Mehitobel Wilson: writer, reader, chronic curmudgeon.

Tomboy bombshell cowgirl; lover of funk, attracted to roadsides.

Besotted with spots.

Friend to sleaze.

Admirer of filthy films, fleshy steaks, Hong Kong rap, new felt and pocket-knocking 8-balls; prefers 10 gallons of hat and 4 fingers of Jack.

Procrastination here breeds urgency there. Urgency begets sharper fiction. The dream: hone it to a splinter, and sink it deep.

So I'm here.

Tough Jerky!

This is the BEST, I want a tshirt.

Plus, I LOOOVE seeing people stick up for the jerky. Here at the office, every damn desk has a big bowl of candy on it, and they pass out donuts and cupcakes and cookies, and... bleh, what is it with the sweetteefs?

They think I kid when I say I want salt licks and jerky. But I have a tub of SlimJims (not jerky, but it's hard to take phone calls when one's jaw is overly occupied) - and a jar of bouillion and some emergency cup-o-noodles.

SALT LICKS AND JERKY. Annnnnnd SAKE!
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 3:34 PM

This is embarrassing

Ringtones

Sigh. Mine does ring the Imperial March, aka "Vader's Theme." The only damn song whose title is printed is mine.

It does not CHIRP. It grinds. I programmed it myself and it reminds me when it rings that doom and authority is calling to make me do things I don't want to do. It's my work phone, you understand.

Please please please let me sleep. And please remind me not to stay up til 4am when I have to work at 7. I need to stop that. I need sleeping pills or something - BUT, then I'd have LESS TIME to do stuff, because I'd be... asleep. I need AWAKE PILLS. Coffee isn't cutting it any more. Ephedrine, I don't want to go into the freezer for the emergency Eph. Outright speed, here I come.
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 5:20 PM

Anniversary

Krueger was a street stray. He, a calm boy and not a psychoface like Eike, is allowed to stay out of his crate when I've determined it's Dog Bedtime. (Plus, each dog gets some time during the day to hang out alone, without the hassle of having their heads stomped on.)

He's asleep next to me. Earlier, he was asleep in the hall, and in the kitchen, and in the dining room.

He has, often, what sound like bad dreams.

He's free in the house and sleeping so hard that he's dreaming, and he's rolled onto his back with his belly to the wind, and when I stand up he opens his eyes and wags his tail, and it makes me think: what was his sleep like before he came here? Did he crawl under things and curl up tight? Did he sleep deeply enough to dream? Did he ever wake up easily, open a lazy eye and wag, or did he always jump up, ready for fight or flight?

I'll never know his story. Having been a street stray myself, I'd love to know.

He got picked up by Animal Control March 24, 2004, and now he sleeps belly-up and wakes up happy.

I found a bed and a roof (granted, with a benefactor much less kind than I) TEN YEARS AGO, and still, despite being surrounded with chainlink fences and deadbolts and guns and German Shepherds and alarm systems and giant, heavily-armed Tony, I still expect at any moment to wake up blind, naked, hungry, and ready to fight for my life.

I sleep very little.

I did all of this to myself, of course. I could have called my parents and told them the truth and asked for help, but I didn't want them to know how bad everything had gotten. I could have asked to come home, but didn't want to leave Minneapolis, which I really did love. And when I found my roof, it came with a human that did different kinds of damage - but I chose him, accepted him. Worse, I initiated the whole thing. This is what lust gets ya.

I have a habit/conviction that is: you got yourself here, you deal with it. I have stayed in bad situations out of some misguided self-flagellant penance too often: "Look what you caused! Sucks, don't it? EAT IT. Every bit. Clean your plate."

There's fear, too, and stubbornness. In college, the fear was: someone will find out that I can't afford this. They'll see that I failed. So I didn't take off for a year or two or ask for another loan. On the street, the fear was: if I ask the people that can help to save me, they'll think they failed me by letting me get here, and I did it all. With the Evil, it was that I had nowhere else to go, and that I was so fucked in the head that I thought I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

I have this dog laying next to me, see. He's just stunningly beautiful, and sweet, and a prize. I think he was purchased as a cutie puppy, yelled at in the house, and then tied to a rope in the back yard when he became too much to handle. I can't begin to guess what his time on the street was like, or how long he was there - the neglect and malnutrition were clearly long-term, but a human could have been responsible for that, too.

But he's here now. And he sleeps soundly, and wakes without fear, and eats with leisure, not with panic. He moseys around with an unguarded, carefree attitude, and he's playful. Not once has he been defensive, aggressive, or disrespectful.

