doing the cooking thing again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but at least my belly is nice and full.

I don’t know exactly what a seaman stew is, but I’m guessing that it might be something that you make either out of seamen or while acting like a seaman. One quick glance down at the pier on my way to get the groceries, pretty much ruled out that first option.

So I’ve made plans to eat my stew while pretending to be a pirate. I’ll sit in my chair with my steaming bowl saying things like “Arrrrrr” and “the decks need swabbering, matey”. And my parrot (of course, I don’t have a parrot, so the dog will have to do) will agree with me and say things like “Captain Choochoo is a mean, ol’ pirate” (but since it’s actually the dog, and not a parrot, it’ll probably come out as more of an “arf wuff arfarf”).

And afterwards I’ll walk the plank, just for added effect. Right out of the livingroom window.

I have commited cookery

Yes, I have. This weekend I made dinner, all by myself, actually. I know that I have previously claimed to be the least domestic person in the whole wide world, and if anyone would like to challenge me for the title, then good luck to them – they’ll need it. Still, I do like cooking, though. It’s just that I hate the cleaning up bit so much more than I like the putting food together bit, and therefore I don’t do it very often.

I had a very brief career as a kitchen assistant once upon a time. Then I got paid for cleaning up, so that was okay. I don’t suppose anyone of you would want to pay me for doing my dishes, would you? No? Cheap bastards.

Once we made this particular dish that I’ve heard lots about, but never seen. It’s name would imply that it had something to do with birds, but it didn’t. In fact, it looked suspiciously like dog poops… I remember the chefs used to chase their assistants down and make them taste stuff (I gained close to ten pounds during that period, which made me even easier to chase down, so it’s probably a good thing I quit when I did.).

I can’t say that the dog poop food tasted like dog poop, however, because that would imply something about myself that simply isn’t true.

Thinking in bed

Today is Friday, just in case you hadn’t noticed. It’s also my fourth day of being bored and grumpy. All due to the many joys of womanhood, or at least that one.

I was going to do productive things today. Last night, I made grandiose plans to do the dishes and vacuum and… well, I even thought of dusting. I even wrote a list, with little boxes where I could cross things out as I did them. The first challenges to my wondrous plan reared their ugly heads (big ones, with bad skin) early this morning, when I realised that I’m still un-domestic and a little bit lazy. I was kinda hoping that I’d sleep it off. But I didn’t.

About a hundred years ago, or something along those lines, someone invented a bed that would wake you up in the morning by turning 45 degrees. That way, your feet would hit the floor without any actual bodily effort whatsoever, and you could just go about your business. Maybe I should get one of those? The only problem is that my dog sneaks into my bed in the wee hours of the morning, and that whole tipping-thing might be a bit much for her. She’s a nice pooch, but she’s got mighty big teeth.

It might turn out like that time mum slugged dad in the middle of the night, because she dreamt that he was trying to shove me into the stove.

Off with their heads!

I’m incredibly bored. Yes, I am. Not only that, I’m fed up, sick and tired, exasperated, annoyed, cheesed off, hacked off and browned off. I’m also disgruntled, displeased and discontented.

Back in the good, old days, if people felt disgruntled, they’d go cut the kings head off, and everyone would feel much better right away. Now they have surveillance cameras.

I guess that leave me with… well… blogging.

People in between and the coat that haunts me

I like watching people at the railway station. People are easier to observe while they’re waiting for busses or trains, while they’re in between. Don't get me wrong - if I had anything better to do with the time between when my classes ended and my bus arrived, I'd do it. But I don't.

Inside the station, I always like to sit underneath the clock, so that, other than watching people, I can also watch the minutes tick by. Once there, I place all of my things on the little, round table next to my seat and (pretend to) read my book while secretly spying on people. Multitasking baby. Yeah!

I’m reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. That’s the title. Although I’m not in any way trying to diminish the content by pointing that out. It’s one of those debut novels that end up selling like hotcakes, cause the author was so obviously Born To Be, if you know what I mean.

Sooner or later, a dingy old bus will make a quick stop, on its way to somewhere or other, and a small flock of passengers will tumble out, eager to inhale a cigarette before it starts to move again. They stand on the platform, an arms width apart, blowing smoke and staring at nothing in particular, ignoring each other. If one of them leaves his place, it’ll cause a ripple effect through the line. Positions will shift, circling might occur, a couple of the smoke-blowers might swap places, still seemingly unaware of each other’s existence.

My bus turned up late, as it usually does, and as I made my way towards the platform, I saw The Girl. I have no idea who The Girl is, but she wears the exact same kind of coat that I do. I ordered it from a catalogue last year. She probably did, as well.

I contemplated a couple of amusing ways in which I could kill and torture her (not necessarily in that order), and thought things like: “This town isn’t big enough for the both of us…” I never got to finish my train of thought, because there, in the front of the bus, sat a woman who was also wearing my coat.

I want a new coat…

Pic by Crispulo1976 for www.Flickr.com

Bah, humbug

I'm having a get-away-from-me-day which blends nicely with my look-at-me-and-I'll-bludgeon-you-to-death-with-my-teacup-mood.

Now, if you'll all excuse me, I'm going to go find something to scowl at.

Pic by bokeh for www.flickr.com
( http://www.flickr.com/photos/bokeh/10185417/ )

Beware of the killer bunny!

Today I went grocery shopping, which – when you’re living in Hellhole – is pretty much the most interesting thing that’ll happen to me all day long. It was even raining. With all this excitement, I’m going to need a small nap later, or I’ll get cranky and difficult to be around.

After I got home, a friend stopped by to borrow something. She watched me quietly as I unloaded my recently purchased foodstuff from its yellow plastic bags, before she slowly picked up a packet of chicken filets, looked at it, looked at me, looked back at it and then at me again, before asking: “so you eat nothing but rabbit food then, huh?”

I think she sees rabbits pretty much the same way that Monty Python do...

I'm a year old!

I have officially survived Christmas. I walked away from it with, among other things, money, painting supplies, earrings with tiny little diamonds in them, and an A for effort. I also survived all of my attempts of eating myself to death. Well, obviously. If I hadn’t, I would, as you all know, have been haunting that castle on the cliff that I once mentioned. I’ll try again next year and let you know how I do then. Or not, depending on the outcome.

New years were a pain in the soft, fleshy area. The Pooch is, as I’ve also mentioned before, petrified of fireworks. I tried to calm her down by putting her, and bits of our turkey, in her cage, covering it with blankets so that she couldn’t see anything. That’s how you calm down parrots, anyway (well, I suppose the bits of turkey wouldn’t really be a good idea if you’re trying to relax a parrot…). The Pooch then successfully proved that she’s not a parrot.


In further news, it’s my anniversary today. I’m a year old. The blog is, anyway. Yay me!