What do we want? Time Travel! When do we want it? IRRELEVANT!

I sliced my hand open last night cooking dinner.

I was chopping up a huge thing of ginger that I bought, and my hand slipped and went RIGHT under the knife as it came down. Now I look like I'm about to go practice pugilism in a shady ass gym somewhere. My hand is all wrapped up with gauze and bandages. I bled like a stuck pig. Hooray!

I have a paper to write tonight that's due in nine hours. I have fifteen miles to ride. Allen's girlfriend is coming over, so I have to straighten up downstairs. I have laundry to do. I pretty much just want to take a fucking nap.

BUT!

I went outside this afternoon, and stood right next to a bunny. It made my fucking day. It didn't even run away, it just stood next to me (most people would say that staying still was a fear reflex, but I choose to believe it's because the bunny wanted to be the best of friends with me), and I talked to it and then went back inside.

I'm thinking about writing a story about Alzheimer's. It isn't pleasant, but I would be hard pressed to think of a happy go lucky scenario involving Alzheimer's.

Tomorrow is museum day!!!!!!!!!

My lips are warm to the touch, and my words seem so alive

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

So, Frubs and I went back to Brighton yesterday (at the expense of my homework, if I'm being honest. I had every intention of finishing it BEFORE tomorrow, so we could go to Brighton without a time crunch. But...uh...I did not. Friday night, J was over, so we all had dinner together, and Frubs and I watched Iron Chef America until I fell asleep on his lap (I had to be dragged into bed, despite me softly crying, "Noooo, falling asleep on the couch is my favorite way to spend time with youuuuuuu", and I believe this claim 100%, since I always fall asleep on the couch, and I get sad or pissy when Derek tries to wake me up to go to bed)...EARLY. I crashed hard. I'm fairly exhausted during semesters, and there are certain days that hit me harder than others, and I pass out at 8 like some sort of old lady. Who am I fucking kidding? I AM an old lady. Comparatively. I'm certainly not 20 anymore.

Anyway, here's what I got. Which isn't a lot, unfortunately. Flash batteries were dead, and that severely limited the expedition, and it also fucking SMELLED.

 This is the third space in the plant, if you walk through what I assume is the front door instead of the loading bay areas. Notice the dead hawk. I named him Waldo, because I am fucking weird. His mate was circling overhead the entire time Derek and I were there. There are about three other dead birds in this area. Also, fun story to nobody but me, when I was in here, a starling bounced down from the hole in the roof, yelled at me, and then flew away. How dare I .

 Barrels again! From a different perspective! There's still a dead hawk in the picture, but it would be worse if it weren't.

 I LOVED the black gunk on the wall, because it looked to me like the high voltage being warned about came up and wrecked shop. Plus, High Voltage is one of my favorite Electric Six songs. So obviously, this picture had to be taken.

 It was insanely windy when Derek and I went back to Brighton, and this was two floors up, in a space with four open windows that made the entire room akin to a wind tunnel. I didn't think I'd be able to get a picture of all these keen doohickeys that wasn't shaky as fuck, but I managed! The climb down the broken ladder was especially fun (she said, not actually meaning at all).

 This is the same room that the barrels are in. I'm not even sure how stagnant, shitty water manages this, but the reflection looks cleaner than the actual door. Which is the only reason I took the picture.

 I have seen this horror movie, and I die. Everybody dies. That door is intimidating and gross. Also scary, because the wind rattled it about and it slammed repeatedly, and if it wasn't slamming, it was moaning, and I was frightened the entire time. I'd be lying if I said otherwise.

 Frubs, taking photos of all of the dirty things. Please take note of the spectacularly pink respirator filters!!

 Well...his glasses are crooked, but that's not my fault. Those freckles, though. Those fucking freckles.

This photo is titled, "Friday night, a bag of Cheetos, and my crippling social anxiety". For obvious reasons.

We're going back again, but with the proper lighting, and an additional tripod. I don't know when, though. Derek leaves in a couple of months, which is going to limit our time together to once a month from July until May of next year, unless the things we think are going to happen happen, in which case, I'll be moving with him in a few months. But sh. We'll see. Hopefully, better Brighton photos in a week or two.

I still think I have hantavirus now more than ever.

