Monthly Archives: September 2012

My own personal Questing Beast.

Did you ever read The Once and Future King when you were a kid? You SHOULD have. You didn't? Don't worry, that's why we have Wikipedia:

"As King Pellinore describes it, the hunt of the beast has always been the burden of the Pellinores, and all Pellinores are in fact trained for the hunt from birth… Having searched fruitlessly all his life for the beast, Pellinore is convinced by his friend Sir Grummore Grummursum to drop his quest. However, when it turns out later that the beast had been pining away for lack of attention, King Pellinore nurses it back to health and resumes his Sisyphean hunt."

I too am on a hunt. A quest, even. For The Most Perfect Walking Shoe Ever Made. I need it before I go on vacation in October. The things is that I enjoy walking while on vacation. Like between 5 and 10 miles a day. I also enjoy looking 'funky-fresh'. Look at how cute this girl looks while living out of a suitcase. Here is a graph I made:

Shoe graph

So, to summarize, I need a shoe in which I can walk 10 miles, but that is also pretty enough to wear with dresses. It can't have a heel. It must be black or brown or gold or silver or covered in glitter, because those are the only colors I like. It can't make my legs look weird. It must have an interesting detail. It has to look good with my preexisting purses. I want it to last a full three years before it falls apart.

I mean, I am a simple girl with simple (first world, entitled) needs. Why can't I get what I want?


I'm so glad someone wrote a song about my feelings and someone else made a creepy video for it.




Michael K must wake up every day and say a prayer to Prince Harry, because he's basically writing sweet poetry lately. On that girl who came forward to talk about making out with Harry:

"I can't with the dumbasses who got coked up at that party and didn't keep their heads as clear as possible to fully take in all of the ginger hotness. I can't with the paid hooker whore who didn't find a way to drag PHG to the nearest chapel to have a quickie royal wedding with him. And I really can't with this Carrie trick. There she was alone with a naked PHG and all she did was make out with his tongue?! They'd have to bring in the British Army, Scotland Yard, every bobby in London town and several priests to try pry me off of his naked ass. They wouldn't be able to do it. The Queen herself could beat me in the back with her pocketbook and I still wouldn't move. We'd immediately be conjoined (at the crotch) twins and I don't think even surgery would pull us apart. But yet, this Carrie trick kisses him for a few minutes and then just flutters away?

Why is Carrie talking to The Mirror, anyway? Hell, why is Carrie talking at all? Bitch should've had her tongue shellacked to preserve the PHG saliva drops. This bitch is a disgrace to two nations!"



Things of the Fall

Since autumn is almost upon us, I decided to dig out my bike…oh, but I have to tell you about the little store-room off the carport.

The room of doom.

I don't know if you have the privilege of living in an old house. My house was built in the 1960s, which is not that old in terms of the whole world, but is pretty old in terms of these guys:


My house has spiders of every kind: little ones, big ones, and (most importantly) poisonous ones. The lifespan of a black widow is one year, and mating season is the summer, with eggs hatching in the fall, which is relevant because spiders are protective little jerks. Also, fecund. My carport is just brimming with egg sacs new and old. They look like all of your nightmares:


You guys, I went in with a flashlight and broom and committed a holocaust. I fought a black widow-mother for my bike. I touched so many egg sacs (sidebar: why are sacs such a big thing in nature? Please discuss). Now I'm sitting here, on my couch, writing this. I keep thinking I feel the prickle of baby spiders walking down my back. I'm covered in spider webs and glory (glory is what I call the mysterious, intense itch between my shoulder bladesOHMYGOD AM I DYING?).

I love you, schwinnsy.