The happy confluence of reading material and wardrobe, of prologue and poetry: Christopher Moore’s Sacré Bleu held in the lap of my favourite dress; and its opening page, dovetailing with my “like gods and kings, every blue swallows the one before it” mantra of the last couple months.
A grackle with some canted wing feather action going on. Since I like to look at things at ± 55 degrees and this grackle seems to prefer a view rotated to about 180 degrees, his wing looks almost completely fine in this photo.
This is not the grackle who sucker punched me in the head. That grackle is, for reasons of aforementioned sucker punchage, not pictured.
today i swept the forest floor with my skirts; and i defended myself from the mosquito hordes; and i couldn’t take more than twenty steps before finding some jewel or other secreted amongst the mast and moss.
Being a Compilation of the Sort of Self-Celebration that has Many Individuals Shaking their Heads in Disdain, or
I Couldn’t Narrow it Down Any Further Because I’m So Goddamn Precious: An Adventure in Six Eight Parts.
Part 1: Naked Girl Reading (with mascot/prop)
Part 2: A Woze in Wolf’s Clothing
Part 3: A Dog and His Girl
Part 4: We Filter Because We Care
Part 5: Paintball and Tough Mudder: A Musing in Owch Minor
Part 6: Sometimes a Cigar is Just a Deep and Irredeemable Desire to be Kara Thrace
Part 7: Baby’s First Bee Sting
Part 8: So Say We All, or I Was Serious About the Kara Thrace Thing
gillian flynn always makes me feel as if i’ve got something very wicked indeed written just under my tongue, as if the skin of me is the straining seal of pandora’s box–and i don’t know if i want to keep these evils carefully hidden from the rest of the world, or if i want to spread my lips and wreak merry terror.