O WAIT! I took some, too!

So, I skipped an entry. I realized I didn't put my pictures up here, I put them up on Facebook. I'm getting closer and closer to scrapping this blog altogether. It's pretty fucking useless, honestly, and I don't think anybody important reads it, anyway. We'll see. This could very well be gone in a few months, when I'm finished with the semester and I have nothing better to do than ride my bike and delete my blogs.

 Here is the creepy doll that I assumed would be recognized earlier. But now, it CAN be recognized!! Or if this is read from the top down, then you will recognize it from later.

 Frubs, checking out his camera gear, as we got ready to leave our exhausting shoot.

 This is where we took the photos. There is SO MUCH MORE to this place. Ugh. I can't wait to go back.

Hooray! Flaker Bins for everyone! Storage all about the thing!!!

I can't wait to go back and actually spend time taking photos there.

In which I am a fucking cow, but Frubs is the god damn handsomest

So, I got my sneak peek today.

I am posting these photos, and the disclaimer is, they do not belong to me, I did not take them, they are the brain child of my fucking fantastic, amazing wedding photographer, Ryan, with Elevate Photography. He didn't watermark all of them, though I wish he had. Some part of me feels like I'm stealing.

These are my favorites.

You may recognize the creepy fucking doll. Ryan went for full view, I went for a close-up. Derek and I at the top of the stairs was taken in one of the abandoned houses in the complex. Ryan asked me what would happen if I get as close to the stairs as my shoes would allow...I told him I would fall. I nearly did. So we backed up a bit. When Ryan told Derek to channel James Dean, I told him to look deader. It only made me laugh.

 I had no idea Ryan was taking this photo, actually. We were heading toward a place, and since we hadn't arrived there yet, I figured Ryan wasn't snapping away. Damn foolish of me, as I am always snapping away, and I should have figured he was, too. Derek was, at this moment, telling me that when we got home, he was going to smash all of the chicken wings around our firepit.

 The dirty couch portrait was my idea. Getting onto it was a huge pain in the ass, but very much worth it, as I believe it's my second favorite photo that I've been allowed to see so far.

 These are obviously the promo shots from my new crime drama, BITCH COP, in which Derek is a hardened Chicago PD detective that has to learn to cope with me, his new partner, and all of the bad assitude I brought with me from the streets of Miami. I don't take no for an answer, and Derek isn't used to not being the only shining light in a dirty city. WILL THEY SURVIVE? Tune in, Fox Weeknights. Same BITCH COP time, same BITCH COP place.

This is actually my favorite shot so far, I believe. If you can see the motion blur on my feet, I was about to fall backwards, because I'm always doing everything gracefully and grandly. But it was Derek's fault. Neither of us cared.

It's going to be a few weeks before I get to see the rest of them, and I am so excited (even though I look like a land whale of some fancy variety. I really should have worn a different fucking dress. Fuck. I fucked u p) about it.

Due to lack of interest, tomorrow is cancelled

So, I ran through my hair with Melissa today. We figured out what I'll be wearing my hair like on Saturday, and I'm super excited. She put my hair up for me so nobody could see what it would look like. I look like a crazy old lady.

Check it:

Maybe it's the glasses. Or the curtains? Or how fucking WHITE I am. I have no idea.

But I'm excited for Saturday.

Friday, Allen will be making his girlfriend dinner here. I asked him if he wanted Frubs and I to disappear so he could have the house to himself. He said fuck no, he'll make us dinner, too. So I told him I'll make everyone a cheesecake. I haven't made one in years and years and years, so I'm both nervous and excited to go at it again.

I have to apologize for the rampant spelling errors that have been waltzing about my posts lately. I'm still not used to this keyboard, and putting to instead of too won't be caught by spell check, because the word is correctly spelled, just not correctly used. It's irritating.

I have to take my big, dumb dog to the vet now. I'm not pleased. I want to go eat lunch at Little Nepal, but I don't have time. Fuck balls.

I think you're suffering from an overdeveloped sense of self. How extraordinary dull.

I fucked around on Reddit instead of doing my homework. That place is such a black hole. Fuck. But I saw a bunch of really neat stuff! So I'm almost glad I wasted my evening. Even though I had so. Much. Homework.

