Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Missed the Memo

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I apparently missed the memo that we were going to start leaving empty bottles of wine next to the stock pot, heating tray and stale ass Pringles. (I seriously wonder what goes through my in-laws' minds before bed. Granted, this isn't as funny as the time I found the car keys in the cutlery drawer. <- WTF?)

Burn Her, Kill Her

REASON #78,437 WHY THE NEIGHBORS THINK I'M A FUCKING WEIRDO: I JUST SPENT SEVERAL MINUTES STANDING IN FRONT OF THE KITCHEN WINDOW HUFFING THE SCENT OF THE SMOKED HAM HOCK I WAS GETTING READY TO THROW IN A CASSEROLE. ("AND ONCE I SAW HER THROUGH THEIR KITCHEN WINDOW AND SHE WAS //SMELLING// A PIECE OF MEAT, BUT NOT TO DETERMINE WHETHER IT WAS SAFE FOR CONSUMPTION...WITCH! WITCH! SHE'S A WITCH! BURN HER, KILL HER, SHE'S A WITCH!")

January 29th, 2010

January 29th, 2010 - the day I read my very first entrails. (It was so beautiful I cried.)

No Joke

After I accidentally blew the windshield wiper fuse I sort've got use to not leaving the house. (WE TRIED, but every fucking time - EVERY FUCKING TIME, NO JOKE - I went out to start the car it'd either start snowing, sleeting or raining. On a few LOLtastic occasions various winter elements colluded creating an assault of sleet AND rain making it impossible to see. REMEMBER?)

For a few weeks it was cool since our asses were snowed in, anyway, but after several weeks of recluse living (combined with overtly nocturnal habits) I began feeling unhinged - especially once the blanket of month long snow finally melted. (Talk about a total mindfuck; I hadn't seen THE GROUND or EARTH or SOIL or DIRT for over a month. When the snow disappeared it felt like April in January and I was disappointed that there wasn't a snowdrop or crocus in sight to celebrate the event.)

The car - now fixed - and I got reacquainted on the 27th when we were forced out of the house and into a grocery store out of sheer desperation. ("Sheer desperation" = no pasta, less than a cup of organic rice and two shrunken potatoes growing yellow-white tentacles in the house.) I was apprehensive about crawling into the car (SO MANY BAD MEMORIES), but continued survival eventually won.

Despite a pricey bill (it was one of those "OH, GOD, WE NEED TO STOCK UP ON //EVERYTHING// SINCE WE WENT THROUGH OUR RESERVES" trips, and, also, I bought a whole free-range chicken to roast, 600g of sirloin steak (homemade Beef Stroganoff), a smoked ham joint and a handful of various REDUCED-TO-CLEAR packages of meat - not to mention the 6lb brisket we bought at the butchers for Bride's Day/Imbolc) the trip, for once, was relatively stress free and we left the store with a bounce in our steps.

The excursion was SO GOOD, in fact, that after we took the LONG WAY back (down the country road with the three standing stones; I love seeing the stones, but the lane's also good for roadkill since it has several open fields that attract game birds and people are constantly using it as a shortcut) we sat at an intersection for a second because there was something unappealing with the prospect of returning home.

Instead of going straight on we turned left for a lazy drive around the local loch (since everything in the trunk was either fresh or non-perishable). Within minutes our impromptu decision was rewarded - a freshly hit, mature cock pheasant was sitting yards away from our usual loch turnoff. (I believe "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!" were my exact words while excitedly punching the steering wheel.)

It's a weird mixture of emotions you feel when stumbling across a dead animal. As someone who's more naturally empathic towards them than people (it's an autistic thing) I feel ANGER and DESPAIR and GRIEF and VENGEFUL when I come across roadkill of any kind. Simultaneously, though, I feel excitement and enormous gratitude when I'm cradling a dead animal in my arms because finding viable roadkill is a //gift// - a gift of food, supplies, spirit work and a chance to continue practicing old skool butchery.

("Old skool" in the sense that I - the cook - process the animal myself. I do the skinning. I do the gutting. I do the cleaning. I do the cooking. And, once I get off my fucking ass and find a resource I like, I do the preserving. (Cleaning skulls, bones and teeth. Tanning skins to make them soft and pliable.) I take something covered in feathers (or fur) and filled with organs and transform it into something modern man would recognize. There is no middleman - there's just me, the animal and death.)

