Dear Diary,

So, the incredibly sweet and rambunctious grimalkin that we all got to meet last christmas was hit by a car a few days ago, and has moved on from this earthly life.

He was lanky, and feisty: self-confidence was not lacking in this one. One (cold) morning i went down to the microwave in the garage to re-heat a cup of coffee, and i heard scritch-scritch-crunch-scritch. There was Bugsy, behind the recycling, eating a bird he'd killed, and one that was about his size, too. The feathers were black and white, spotted and striped... he looked up at me plainly, alert: what? i'm just down here eating. But each night he would dial back up the kitten-tude, and paw open the bedroom door so he could curl up at our feet, purring and kneading, hungry for love.

He was a very special cat (i know: which ones aren't?), and i can't decide if i was lucky to meet him, or if it just made this loss extra sad. Nah, scratch that. i was lucky, for sure. And apparently, i was also the only one who ever took a photo of the little guy, which i am now using as a motivation for finally getting my 9,000 rolls of film developed. We need to fashion a little shrine, a place to hold and resonate our collective grief.

Meanwhile the dog, beforehand a snubber of the cat's affections, has now taken to sniffing around Bugsy's food bowl, and checking for him around the perimeter of the house. She's gettin' it.

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Decided to try and drink some coffee today, unfortunately i don't believe that my system was ready. Just feel jittery and gross. Can't wait for things to be back to normal. The holidays are coming; my boss is asking me about scheduling on Thanksgiving. It's sure to be a whirlwind. Before we know it, christmas will be here again, and then gone. Don't believe i'll even have snow to show for it this year. Ah, the passing of time. Pay attention– it's quick.

A friend has sent me two old manual cameras. Sure wish this gladdened my heart instead of filling me with dread... when's the last time i even snapped a picture? It's been ages. Perhaps that's part of the problem. Need to get out more.

Love to all.

Marginally better.

Wow, so i just bit off a righteous hangnail and let me tell you, there is little more disturbing than blood spatter all over the keys of a bright white MacBook. (Nat, if you're reading this, don't worry: i used the 180 proof.) ::shudder::

Spent the day tiptoeing around the place, trying my best not to cough. You see, i sneezed so much in the past two days that the slightest cough (or giggle) sends me into the higher levels of my pain threshold. Not fun times.

Decided it would be best to spend the evening in bed, watching Hush... Hush, Sweet Charlotte, since my mom and bro have been pestering me to watch it since forever, and really– who can ever have enough Bette Davis? What a talent.

(still bleeding over here, by the way.)

Not much more to say today except that it will be so nice to taste my dinner. i really hope that gets to happen tonight.

And, just because (i had to!):

you know you're sick, when:

~After a full (9 hours!) night of sleep, you wake up feeling like you've just taken a long tumble down an extremely rocky cliffside.

~Your face is leaking.

~Parts of your back hurt that you never even knew existed. (Are those actually internal organs? Maybe.)

~One minute you are throwing open windows and stripping to a tank top, and the next you are wearing two sweaters, socks and sweatpants, curled up in bed under the Extra Blanket.

~Your brain's processing power is so feeble that you find yourself watching "Bolt" on your computer. (Thanks, Netflix!)

~Your go-to meal is toast, toast, and more toast.


On the other hand, being ill offers up a great reserve of time in which to read all those books you have laying next to your bed. i just finished reading Logicomix, wherein i learned a great deal about Bertrand Russell (and logic/math in general), through the über-accessible vehicle of the graphic novel. Also interesting has been Oliver Sacks' An Anthropologist On Mars, where i've just heard the tale of the man who was in a traffic accident and afterward became (completely!) colorblind, seeing the world in only shades of black and white (and grey). Ugh! If you think that sounds nice, well– you're mistaken. Just check out his offering of fruits, all pieces of which he has painted grey. Try and salivate over that leaden orange. No really, go ahead! To make matters worse, this man was a painter and could no longer enjoy his craft, or the works of others (unless they were black-and-white photographs, which remained unaffected). He even noted a distinction in tone between black-and-white TV and color TV with the color turned all the way down.

Also reading There Once Lived a Woman Who Tried to Kill Her Neighbor's Baby: Scary Fairy Tales, by Ludmilla Petrushevskaya. Bone-scraping stuff. Real, and harsh. Much less magical than, say, Angela Carter. More bleak and numbing. But good.

Listening to older Animal Collective and newer PJ Harvey. One is emotional, palliative, and jubilant, while the other is rough and unsettling. Actually, they both are all of those things.

Off to tea and... well, toast.

(cooty)kisses,
``h

'Fame', the four-letter word.

i'm sorry, but i find it extremely disheartening that the number one search on Yahoo! right now is "Balloon Boy Incident".


First of all: Why the word "incident"? Would simply typing "balloon boy" not be sufficient? i wonder why they didn't add "hoax" "not a hoax?" and "Octomom" in there for good measure. Suppose i'll have to give credit where credit is due.

Secondly: Why are all three words capitalized? Do people not understand case sensitivity, and/or the lack thereof?

And third: Ugh, just ugh. Playin' right into their hands, you are.

a green-eyed, yellow-bellied, silver-tongued dark horse.

t's been ages. What have you been up to? As for me:


~saw a black widow.
~accidentally vacuumed up a pair of underwear.
~won an orchid (Cattleya) at an orchid fair.
~finally procured a jar of artichoke hearts (note: waited waaaaay too long to discover this).
~bit my nails back down to stumps.
~found out what blue Curaçao tastes like. verdict? not so great.

and:

~currently experiencing some sort of (pre-?)midlife crisis.

That last one is probably due to the fact that i will soon be entering into my third decade of life on this zany, spinning marble and haven't got anything of substance to show for it. Nor, for that matter, a whole lot of prospects on the horizon. But i think it's because i have been way too busy hiding under a rock to see anything. Hope this can be helped.

In other news: don't you just love bright green trees against a gunmetal sky?

And don't you just hate putting pillowcases on pillows? Yeah. Me too.