I envy him. I hope this sort of thing rubs off on me.
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 4:36 AM

Oh, yeah

This is a kickass blog. I even forgive the Grrl Power stuff.

(Edit: Oh, shit, this is Jessica Hopper's blog, she of Hit It or Quit It! Goddamn, the punk world STAYS SMALL. Just now I read some of her recent essays and, even though they're still slightly Grrly, they're more in line with how I feel now, though it's not her intention: I'm getting old and scowling at the ignorance of the kids in the scene, and this includes girls and guys.)

(Edit again: a Girls Gone Wild commercial was just on, and for free, you could also receive a DVD entitled Girl Power. Synchronicity, my lovelies.)

Since thinking about T's last night I've been very nostalgic:

Waitresses get to know regular customers. Food is made quick. Scantily clad, tatooed/ pierced waitresses entertain customers with their quickness on 4+ inch heeled shoes. Maybe not for your grandparents but this place is great. Quirky atmosphere complete with little signs everywhere, from 'Good customers put away their crayons' to 'No Checks'. Greasy spoon tex-mex restaurant done well.

Food was once made by Del, now dead, having gotten bombed in his apartment after we confiscated his cats. His cat had had kittens and he was throwing them against the wall. Thor's girlfriend, with whom I'd been going to take bellydancing lessons until she got pregnant, came bursting into the restaurant, screaming about the cats. We all lived in the same building at the time, kitty-corner to the restaurant. They filmed some of FARGO in our building and the Coen brothers used Ali's apartment as a lounge, and appropriated my moose head. Story of Del's death and the discovery of his body aren't blog material.

Food was also made by Jayson, the paranoid anti-communist guy. He was a freak, but I loved him. After the OKC bombings he reported Jake and Eric of the band The Subversives to the FBI because they looked like the suspect sketches, which meant we all got interviewed multiple times by the feds. One FBI guy did change the flourescent bulbs in the kitchen for me, though. I wasn't playing the girl card, I was playing the "we have to open in 20 minutes and I have shit to do, talk to me while you WORK" card. Plus, spiders lived in the light fixture. I pay that guy's salary. He works for me.

Food was made by others, too, but I'm not sure what their situation is, so I have to leave them out.

Insider Tips:

Know Before You Go
Little signs in the booths warn against leaving money at the table. Heed them.

This is true, and I'm glad they're publicizing it.

Wait staff and kitchen staff got into some nasty fights with customers - I'm talking the kinds of fights where blood was drawn and cops were called - because of such things. If a waitperson got stiffed, we'd basically mug the table - we'd prevent them from getting into their car until they paid, then make it clear they weren't welcome again. This was mostly for art students. If they tried to stiff on the bill, we let them get all the way to the alley, and then we met up with them and got paid - AND tipped. Nobody called any cops in those cases.

If someone STOLE money off a table, we got mean.

The Scene:
A legendary nocturnal spot, this cantina is equipped for an alternative late-night crowd: old carpet, duct-taped pleather booths and loud punk music. Servers with hot pink hair and body jewelry are pleasant, but aren't afraid to enforce the many rules--no refills, no substitutions, one-hour limit on tables and a minimum for tabs.

Ever seen someone that you knew would be a friend? One of our regulars (the girlfriend of an excruciatingly fine guy, the Cenobyte, we called him) struck the rare Likely Friend chord with me near the end of my years working there. This was my first experience with the weirdness of Friend Flirting. It's like hitting on someone, yet you don't even have the fallbacks of a one-night stand or "what's the worst that could happen, he/she could say no." Plus, I have little in common with most girls. It's easy for me to befriend guys, but I don't know how to obtain female friends when I want them.

(Aside: the words "nocturnal spot" inspired this line of thinking, fyi.)

Right after I left the job, I got a phone call at my house... from my imaginary friend, Mel. One of the other waitresses had mentioned to her that I wanted to meet her and wasn't nuts or hitting on her or anything. It WAS an awkward conversation, but my sense about her was right, and Mel's one of those people that I lose track of for years and then can reconnect in a heartbeat.

Now: no refills, one-hour limit, and a bill minimum - unless things have really changed, those are rules we made up to get the hookers to leave. Now, we HELPED the hookers all the time, but when they or the crackheads or the gutterpunks who came to take advantage of us, their friends, occupied a table for hours with a .95c cup of coffee, only to leave maybe a buck for a tip, MAYBE, we got annoyed. It might have changed, but the way it WAS was, if you were dicking us, we'd make it hard for you, but if you and yours were eating food and ordering malts, we'd be a little more lax with our rules.