ANYWAY. He was-is-was gorgeous. Italics ran out with a garbage bag (WHEN YOU'RE A SCAVENGER LIKE ME YOU KNOW YOU //ALWAYS NEED TO BE PREPARED// WITH TRASH BAGS, TOWELS AND HAND SANITIZER) while I waited at the car, performing my own personal rendition of the sugar plum fairy dance. I didn't get a proper look at him until we were home, but Italics said the pheasant was in PERFECT condition and was still crazy warm to the touch (a car ahead must've JUST clipped the him).

As retarded and fantasy as it sounds, wind from nowhere immediately descended upon us the second Italics picked the bird up off the road. One minute we were having a warm and mild day, but the next? An arctic rush of howling wind that nearly bowled Italics over as he made his way back to the car. (Little did I know that the unexpected force was a less than subtle hint towards the weather's changing mood.)

That was two days ago. Yesterday? The first day we went out into the country for the sake of going out into the country. (Working car? Check. Up at the right time? Check. No snow? Check.) After making a quick pit stop to stock up on locally produced beef jerky, cookies and a bottle of apple'n'elderflower juice (and some yogurt covered peanuts for the rats, a jar of sticky toffee sauce for us and a bottle of sparkling elderberry juice for "later") we went exploring and wound up in Kincardine O'Neil "the oldest village in Deeside".

Bad day for being a tourist (it LOOKED like it was going to clear, but then it started raining and as we ascended the hills the rain became snow), but an AWESOME day for unexpected antique-ing. One of the very first things we saw turning into the village? An antique shop going out of business. (BE STILL, MY SECOND HAND LOVING HEART.) But it wasn't any old antique shop going out of business, it was-is-was an antique shop going out of business situated in the original smiddy (smithy) of "the oldest village of Deeside".

(I would've been WAY, WAY more excited had I not been so fucking mind-numbingly cold. The former forge was SO COLD that we could see our breath and were constantly blowing on our frozen fingers just to be able to FEEL the items we were picking up. Two gigantic hearths dominated the backroom, although their presence wasn't exactly awe inspiring due to being partially hidden by antique dressers. I would've taken pictures, but I stupidly forgot the camera in the car.)

The threat of frostbite paid off. Thanks to Christmas money I cleverly "hid" in my wallet (I never use my wallet because I never have any money) we managed to walk away with a pair of ornate Victorian corner shelves (£20.00, I think they were MORE than half off), two pieces of vintage horse brass (which the shop owner gave to us for free) and a spectacular set of 5-6 miniature horse brasses mounted on a sturdy leather "collar" (£3.00, I nearly pissed myself, I kid you not).

I was stupidly ecstatic getting back in the car. And then, if such a thing was even possible, I was even MORE ECSTATIC when we slowly drifted down Kincardine O'Neil's main street. We passed not one, not two but THREE old time churches, two cemeteries and one ancient well. The only thing that kept my ass planted behind the steering wheel was the fact that it had begun raining/snowing again, and exploring ruined churches isn't as exciting when you're getting sleeted on.

Elated with our discoveries and purchases we decided to head home since the weather was turning and I had promised everyone ("everyone" now equals my mother-in-law, Italics and I since Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, is gone for a month) Beef Stroganoff for dinner. (WE ONLY LEFT AFTER MAKING THE PROMISE OF "WE NEED TO COME BACK IN A FEW DAYS"; TOO MUCH THAT NEEDS TO BE EXPLORED, PLUS THE SHOP HAD THIS SUPER AWESOME COOL SILVER STAG BOWL AND WE'RE HOPING IN A FEW DAYS IT MIGHT STILL BE THERE WITH A CHEAPER PRICE TAG.)

The ride home was spent marveling at the spectacular scenery and pausing to talk to miniature ponies. Even though it was wet and miserable it was the sort of afternoon I had been pining for for nearly a month. Yesterday was the sort of experience that cemented the idea that IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE SUPER NICE AND AWESOME OUTSIDE TO GO OUT INTO THE COUNTRY.

(It's not that I shun rural Scotland in winter, it's just...I don't know. It's sort've like visiting memory that's scorched. I see FREEDOM in the color green, but there's no green to be found right now. Everything's broken down and sleeping, hunched over itself and limp. It's just not inspiring like it would be if it was green, or at least covered in sheet of flawless snow.)

