Friday, June 11, 2010

Some Randomish Stuff Blogged Randomly

I almost always use a Jessica Gonacha Swift drawing as my desktop image because her drawings are loose and free and candylike but soul-feeding. This was the first hit of Jess that hooked me like cocaine, only (again) a soul-feeding kind.

Here is her delicious website.

My new floor? Is mostly dirt. The gritty cement keeps crumbling off the tile* because the crazy people leveled with cement OVER tile. They are crazy-named affectionately because they were my husband's grandies, and are loved. But crazy. They also carpeted the bathrooms & kitchen, which we all know is a design felony.

Sailor Perry's Spiced Rum is packing of much more punch than the Captain's lime shit. However, you can pour the cleam lime shit right on ice & drink it like Kool-Aid, which Shane makes with 2/3 the recommended sugar, which is stone cold brilliant.

After three days of regular Vicodin usage, there is no buzz, but you can still tell time in four hour increments by when your tooth-that-has-ceased-to-be starts throbbing again. Then, more Vicodin.

If you suddenly, infuriatingly find that your pointer tool and all marquee tools totally fucking ignore you in any Adobe/Macromedia program, you just hit the space bar and they suddenly oblige like well-trained puppies.

*The tile, according to my impeccable Willowing** skills, almost definitely contains asbestos. This is fine until we remove it, and guess what! My husband is in the safety department of a serious global manufacturing corporation that makes big crap for mostly getting fossil fuels from out of earth* and then moving it to places where trucks can bring it to our cars and the grid and whatever, and he is well-versed now in safely getting the tiles up and out of the floor but just in case, the Bitty and I shall be at an else-place where there are wading pools and tequila for us as appropriate.

Sadly, though, no wading pool filled with tequila.

*They are all extremely WHEW because they did not sell any valves to BP.

**to willlow v.
1. to find, in the magick realm of the innerwebs, information in an expedient and pleasingly thorough manner, much in the way of Our Miss Rosenberg.
2. to find information others cannot find by their own googling.
etymology: us. and probably other BtVS fans, one assumes.

Upon successfully willowing information, the willower is then allowed to call King of the Lab. Because also we like Bones.

David Boreanaz is perfect as a butch FBI DUDEly dude. I loathe him as Angel. He is not at all vampiric of manner, looks, or bones structure.

I think I might sell some plasma to kick start my tattoo savings jar. I've willowed it, and as long as I protein-pack beforehand and hydrate, it should be peachy keen. Don't think I'm all skeevy- you know there are much worse reasons for selling plasma. Mine is for art. Or even RELIGION, since my tattoo is of a god. So: noble me.

You know...ZOMBIES. It is Bu's birthday. All his presents are zombie-themed. Plus brain cake with oozing cherry brains. I win at life, I think you'll agree.


  1. Pics of Zombie cake or it didn't happen!

    Happy Bday, Boo!

    ~the Souster

  2. Shhh!!! Did not happen! Ran outta time. Will be Father's Day Brain Cake. Grr. Argh.