Sigh.

I remember, every day, thinking how much I both hated my job, and loved it. I knew for sure that I'd never waitress anywhere else, I knew it then. I'm not at all opposed to waitressing, but that was the BEST, and I knew it. I'd make a lot more money waitressing now, but now I'm in a tourist town, where I'd have to kiss ass and where I'd get stiffed constantly - why not? Tourists aren't regulars.

Then I got a crippling craving for liverwurst, so I had to go grocery shopping. My grandpop used to make me liverwurst sandwiches, and for years I've been trying to remember what it was. It was br-something. Today I remembered, Braunschweiger!!!

This is a fun word to say.

Anyway, I was prepared to hate it, in case I'd misremembered my reaction to the sandwiches, but upon licking the knife after opening the casing, I swooned with saliva-squirting joy.

And I've been missing Rhode Island, too. The land and the places I went, not necessarily the people I was there to visit.

And Montana, I've been ghost-missing that. I've never been to Montana, but I dream of it too often. Montana and Maine.

Sigh.

Not that I have a problem with Savannah - just that, I think, my wanderlust is all abrew. Most of the time when I leave town, it's for a convention, so I'm in a hotel. I adore hotels and motels and all kinds of 'tels, but it's been a LONG time since I've gotten to know a new town, or even to get a taste of it. I miss that.

posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 1:19 AM

Bel is an essential dead

Googlism "doesn't know enough about Mehitobel yet," but knows neat things about Bel; it's nearly a poem:

bel is a canadian manufacturer of truck and snow removal
bel is the nation
bel is an essential dead
bel is
bel is truly the creative ingredient
bel is a three year old female black & tan coonhound mix weighing between 45 and 50 lbs
bel is supporting the studies of more than 60 investigators at major research universities throughout the us
bel is on the upward move
bel is identified by the greeks as zeus and as jupiter by the romans
bel is de belgische versie van de nace rev
bel is well able to understand and react to the environmental concerns of industry
bel is also certified for iso 9001
bel is engaged in the design
bel is a funny witty character who is very compassionate and worries about those closest to her
bel is investing in and building Belize
bel is specialist op het gebied van design keukens
bel is the modal belief operator and it is axiomatized with the weak s5 logic
bel is a standard of measure
bel is flabbergasted and agrees to take a walk with her
bel is worshipped
bel is not planning on wind generation at this time (eheeeheheh)
bel is used rather than arithmetic ratios or percentages because when circuits are connected in series
bel is used
bel is back
bel is by far the best brand in radar protection
bel is a ratio of 10
bel is spanish after all
bel is lord
bel is an advanced placement constraint
bel is the first company in india to promote the latest technology of digital pumping
bel is pleased to be recognized by an industry leader like celestica
bel is a sensation
bel is a role model
bel is a chaldean root that means "tower of fire"
bel is a living god? seest thou not how much he eateth and drinketh every day?
bel is not just wild
bel is the same way
bel is in the boat
bel is defined as a power ratio of ten
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 12:36 AM

Where Was I?

1. Where were you when you heard that Ronald Reagan died?

In bed.

2. Where were you on September 11, 2001?

I was driving to work. I listen to talk radio and the local show was on; they mentioned the first plane and it sounded, at the moment, like a Cessna off-course, then, just before I got to the office, the second, at which time they confirmed there were two *airliners.* I sought a radio. My friend Casey worked at the same place at the time and we were on IM; her officemate's husband was in the AF and had called her, hysterical, saying we were under attack.

There was a TV in our conference room. Robert and I seemed to be the only people that cared about the fucking situation. There was a girl waiting in the conference room for a job interview and she was angry at us for watching TV. She was angry at us for weeping when the fucking towers FELL. She asked us to leave, and she was really snotty about it. How dare we intrude on her career goals?

I asked her to fuck off.

She got the job, and I hated her every single day until she got fired.

I stayed at work, and everyone that emailed me work-related requests, I hate to this day. If they were just ignorant of what was going on, too bad. If they were trying to get on with daily life? Inexcusable. No matter WHAT was going on and who was responsible, people were dying, and I will forever be pissed that coworkers seemed impatient with ME for not answering quickly enough. It was a soul-blackening day, to be sure. And I have an everlasting list of coworkers whom I loathe.