I went to bed exhausted, although thoroughly excited over the prospect of FREEDOM. (Holy shit, you mean I can still enjoy "outside" without it being warm and green? DUDE...DUDE!) And after a month of being imprisoned by the snow (and night) I am seriously looking forward to just getting in the car and DRIVING to reconnect with the land (even if "green" is still just a whisper of a promise).

Last night I went to bed insanely stoked with the knowledge that TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY THAT WE CAN GET IN THE CAR AND FEEL //FREE//. And then? And then I woke up this morning to a fucking blizzard.

We're snowed in.

Again. (No joke.)

Living Nightmare

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So I'm grilling marinaded chicken breasts to make chicken fajita nachos when Italics wanders in and goes "OH, HEY, LOOK! THAT PIECE OF CHICKEN LOOKS LIKE A DOLPHIN!" drawing my attention to the grilled fillet that IS suspiciously dolphin shaped and that's seriously all it took to make me feel like it was unethical to chop it up and make nachos out of it.

(That's why, nearly two weeks later, it's still sitting on the same fucking plate on top of the bedroom's dresser, completely out of sight. You want scary? Imagine what it must look like by now and that, eventually, it'll have to be disposed of. <- IT'S A NIGHTMARE FOR YOU, BUT //REALITY// FOR ME. I CAN'T WAKE UP SCREAMING BECAUSE //I'M ALREADY AWAKE//.)

78 Pretty Pictures

Regardless of what my tarot deck collection might say, I don't do tarot. (I also don't do reading, but every room in the house seems to have several towers of books in various corners.) I like it as a concept, but as a divination system it doesn't mesh well with my Choose Your Own Adventure style of life. In some ways, it even goes against my natural instincts as a witch.

As far as witchcraft goes I'm an innie, not an outie. Meaning that everything I do comes internally; I don't outsource shit, and my ability/talents as a witch are products of my subconscious rather than spirits, gods or celestial tentacle overlords bestowing divine blessings upon me. The sun, in my world, revolves around me.

The very heart and foundation of my beliefs? My experiences - which are solely unique to me - trump everything. My reality's been created by the things I've witnessed and lived through first hand, not something broken down - culture by culture - in a reference book. By examining my relationship with the world around me I create my own definition of things based on one-to-one contact.

Tarot falls in an awkward space between FASCINATING and UTTERLY USELESS (for me). I have no personal connection with it. I didn't create the concepts, I didn't create the art, I didn't create the story and I didn't decide how many cards make a fucking deck. There's nothing inherently "me" there. When I sit down and work with it it's like trying to sit comfortably in a chair specifically made to fit the contours of someone else's ass.

Scrying? Tea leaves, coffee foam, broken eggs and entrails? Second nature. Hand me a joint and a bag of chicken bones and I'll show you old skool divination. It's primitive, it's basic and it's the oldest game around. There's no limitations, no restraints. There isn't a filter to make sense of shit. It's a direct link without the need of translation. But that's my "magic" - consciously accessing the subconscious with as little props as possible (props, I should mention, that I've made and have a personal resonance and history with).

I WANT to like tarot, and I'd REALLY LIKE to be a skilled reader, but my natural reaction to it goes against what the tarot's all about. (The thing about "reading" egg yolks and splattered sexual fluids? I don't need to cross reference shit. It's a split second understanding that reaches deep into your psyche. The problem with tarot? When I look at a card and the images displayed my split second understanding that reaches deep into my psyche greatly differs from the artist's interpretation of the card. And that's what using the deck's all about - the artist's definition, not yours/mine.)

It's a love-hate relationship. Seriously. At least this tumultuous affair occasionally provides 78 pretty pictures and the occasional collector's item bought for an absolute steal (see below for one example).

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New Year's Day, 2010. I wasn't planning on laying out a spread, but once it became dark and began snowing I thought I'd ask the Old Woman (aka Cailleach, the Whore, my "darker"/subconscious self) to show me three things from my past, present and future (since She had already come around for Her daily shot of whiskey).