BUT!

I finished ALL of it. With seventeen minutes to spare. Which is impressive, I suppose, discounting the fact that I had all week to do it and just waited until the last moment. In fairness...well, there really isn't anything valid to say here.

Frubs and I were supposed to watch Kingsman and have dinner out Saturday night, but when it came time to go, I felt much more like staying at home in my pajamas and watching a movie I could interrupt. Which turned out to work in Derek's favor, as he had a going away party to go to, and he ended up wanting to stay for FAR longer than we initially planned on due to going to the movie. But it all worked out alright. Allen and I watched God's Not Dead, which really is the most disgusting caricature of any kind of human being ever, and it's so smug and self-congratulatory and PREDICTABLE that Allen just kind of...walked downstairs and said he couldn't handle the movie anymore because it made him feel slimy and mad. I tried to finish it, but it's just so god damn difficult. I have about ten minutes left of it, and I gave up. Derek came home and distracted me, so I had double the excuse to turn that bullshit off. If you want to watch a movie that blows EVERYBODY...Christians and Atheists alike...out of proportion just to get across their personal persecution and how wrong everybody is about god, please. By all means. Watch God's Not Dead. I fucking dare you to finish it.

TODAY was a fantastic day. Frubs and I were supposed to go on a ride, so I woke up, bright eyed and bushy-haired, at 7 am, ready to go for a few hours before we all hit up our favorite brunch spot on Sundays (three dollar mimosas! A brunch spot after my own liver failure and diabetes), but he wasn't feeling that at all. So we lounged about in bed together for a couple of hours, went to brunch with everybody, and got three more half off coupons (we frequent there. A lot. They love us, so we get treated like regulars. It's awesome. OH! That reminds me...but for later), got half off of this meal, and then went home to let the big, dumb dog out. Derek and Allen have been gassing all about the thing for chairs in the back yard, so we went and bought some chairs, and Derek bought everything necessary for making a firepit in the backyard. Today ACTUALLY started with him turning to me while driving home in Jasper and saying this:

You know, we have everything at home necessary for making a hovercraft. We could start our own Easter hovercraft tradition.

I'm disappointed that the firepit took over his plans for the day. If I hadn't come in to do some homework, I definitely would have insisted we build a hovercraft. And then fill it with eels, to satisfy my love of Monty Python (we watched And Now For Something Completely Different on Friday  night, with wine. It was wonderful). But I did come in to do some homework. I banged out a fuckton of it, despite my two hours on Reddit. It didn't keep me from doing anything and submitting it on time, it just kept me from...you know...doing it in a MORE timely fashion. Anyway, I did some homework, decided I needed a break, and went outside to wash Jasper. Who is now the cleanest, sexiest mother fucker on the block. Maybe in the world. I love my silly car.

Anyway, while I was doing that, Frubs was building this:

He did such a good job!!! I'm so pleased. So, we grilled for dinner, then sat around the fire pit talking for a few hours. I poked in and out, still pretending to try and do my homework, but really looking on Reddit. All in all, it was a fantastic night. Frubs just went to bed, and I'm drinking some wine before I join him.

So, the thing I was reminded of.

Something I've seen a few times on things like TMP is people giving outlandishly large tips to servers they connect with, and who ALSO happen to tell fantastic stories about what they want to do with their lives, but they can't right now due to whatever. I have been on the lookout for that opportunity so fucking HARD.

I finally found it.

And I gave that big, huge, ridiculous tip without a moment of hesitation. On the receipt, I wrote:

Enjoy your life in four months when you finally make it to Europe, but don't ever forget to enjoy your life now. Make it all count! Thanks for being you.

And then I drew a ridiculous smiley face on it, and my only regret is I didn't get to see her reaction. Derek was none to pleased with me for that. He thinks I overtip as it is, and this was just the most outrageous thing he's ever seen anybody do. But it made me happy. I bet it made her happy. I bet it made the other waitstaff happy, too, but I don't know them, so they don't get a say here. Anyway, I wouldn't trade it for the world. I think everybody needs to get something like that out of nowhere every once and awhile. Something unexpected that will hopefully light them up inside in the best way possible.

Fuck. This wine is getting to me.