(I stayed awake all night, watching the news, never running dry. They showed the lines of doctors standing outside the hospitals, waiting for the wounded that never came, and I cried. The focus shifted from the victims in the Towers, subtly, to the firefighters from whom no one had heard a response in hours, and it got to the point where I'm not sure what happened, I was sobbing so hard.

The next day I went to work and the hatred had not passed. I went outside to smoke and examined the blue sky, blank, no contrails, no sound, and could barely breathe.)

3. Where were you when you heard that Princess Diana died?

I'd just moved here and the TV, black and white, actually only showed green. It was on the living room floor and Robert and I were as well. We had no furniture. That's all I remember. Didn't bother me much.

4. Do you remember where you were when you heard Kurt Cobain had died?

Yes.

Should I say where?

Okay, the student union at Macalester College, St. Paul, MN, not giving much of a fuck at all that Kurt Cobain had died. I mean, for a long time I thought the Teen Spirit song said "here we are now, mashed potatoes," so who gives a fuck?

5. Take one for The Gipper: What’s your favorite flavor of jelly bean?

Licorice. Actually, the white kind - what kind IS the white kind? Nobody knows. Kinda minty spicy? It's not vanilla, we know that. It's... white.

Gee. I like the black and the white. Suprise.

If they made a grey jellybean, I'd hope it tastes of fog.

6. Where were you when Magic Johnson announced he was retiring from the NBA due to AIDS?

In a car. Not caring much. I think I thought, "Gosh, slut, there ya go." Because the AIDS bit wasn't the bit that caught my attention, it was his saying he'd caught AIDS from one of his freaking TEN THOUSAND partners. He's got AIDS and he's still bragging about being a whore?

I was also in a car - a red one - when I heard he was playing again. And that, I remember more clearly, because I was proud of him for coming back, and proud of us for letting him. THAT is the milestone.

7. Where were you when Reagan was shot?

At my grandmom's, watching yet another green television. Honestly, I don't know if it was the moment he was shot, or if it was coverage afterwards.

I had a crush at the time on a guy named Brady, so... I was distracted.

8.Where were you when the Challenger exploded?

In middle school, in the hallway, on the way to biology class. E. L. Wright Middle School, Columbia, SC. The hall was mobbed, as any public school hallway is between classes, and an announcement came over the intercom.

Nobody cried or anything. We were little. Let's see, that was January, 1986, which means I was 12. In the same bio class people sang "The Superbowl Shuffle," wove friendship bracelets out of embroidery floss, and talked about "Roots."

9. Where were you when the 0J verdict was announced?

Waitressing at the Little Tijuana Cafe, Little T's, Little Tease. Where was I during the chase? Living in a closet on a bed of animal skins stolen from a conveyor belt at my job where I unbaled old clothes. Where was I during the trial? In LA, on tour with Wool, gorging myself at El Pollo Loco and getting flaccid drunk on Jack (served out of Mason jars, natch) at B. B. King's.

I remember that Table 2 was very, very pissed.

Table 5 was a booth that had a guy sitting alone. He had long hair. When I went to take his order, a bird flew out from under his hair - a red parakeet.

Ah, T's. I'll probably never waitress again, because T's was a dealbreaker: where else could you wait on Bobby McFerrin and his fantastically sweet children and, while waiting for his order to come up (nonsmoking), pick the lock to the ladies' room and haul some street guy out for smoking crack? Sigh. I miss it so much.

10, that I made up myself: where was I when I heard John Lennon died: in the pantry, reaching for a box of Grapenuts. I was seven. I took the box of cereal and sat in front of the TV, crosslegged, and held the box.

I'd read THE CATCHER IN THE RYE already, and when the news said that was what Chapman had with him, I read it again, looking for clues. I found none.

Even now, I've found none.



posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 12:56 AM

Sniff

One year ago this very second, I was watching WOLFEN while Eike, then three months old, snewzed on the couch alongside me. It was the day she'd come home. I told you how I'd wanted her, but something had been miscommunicated with her breeder and she got sold to someone else, so she was going to sell me one of her Schutzhund prospects instead - and how, when I went to meet the other pup, knowing she'd be too much for me, the breeder had the other pup AND Eike? Eike's original owner had decided that morning that her new pup was too much to handle, and had returned her to the breeder.

I gave both pups a fair review - well, I tried. But Eike and I connected instantly, and it was a done deal.

In the past year I've learned:

Puppies are an insane amount of work.

Dog ownership costs more and takes more time and effort than I'd realized. This is more true in the case of a working-lines GSD than, say, a Pomeranian (I love Poms, I'm not insulting the littles.)