Normally when I play around with any sort of card I sit down with Chippy on the lounge floor and spread the cards in front of us. This time around, though, I decided the kitchen was more appropriate for some reason (a first for me) and set everything up at the base of my kitchen altar.

I first placed a white cloth on the sink, and then overlapped it with a Ukrainian table linen that I cover the ancestral feeding plate with (when it's not in use). Since it was snowing I fixed the Old Woman a plate of food and poured us both a shot of whiskey (Famous Grouse, very Scottish). Mine was left next to the tarot deck I used, Hers was taken outside.

I got high (but not high enough), slipped into a pair of flip-flops, offered the Cailleach Her food and drink (left on a patio pillar outside), invited Her in, promptly fell in the snow when wading towards the clothes line (She laughed) to untie my wedding dress (a Scottish apron) from the line (I hung it up on New Year's Eve, while snowing, beneath the blue moon, partial lunar eclipse and last full moon of 2009) and returned to the house a colder, wetter, more sober witch.

After donning the damp apron I downed my shot of whiskey and took the deck between both hands and invoked Her/myself while chanting and fire gazing (at the lit candle before me). Once I felt suitably tapped in I opened the box, removed the cards and while shuffling began chanting "three for past, three for present, three for future".

(Just before shuffling I thought "OH, WAIT! THIS DECK DOESN'T HAVE BLANK NON-TAROT CARDS, DOES IT?" but I was so caught up in the moment I was all "LOLOLOL, WHATEVER, WHAT'S THE CHANCES ONE BLANK CARD AMONGST SEVENTY-EIGHT OTHERS WILL SHOW UP IN MY NINE CARD READING?". <- True story.)

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The cards that fell from my hands were the cards that were laid. First the past (top, first), then the present (middle, second) and, lastly, the future (bottom, third).

PAST: Woman of Soul (chalice suit, queen), Man of Soul (chalice suit, king), the Fool/0 (R)

PRESENT: 3 of Jewels (pentacles suit), 2 of Jewels (pentacles suit), Child of Soul (chalice suit, page)

FUTURE: Blank, Blank, the Shaman/V (Hierophant) (R)

Remember "WHAT'S THE CHANCES ONE BLANK CARD AMONGST SEVENTY-EIGHT OTHERS WILL SHOW UP IN MY NINE CARD READING?" and "LOLOLOLOL, WHATEVER"? Yeah, well, the Universe remembered, too. I got not one, but TWO "blank" cards in my future row. I'm still rolling my eyes over it. (LOOK WHO'S LOLOLOLOLING NOW! <- Not me.)

Personal dilemmas and mini-crises ignite and overwhelm the second cards are turned over:

Do I "read" the cards blindly? Do I use the artist's booklet? FUCK, THERE ISN'T ANY INFORMATION FOR REVERSED CARDS! Wait, are these cards even meant to be used reversed? If there's no mirrored pattern on the back, and the artist - who changed the deck enough to make it highly personal and different from your standard Rider-Waite copy - didn't provide definitions or interpretations of reversed cards (and incorporated negative aspects within the overall card rather than separating the card into a clear cut positive and negative) surely that negates reversed cards, right?

HOW THE FUCK DID I MANAGE TO GET TWO FUCKING BLANK CARDS IN MY FUTURE ROW? *PEEKS AT DECK'S BOOKLET* HOLY SHIT, //WHAT//? I'M SORRY, SERGIO TOPPI, BUT MY FIRST IMPRESSION WASN'T "CHILD DROWNING" IN THE CHILD OF SOUL CARD. OH, GOD, SHOULD I EVEN BOTHER USING THE ARTIST'S BOOK? I TOTALLY DIDN'T SEE A CHILD DROWNING, //AT ALL//. IS IT WORTH "READING" THESE REVERSED CARDS, OR SHOULD I TURN THEM STRAIGHT? THAT'S NOT A FUCKING OLD MAN, THAT'S THE CAILLEACH! EFF YOU TAROT, I HATE YOU AND NEVER WANT TO TALK TO YOU EVER AGAIN.

...is the precise reason why tarot and I don't get along. I need to take a fucking Valium just to deal with looking at nine effing cards. My ass is sticking to blood, mud and spit.