Tomorrow is Melissa and hair and makeup and stuff, Wednesday is breakfast and study day with Stevie, and Saturday is engagement photos!! Yay! I'm weirdly excited for all of this stuff. I'm surprised at myself for being this big a girl about my home, my frusband, my car...any of the things I currently have going for me that I didn't one year ago. Or even longer. But I don't think I could be having any of these things with anybody else. There's warmth and affection and jokes and fun all about the mother fucking thing, and it's god damn brilliant to see. Allen and I had a hugely long conversation about things yesterday afternoon after I came home from a terrible day at work. And We both know that things would have been different if things were different. Beautiful superficially, but clinical as fuck, and using large spaces as a buffer between time and absolute misery. Maybe that doesn't make sense to anybody but Allen and I. I suppose it doesn't matter.

I'm still a pretty mixed up girl. I have a lot of ideas and things that I can't shake, and I hold on to because I'm an idiot that just can't give certain things up. But outside of those persistent pangs of ridiculous, I am happy. I am incredibly, incredibly happy.

Finally.

I will regret this when I wake up and I am no longer wine soaked.

In which I cherish the embarrassment

This is going to be intensely long. I will probably have to break it into two parts.

As mentioned prior, I've been cleaning out my townhouse and finding pictures. I'm going to share more of them. I'm sort of unhappy about it. Then again, they're also incredibly funny to me, and the mortification is all in good fun.

First, Allen and I finished the townhouse. At 11:50, we locked the keys in the place and shut the door behind us. It's sad saying goodbye to that chapter in my life. I had been there almost five years. I went through a LOT in that house. So did Allen, to be fair. We spent a shitload of time in there building up this fucking outstanding, amazing friendship. The greater percentage of my happiest memories with him took place in that townhouse, and things like that really do make closing those doors...very literally...a bit sad. My entire relationship with Danimal took place there, and as silly as it sounds, leaving that house was really the last bit of saying goodbye I had to do. I saw bits of him everywhere there still, and it was always such a sad reminder of him being gone. But so it goes, and so I went, and now, everything is fresh.

To part from that ridiculous bullshit, here we go.

More pictures of me when I was a kid!

(After taking pictures of my pictures, I have definitely decided to break this post up into at least two, maybe three, posts. This one is going to have a lot, though. Brace yourself)

I have no idea who that girl is. And I believe this photo is evidence of the fact that I haven't smiled legitimately on film since 1987. I want to say this is Jessica Barnes, and she was my best friend when I was a kid due to her dad being best friends with my dad, and that's just kind of how friendship works sometimes. Obviously we stayed in touch.

Christmas, 1986. I'm brushing my doll's hair with a plastic pitchfork, because beauty waits for no one. Additionally, the year afterwards, I had the chickenpox on Christmas. There are boxes of photos of me that some member of my family has, and that Christmas is in there. I got something huge from Fisher Price that year. But that isn't the year of this picture. This was 86, and I'm still trying to learn the finer points of cosmetology. Namely, how to create hair knots inadvertently.

I'm hard pressed to accurately guess what year this is, but I'm pretty sure it was either '90 or '91. I looked on the back of the photo: 1991. This was at my Aunt Mary's house, and while I clearly didn't pull in much of a haul for halloween that year, I DID get to wear one of my ballet tutus out in public and pretend I was a cat. A black and orange cat. With a bow in my hair, and a fucking mop on my head. Actually, these are still the good curl  years. But don't worry. Those are leaving shortly.

That is legitimately a face I made, a hand gesture I went with, and for some reason, it seems like the plan for world domination I had going for me at the moment this picture was taken didn't quite pan out, because I am not dominating anything.

Fuck yeah, Christmas again! This is also in 1987, and you can tell by the accidental midriff shirt I'm wearing that this was when ballet started for me. And yes, that's my Teddy Ruxpin. I'm pretty sure that thing was possessed. I also enjoy my classy track pants.

This is another Halloween...probably...'93, if I had to guess. Which I didn't. The date was on the back. I went as a cowgirl. My dad went as a member of Toto wearing a Canadian Tuxedo. That's not true, he didn't dress up, but my made up costume for him is convincing as fuck.