I can be a hypochondriac about pets, as well as about myself. Myself, I let it go. Eike gets dragged to the vet.

I've learned to learn less from books and rely more on instinct: I grew up around both conformation and obedience dogs/people, and I know more than I knew I know. Er, um.

I'm become even more solidly positive that kids are a no-go pour moi.

I had, for many months, thought one dog was more than enough, until I volunteered to rehab another. Now I think that two dogs are better than one.

I've learned that I'll happily eat/smoke/drink generic or nothing, if it means being able to pay for Kongs/Milkbones/obedience class.

I've learned that I can get out in front of people and act like an utter dink, and that it's pretty much fine.

I've learned how to mop, vaccuum, and sweep, and how to actually yearn to do it all.

Tonight the dogs and I celebrated by eating pig ears, drinking beer, playing in the mud, watching "Reno 911," and 'rasslin. Krueger got a little overexcited and Robert's power went out. Tony's on tour with Kylesa, I missed paying the bar's rent because I was off buying parmesan for my lasagne, and the Chernobyl biker chick lied (but, you know, I don't particularly mind: it's all perspective, and then reading the account provides an interpretation of perspective - and where's the truth in that?)

I got absolutely ZERO done today, other than some weirdness over whether or not I want to sign on for a graphic novel that would be work for hire, but have my name on it - and be in the horror genre. That doesn't count as a "done" thing so much as an "argh" thing.

I fret over too many things.

But when I'm sitting on the sofa, reading a horror novel, and Krueg's laying under my legs, and Eike's beside me gnawing her Kong flat, there is no Fret. There is but Good.
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 12:14 AM

legs and legs and legs and legs

There are spiders EVERYWHERE. They're in each window. They're in the corners. They are tightening the noose. There are egg sacs galore, I can't smack them, they will explode babelet spides all over.

I have to move back to Minnesota immediately.

One of my dogs, Tugger, my Keeshond, ate a spider, which bit Tug's throat on the way down. His throat swelled and he suffocated to death.

What if one gets one of my dogs now?

What if one LOOKS AT ME?

Fuck, I hate the fuckers.

Yes, it's irrational. I know this. When I was in third grade I loved unicorns, and I wrote a story about a spider and a unicorn, something about how unicorns weren't even real and spiders were good for the planet. I wanted to change my own mind.

No luck. It's a million years later and I'm still highly anti-spider.

Fuckers.

And THEY ARE BREEDING.
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 10:24 PM

Oil on the Carpet

... not really. But I did get to fire up a bike in a friend's living room tonight. The bike I'll be buying in October, to be precise.

I got CENSORED on a board for saying "bastard."

"Bastard," people.

Happy 4th, day of Freedom, day of Freedom from nasty, nasty cursing.

My fucking god.

I think I'm done with that board.

Despite the fact that Kasey sucked tonight, and that there was a two-hour rain delay, the race was fun to watch. I didn't even shoot anyone when JG won.

What else did I do... took Eike to the Humane Society to get her 'chipped again (since the Banfield chip she has is apparently unreadable by anybody BUT Banfield, lying assholes - er, bastards - er, fucks - er, cunts - er, noodletwats) - and learned two things: first, the Pound is full of shrieking toddlers on Saturdays, and second, Eike rocks the fucking socks. I put her in a down-stay and she held it despite the CATS running galore and the toddlers banging their hands on cages screaming "BAAGH! FAH! FAHBABAHG!"

If the cat didn't piss itself, it was not a good cat, apparently, because the kids would move to the next cage and do it again.

Kids came up to Eike and petted her without permission, and she was cool with it. They grabbed at me, and she was cool with it.

She wasn't cool with the German Shepherd statue that was her size, and that was a smidge embarrassing.

Three different people tried to adopt her. Defense!

I've had her for almost a year now: I got her July 7 of last year. Krueger came to us March 28 of this year. Eike has been a trial for months.

But now, I can kick back on the couch and read, and Eike lays beside me and chews her Kong, and Krueger, low man on the totem pole, lays under my legs, and... it really is just lovely. I can't express how beautiful and calm it is to have big warm good animals snoozing while you drink a pot of tea and read M. John Harrison in silence. Really, really lovely.

Yes, folks, this is a Good Day in Bel-view.

Glad it's nearly over. I don't quite know what to do in this state of mind.
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 1:57 AM

Since I've liked other quizzes from Muted Faith, I took a couple more:






Find your Role-Playing
Stereotype at mutedfaith.com.


Yay!

And,






Take the What Type of Friend are
You? quiz, and visit mutedfaith.com.