New Year Resolutions

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January 1st, 2010: Pizza (bacon, mushroom and green pepper), kebabs (grilled chicken, onions, peppers and lettuce shoved in pita bread and smothered with sour cream), chicken nuggets, potato skins and fries (delivered to the door). Nightmare on Elm Street V and Smokey and the Bandit. Homemade chocolate egg nog, sour bubblegum-flavored gummi worms, strawberry beer, selection of cookie'n'chocolate truffles, selection of regional Italian cookies, cappuccino meringues, Turrón de Chocolate and SECRET sour strawberries.

...new year resowhat? (<- Obviously not in our dictionary.)

Christmas Goose Exorcism

"I CAST YOU OUT, SALMONELLA! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!" <- Another unapproved exorcism by yours truly (the Vatican's going to send my ass a nasty fucking letter, heh).

Witchcraft is...

...running around naked, post-sex, with inner thighs firmly locked into place while chanting "KEEP IT IN, KEEP IT IN, KEEP IT IN!" as you frantically search for your AWOL Yule Log so you can release all of the combined sexual fluids from you and your partner out of your clenched cunt directly onto the log. (And if anyone tells you differently, they're lying.)

WTF Dinner w/WTF Sauce

OH, GOD HELP US, MY FATHER-IN-LAW HAS BEEN INSPIRED* TO COOK. (<- TIME TO HIDE IN THE BATCAVE.)

* Whenever I spend several consecutive nights in the kitchen he becomes overwhelmed by the insatiable need to cook. ("I CAN DO THAT, TOO!" is something you can't get away from in this house. If finds me working on something - especially if I'm enjoying it - within 48 hours he's playing "LOOK AT MEEEEEEE!" catch-up. (And gets V. pissy if you 1.) fail to notice and 2.) fail to compliment.) 70 years old going on 4, right?)

His end results - which are guesstimated mimic attempts of things I've recently provided the family with** - are at once horrifying, amusing, disgusting and, if I'm being completely honest, occasionally irritatingly offensive (it wouldn't be so bad if he didn't exude his patented "I'VE JUST DONE IT BETTER THAN //YOU//" old man smugness, but he does...every effing time).

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PHOTO CAPTION: I apparently inspired my father-in-law (aka Mr. Awesome) to do some cooking. When I first saw it I couldn't figure out if he made SOUP or PASTA SAUCE, but the leftovers provided just enough context clues.

** The picture above? His attempt at "spaghetti and meatballs". Just ignore the fact that chicken's replaced meatballs (WTF?), fettuccine was used instead of spaghetti (OKAY, OKAY, I'M NIGGLING WITH THAT, I KNOW) and that my in-laws haphazardly throw their uncovered leftovers straight in the fridge for everyone to see (and accidentally touch when searching for EDIBLE food). (<- OH GOD I'M CRINGING NOW JUST THINKING ABOUT IT!)

Two days earlier I fed the family an enormous spaghetti and meatballs dinner where EVERYTHING was created from scratch (well, the garlic bread was made from a bought loaf of ciabatta that I slathered with garlic butter, sprinkled with Italian herbs and grated Parmesan cheese, but beyond purchasing the fresh pasta and bread everything else was entirely homemade). Mr. Awesome, enjoying the meal //so much//, decided to recreate it less than 48 hours later.

My version:

* Tomato sauce made from three different types of tomato (sun-dried, fresh and canned), fresh herbs from the garden, garlic, roasted red peppers (I scorched them under the oven's grill and then peeled the charred skins off), basil infused olive oil, red wine, balsamic vinegar and other spices and seasonings.

* Overnight meatballs (I like mixing the ingredients together and letting them sit overnight so the flavors can intensify before cooking) made from fresh steak mince, more fresh herbs from the garden, grated fresh Parmesan, garlic, basil infused olive oil, balsamic vinegar, locally produced oatmeal (I tend to use oatmeal instead of breadcrumbs when cooking), a touch of the tomato sauce above and other spices and seasonings.

(I normally fry the overnight meatballs in a little bit of olive oil to give them a crispy crust and then transfer them over to a lidded casserole dish so they create an even layer. Once they're snug I pour over the homemade tomato sauce, crumble an entire block of feta over everything, sprinkle over a generous amount of Parmesan, cover the dish with foil and cook everything in a hot oven for about 15-20 minutes until it seems done. I also give the casserole a few minutes beneath the oven's grill (uncovered) to give the feta a wee bit of color before serving the meal.)