This may be the only indication that I would grow up and be alright looking. Look at those fucking cheekbones! Those huge eyes! That goddamn hair. The fucking hair ruins everything. But see what I mean about it being brushed out? WHO DOES THAT TO THEIR CHILD. I'm not sure what birthday that is. I want to say it was my eighth. I baked that cake with my daddy, and he let me decorate it. As you might have noticed.

Uh oh. We're getting back to the good shit. And by good shit, I mean things where I'm sporting the kind of 'do that would make Richard Simmons blush.

Maybe not blush, but at the very least, be envious of my look and ask me for pointers. What in the holy actual fucking christ. I could be a little boy. I'd almost RATHER be a little boy, because little girls are supposed to be pretty and delicate, not look like some sort of living, walking shrub wearing a bad tshirt. That fabulous woman with her arm around me is my great grandmother. I took care of her for awhile when I was sixteen, and as racist as I found out she was, I miss her desperately. I could tell stories about the times my grandmother and I had together for days, but I won't. Besides, here's an insider secret about my great-grandmother that wasn't really a secret to any of us inside: she wore wigs. Well, one wig style, several copies. That silver thing on her head is one of said wigs. OUR HAIRSTYLES FUCKING MATCH. Except she was old. She was about 84 in this picture. It's acceptable to look like a large haired monster when you're old. You've had your time to shine as someone adorable. No. No no no, it was my turn, and instead, my mom cut my hair so I'd look like a sheep's balls. And this was ok with my grandmother. She LOVED that hairstyle. But what the fuck does she know? She was 84 and racist with a wig. Which is hateful, but so is not chastising my mother for sanctioning that tremendously bad hair.

Check the date: June 3rd, 1997. NINETEEN NINETY SEVEN. I was thirteen, and I...you know what? I'm done. I've run out of similes. There aren't anymore left. I'm an ugly, awkward, chipmunk looking thing of a child. This was my daddy's last day in Florida before he left for Las Vegas. We went to eat lunch at a place called The Bimini Boatyard, not that that matters, except wait, it does. Because Bimini Boatyard was a nicer establishment, and you know what my mom made me wear? That AWFUL shirt, which, by the way, is all once piece. Don't let the "jacket" fool you. It's all connected at the armpit, because nobody in the world wanted me to have an acceptable piece of clothing at the time. Anyway, that awful shirt, and then the things under the table that you can't see. And I know EXACTLY what they are. An incredibly stupid pair of FAUX DENIM...not even good faux denim...elastic waistband shorts with a big, fat, applique of Garfield on it. She dressed me like a special needs kid. The fact that she was still dressing me when I was thirteen is a god damn travesty, and I have never understood this. I talked to her (read: yelled good naturedly) about this last night. More on that in a bit, for the piece de resistance.

I have no idea what's going on here, but my hair is ten times more wild and unable to be tamed than the ocean behind me. That sure is a keen pose, though. I'm practically a model.

Ok. Hang on. Because I know what you're thinking. this is another one of those photo disasters that I'm going to dissect piece by piece, and when you're done reading about everything, I'll still be looking like I do, but maybe it'll be understandable (spoiler: it really wont). I believe this was two days before that picture at Bimini Boatyard was taken. We had  a family picnic to say goodbye to my dad, and for some reason, this made my dad feel patriotic. I chose to wear the very popular baggy shirt/bicycle sorts combo, with some sort of terrible, terrible pattern (and honestly, I think I chose this outfit myself, so I can't even blame my mother. Which is terrible, terrible news), and thanks to my memory, I remember CHOOSING to sit in the back of my dad's truck so my hair would look "windswept". That is an ACTUAL decision I made when I was thirteen years old. How unfortunate for me that I didn't realize I couldn't undo my do. So my desire to have the glorious hair of a harlequin romance novel cover turned into looking like a permanent staple in a York Peppermint Patty commercial circa 1994. In hindsight, I regret it all. The watch. That awful, ugly watch. I found it and appropriated it, because I made solid fashion choices. That ring is a Claddagh that my grandmother gave me, because she was from Ireland, and Irish stuff meant everything to her. The ring was the only Claddagh thing I'd wear. I also had a necklace, but it disappeared. In the menacing way. I think I threw it in the lake. That's not a joke, though I wish it were, and I'm deeply ashamed of that. I did the same thing to an amethyst ring my mother gave me. She made me exceptionally mad, and I just...disappeared her gift to me. I'm such a shit. I almost deserve the hair and the clothes, I guess. Perhaps they were a preemptive strike on my mother's account. The world may never know. The necklace I'm wearing, though, is special. This might be long, so bear with me.