Hm. Fuck. THAT shouldn't be public fucking knowledge.







find your element
at mutedfaith.com.



That is FREAKY. Freaky. QUIZZES ARE FREAKY.

There's still no Deadwood quiz, that I can find.

Whee, Friday night.
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 12:34 AM

Take the What High School
Stereotype Are You? quiz.

Outsider, yes. "Dysfunctional" home life? Abnormal, yes. Always living in abject fear of punishment for infractions I didn't even know I was committing, sure. Living too deep in the woods to have friends, and spending 4 days a week at home, alone, taking care of a kennel full of dogs & a farm full of animals, yeah. But "dysfunctional" sounds crappy and seems like it would insult my parents, who are great.

As a teen I didn't think they were that great, but I've seen videotape of myself with them, and fucking christ, I was a nasty smartass. If someone *today* were being as much of a mouth to me as I was to my parents, I'd have slung their jaw around the back of their head by now.

Went to the eyeball exam man today so I can have fresh shiny sparkly new contacts in time for Horrorfind. I prepared to stick my head into the dreaded Glaucoma Puffer Contraption and the lady said no, we don't puff anymore.

She put drops in my eyes, then held my lids open (with her fingers! ew) - and aimed a laser pointer in them (so close that, um, I grabbed her hand and pushed it away, and said, "Are you going to POKE MY EYEBALL?" No, she was not)- and the laser pointer beeps, and that somehow guages eyeball pressure.

Well, gosh, I thought, that's much better than the puff. I hate the puff. I have been known to be such a baby about the puff that they give up and say, "Ah, you're too young for this anyway, we'll give it another shot next year."

Then I was left to sit in the eyeball chair for a while, during which time the drops... did something. Eyeballocular things really, really gross me out. Really. Being left alone in a room with alien drops doing... something enables me to imagine all sorts of things. What are the drops doing? Are my eyeballs twice as big? Because they FEEL twice as big. I've never heard of this laserpointer beep thing, how much has it been tested? Will I react badly and have my eyes explode all over my knees?

They did not and the stuff wore off, but for seven minutes or so, I was on the verge of fainting. I imagined some gross stuff.

The eye exam guy touched my boob, too. I probably wouldn't even have noticed, but I read a Dick Laymon book today (ENDLESS NIGHT) and his books are so full of guys ogling and copping feels that I become a little more aware of such things for a day or two. Then I forget again. Unless it's really obvious - you reading this, Koenig?

I'm at shows in crowded bars very, very often, and have been for more than half my life now. (Neat! What? Eh? Speak up.) While maneuvering in such places, one's boobs get banged against a whole lot of people. So what?

I don't like having conversations when I'm getting doctored. They talk to you to take your mind off of things, and I want my mind ON things. I want to experience every sensation, and catalogue both the sensations and the thoughts they cause. Doctors seem to think I'm rude, but... big suprise there. EVERYONE thinks I'm rude. I assume this means that I AM rude.

The eye doctor's office has posters that caused me to crawl around in my chair and whine. Fucking disgusting posters. Oh my god.

Then I accidentally bought a bunch more African Violets (plants are cheap and I am not too disappointed when I kill them) and some orchids. One is the Mystery Orchid: it has fat buds about to bloom, and I have no idea what the blooms will look like. What color will they be? Will they have fangs or look like moths?

If they could make an orchid that looked like a luna moth, I'd be there.

The chick in line behind me at the plant place had the Six Flags commercial song as her ringtone. I alternate between the Dick Van Dyke Show theme and the Imperial March theme, but I covet her tone and may have to install that one too. I LOVE those commercials. Many fear the dancing man. I adore him. I want a marionette of him.

Thinking about those eye drops again has reawakened the weird inflated-eyeball sensation, now. GROSS. Stopstop.

Anyway, the Laymon was disturbing on a few counts. A few of the relatively recent Leisure Laymon releases have been.

Oh, SHEW. I thought my next deadline was July 15th and that I was fuck-ed, but it's August 25th. Thank god. I've been so wrapped up in noodling novels that shorts have not been working out for me. The last one I finished, which was supposed to be my submission to Darkside 4, turns out to be an important subplot in the Most Important Novel, so... no Darkside 4 pour moi.

Something smells good in here. That's unusual. Something smells floral and lovely. Normally it smells like dog-soaked-in-goldfish-poop.

Granted, now that the rain's killing all my goldfish, they'll stop pooping and the dogs will smell better. Right? Hurray!

Feh.
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 11:17 PM