(Unfortunately, I don't have any images of this dish (despite it being a somewhat staple), but I'm PRETTY SURE the meal is mostly palatable if these pictures are anything to go by. I mean, it was good enough to "copy", right?)

His version of my version:

* Tomato sauce made from one can of tomatoes, a fried onion, chicken breasts and indistinguishable seasoning served over waterlogged pasta. (Or, as I like to call it, "WTF DINNER WITH WTF SAUCE".)

CLEARLY, YOU CAN SEE THE STIFF COMPETITION THAT I DEAL WITH ON A DAY TO DAY BASIS. HOW I'LL EVER LIVE UP TO HIS CULINARY PROWESS IS BEYOND ME. I SHOULD PROBABLY HANG UP MY APRON(S) (<- APRONS ARE LIKE KITCHEN LINGERIE, YOU NEED A VARIETY TO SUIT THE MOOD AND OCCASION!) AND ADMIT DEFEAT AT AGE 29...SIGH.

My prediction? He's made "chili" ("chili" = any ground meat, an onion, a can of beans and a can of tomatoes). I'll creep even FURTHER up the limb I'm already already on and state that if it is "chili" he was directly inspired by the Turkish beef and haricot bean casserole I made a few days ago that he finished off without asking (so much for leftovers).

Temporary Limbo

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Normally Papa's mask hangs just above my nightstand in the bedroom, but when time came to strip down the old wallpaper his ass got relocated to the computer room/office (at least until the redecoration's complete). A few days ago I caught him grinning like a fool, looking way too comfortable with the recent change in scenery.

"AIN'T //NO// WAY, NEGRO," I warned before the twinkle in his eye (socket) got any more glittery and flirty, "BLACK MAN? BEDROOM. WHITE MAN? OFFICE. OTHERWISE I'M NEVER GOING TO GET ANY SHIT DONE." He laughed, but I so totally wasn't joking in the slightest. Men (especially the incorporeal, voodoo-flavored subconscious skeletal link to the divine masculine)...pffffft.

Invocation & Banishment

The "invocation" and "banishment" ritual of someone who can't take this shit as seriously as everyone else. (EXTRA "LOOOOOOOOOOOL!" POINTS FOR BACKGROUND MUSIC.)

Monday Morning's Frost

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Is that upturned black plastic bucket familiar? IT SHOULD BE. No matter how hard I tried to dispose of the eight headless, footless and skinless rabbits I found myself back to square one. (WITH SQUARE ONE BEING "A BUCKET OF PUTRID, DECAYING CARCASSES SWIMMING IN THEIR OWN OUTRAGEOUSLY RANK DECOMPOSITION JUICES".)

First the weather wasn't right. For an entire week. (No, really!) So the rabbits festered in their plastic grave, sitting, breaking down, occasionally getting chewed on by neighbor cats. (CATS! THIS HOUSE IS NOT THE FOLLOWING: YOUR BATHROOM, YOUR HUNTING GROUND AND YOUR PERSONAL ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT WILDLIFE BUFFET.) The stench was incredible.

After an entire week of non-stop rain I threw my hands up into the air and admitted defeat. "FINE! FINE! WE'LL GO OUT IN THE COLD AND RAIN AND GET WET. FINE! YOU'VE WON, NATURE, YOU'VE WON. CONGRATULATIONS." In the unforgiving Scottish rain - just before eight in the evening - I hoisted a container filled with the liquefied remains of eight dead rabbits in the trunk of the car, carefully wedging it between several buckets containing rocks.

It was freezing. (I was wet.) It was pitch black. (I was wet.) The car absolutely fucking //REEKED// and I wondered how far I could drive while holding my breath for as long as humanly possible. (Did I already mention that I was wet?) Italics, just as unenthusiastic about the situation, crawled into the car. (He was wet, too.) "OKAY, FINE, LET'S GET THIS OVER WITH," I grumbled. The car - which sat in the cold, rain and damp, unstarted, unused and unloved for a week - refused to turn its engine.