It's a pendant. On the pendant is Saint Christopher. My father had given it to me that day. When I was not so little, I completely eschewed the faith I had grown up in. I told my grandmother (a deeply religious woman that had, at one point in her life, been a nun) that I thought the story of Jesus was a fairy tale. I was seven; she was devastated. Anyway, my dad was leaving for Las Vegas. He gave me the St. Christopher pendant and told me that if I kept it on, I'd be keeping him safe. Despite my lack of any kind of faith for the last two decades, St. Christopher has always been deeply, deeply personal to me. As I write this, I'm wearing my own St. Christopher pendant that I almost NEVER take off since it was given back to me. I can't explain why, but something about my dad giving me that pendant and telling me I'd be keeping him safe with St. Christopher stuck with me. It was something I wanted to pass on, but it could only be done for something important. I had to wait fifteen years to find someone worth quietly giving that legacy to, and I did. I never shared the story about my first St. Christopher pendant with him, though I suppose that I should have, but I also suppose that he will not be surprised by its origin. My daddy means the world to me. Almost nobody comes close to owning as much of my silly little heart as my daddy, but it made sense to me that the person who did got the same gift my father gave me on his behalf all those years ago. I will never, ever again give anyone a pendant, much less a pendant with a patron saint on it, ESPECIALLY not Christopher. But I did once. I wore it to keep him safe. And I still do, even if he doesn't need it.

Now that that's out of the way, we can get back to the hilarity.

Me and my daddy, mugging it up at my grandmother's house. I can tell it's her house, because of the art in the background. I cannot and will not explain my shoes, or my dad's mustache/brows combo.

When I was four, my great grandmother gt me a kitten for my birthday. I was so fucking ecstatic. We already had quite a few kitties living wth us. We had Alexander Sebastian Khan, my mom's purebred Persian that was an absolute menace in desperate need of being stopped (sidenote: I remember the day my mom had to give him away because she and my dad had split and we were moving out of New York. She was sitting in her car, talking to Alex and crying her fucking heart out. I was so crushed to see her crying that it made me cry. I sat under the big tree in our yard and cried in solidarity with my mother. Perhaps I've always been empathetic, though I hate admitting as much). Then there was Apricat, an orange tabby that was more of an outdoor fellow, but came in for snuggles, food, and the occasional shit in a potted plant. We had another cat whose name escapes me. He was white and black and fat. And then, there was this little guy. I also can't remember his name, but I remember he was the worst cat to ever be born under a cursed star or otherwise. Every night, without fail, he would come up into my bed, lay down beside my face, and puke in my fucking ears. Every. Night. For a week. Until my parents started shutting my door to keep him out, and then he howled. All night long. When they let him back in again after deciding to cut his food from free grazing to scheduled feedings, he ate two of my hamsters (Mark Summers and Binky Joe) and barfed them up, to. Not in my ears, though. In the kitchen. Grey kitten lasted in the house for all of two months before my mom had had enough.

Two more pictures, but they're both kind of the same picture. Keep in mind I have a LOT more old photos to post, but I have homework to do, and this post has taken literally HOURS to finish.

This is my fifth grade yearbook photo. I...I don't know how to explain this, other than I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. For all of it. For having to BE that girl, for keeping the picture, for not refusing to show up that day...I'm sorry. So, so deeply and truly sorry.

That. Fucking.....everything. That everything. The hair. Good god, the hair. The outfit. Sweet tapdancing Jesus. That outfit came with a matching pleated skirt that my mother made me wear jean shorts underneath. JEAN SHORTS. UNDERNEATH.

When confronted with her hideous treatment, my mother had this to say:

Nothing else needs to be said. Seriously.

I'll post more photos...a LOT more photos...soon. But I really do have so much homework to do, and a twenty mile bike ride in about five hours. Eesh.