Sitting in the dark soaking wet, miserable, cold and TRYING NOT TO BREATHE, NOT EVEN A LITTLE my less than spectacular mood flat-lined. "YOU'RE JOKING, RIGHT?" I asked the car, the world, the Universe. It wasn't joking (which was good because I TOTALLY wasn't in the mood). After 10 minutes of grinding the engine I called it quits and hauled the effing bucket of dissolving rabbits back OUT from the trunk, back INTO the rain and returned it to the outside "greenhouse" (bonsai house).

By the time the weather evened out and stopped giving my temperamental car excuses for not starting the eight headless, footless and skinless bodies had reduced to a toxic soup with a mouthwatering aroma of raw, rotting sewage. When I yanked on the rickety metal handle the contents of the bucket swished, slooshed and splashed - way too much action for hauling, hoisting and transporting.

"FINE, YOU DON'T WANT TO LEAVE THE HOUSE? FINE. I TRIED TO BE NICE, I TRIED TO SHARE IN THE SPOILS, BUT, CLEARLY, YOU HAVE NO DESIRE TO LEAVE THIS PROPERTY."

And with that I quickly flipped the bucket'o'rabbits upside down, trapping the broken bodies between the earth and the container. The blood and fetid body juices ran off the animals and were drawn into the ground at the exact spot where Italics and I, earlier in the year, had outside summer sex. To ensure none of the opportunistic neighborhood cats could get to the jumble of carcasses I chucked a heavy brick onto the upturned bottom which should keep them deterred until Spring. (<- When I plan to go back for the bones.)

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Bright, November morning sunshine filtering through the bare butterfly and lilac bushes.

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The water's begun freezing in Mr. Awesome's abandoned (TWENTY YEARS AND COUNTING!) "pond" project.

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The Shango Tree altar remains yet unscathed, but its only a matter of time before our visiting badger returns and leaves another horrific scene of senseless gardening violence and altar desecration.

Opportunistic Neighborhood Cats

Too sore to make an offering of the bodies immediately after skinning, beheading and defooting them (SEVEN RABBITS + TWO HOURS OF INTENSE WORK SITTING ON A CONCRETE STEP = A V. UNHAPPY ASS) I decided to briefly lay the carcasses to rest in a black plastic bucket which I covered with a lid and left outside in the (back)yard to "air".

When I woke up the next morning I found the lid lying on the grass next to the bucket of exposed rabbits. "THAT'S WEIRD," I said, fitting the top back on, "IT'S NOT LIKE WE HAD WIND OR EVEN A BREEZE LAST NIGHT." Despite wanting to ritually dispose of the bodies ASAP I couldn't, so the rabbits spent another night in the yard with the lid firmly covering the bucket.

There was no wind or breeze that night, but the lid was, once again, on the ground the next morning. "THE FUCK? I'M MOVING THIS SHIT INTO THE BONSAI HOUSE," I declared, still working under the assumption of PHANTOM, MAGIC WIND. So the rabbits were moved outdoor-indoors and the lid was fitted - AGAIN - and the bucket'o'rabbits were left in a more secure place until I had the time to offer them properly.

(YOU TOTALLY KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING, RIGHT?)

The next morning? I discover the top partially flipped off. "SOMETHING'S GETTING TO THE RABBITS," I announced, "BECAUSE I'VE MOVED THE BUCKET INDOORS INTO THE BONSAI HOUSE SO IT'S NOT THE WIND THAT'S BLOWING OFF THE LID." The rabbits, by this point, had a ripe bouquet, and the bloated, blackening bodies had begun oozing juices.

For nearly a week I played the bucket lid game, getting no closer to the mystery. And then? And then, on a day I went outside to do some serious gardening I caught one of the neighborhood cats - ONE OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD CATS WHO SHITS IN MY FUCKING BEETS AND TRAMPLES OVER THE SEEDLINGS, ONE OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD CATS WHO STALKS MY FUCKING SONGBIRDS AND KILLS THEM - with its head fully submerged in the black plastic bucket CHEWING ON A FUCKING RABBIT LEG (THE OPPORTUNISTIC BASTARD).

GODDAMMIT, CATS, I KNOW I'M //THE ONLY WITCH IN THE VICINITY// BUT THAT DOESN'T GIVE YOU LICENSE TO TREAT MY HOUSE AND YARD AS A PUBLIC FUCKING BATHROOM AND AN ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT BUFFET.

Sutured Chicken

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My first sutured chicken*. (If I said "I HONESTLY, TRULY FOR REALLY REAL DIDN'T MEAN FOR IT TO LOOK LIKE A ROASTED BABY," would you believe me?)

(No, I didn't think so either.)

* A boneless chicken stuffed with a walnut-pita bread-spice-pancetta filling, lined with parma ham and massaged with rendered duck fat and spices.

Anti-Succubus

AN HOUR AGO I BUMPED MY EFFING HEAD ON PAPA'S EFFING ALTAR WHEN PRETENDING TO BE A SUCCUBUS AND IT //STILL// HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER. (<- NOTE 2 SELF: Papa {Ghede} is very anti-succubus.)

Rabbits Out of Thin Air

I have an innate talent for attracting adventures. (Or, maybe, I have an innate talent for turning everything into a story which retrospectively MAKES everything an adventure. Which then lengthens every experience and LOL! into several thousand words when a few sentences would usually suffice.) Today's epic adventure (that could otherwise be summed up in a simple paragraph)? How I recently transformed a basket of three pitiful boletes into seven dead rabbits.

If you somehow missed the memo, the majority of my ethnic heritage hails from Eastern Europe (Ukraine, to be exact, where, crazily enough, I ALSO get my Native American genes, but that's another story for another day...). As a kid the highlight of my year was mushroom picking with my grandmother; it was-is-was THE European family activity to do (eff Monopoly when there's an entire forest filled with edible fungi!).

Foraging was instilled at a very young age by my grandmother, who didn't see fruits and nuts and mushrooms as PROPERTY, but as useful, free commodities just waiting to be picked. (<- Much to the dismay of allotment owners adjacent to my grandparents' house which were frequently raided for blueberries and raspberries and gooseberries and currants and rhubarb and anything else I could get my young hands on.)

While I don't brazenly forage in other people's backyards anymore (STEALING AN APPLE AND SOME SWEET CORN FROM A CASTLE'S WALLED GARDEN DOESN'T COUNT, DOES IT?) I still experience the driving urge to get out in the forest once the weather becomes damp and cold in the hopes of unearthing some fungal treasures. (Primarily boletes, but I'm happy to harvest puff balls, purple amethyst deceivers, shaggy caps, morels, chicken of the woods, and chanterelles.)

It was a difficult passion to maintain when we weren't independent. In order to get to ANY woods we'd have to enlist the help of an in-law, and because ONE SPECIFIC IN-LAW (the only one who was ever available) has a hard time remembering to CARRY HIS FUCKING PHONE WITH HIM SO WE CAN CONTACT HIM WHEN WE'RE READY TO BE PICKED UP the foraging party always had to expand to three. Two's an adventure (a picnic, pot, sex, forest exploring and mushroom picking adventure), three's a crowd and involvement of my father-in-law warrants an entirely new category.

A car was dropped on my lap at the brink of Harvest this year, but because I had been - and still am - insanely busy with other things we haven't had a chance to mushroom hunt properly. (I used "next year will be different, next year will be different" as an optimistic mantra while watching seasons change. After eight years of chanting, next year WILL finally be different and the disappointment I've experienced for nearly a decade will soon be nothing more than old memories.)

Because Italics has been feeling under the weather (when we don't have pot in the house we smoke a synthesized version so his lungs are okay, but the second a shipment of weed arrives so does his ongoing struggle with bronchitis) we decided to stay local which gave us the ability to hunt for mushrooms AND hunt for this year's stoner tree. (<- WE HAVE TWO CHRISTMAS TREES DURING THE YULETIDE SEASON - THE ONE IN THE COMMUNAL LOUNGE WHICH HAS A STRICT COLOR THEME, AND THE STONER TREE IN THE BACKROOM THAT'S NO HOLDS BARRED.)

We arrived just in time to watch a hunting party emerge from the forest's parking lot with several people, dogs and guns in tow. "IT'S GOING TO BE SAFE TO BE IN THE WOODS, RIGHT?" I asked Italics while eying up the hunters warily. (<- I GREW UP IN THE MIDWEST, AND AS A FERAL MIDWESTERN CHILD MY PARENTS DID EVERYTHING BUT DRESS ME ENTIRELY IN NEON ORANGE WHEN ALLOWING ME OUT IN THE WILDERNESS DURING HUNTING SEASON TO ENSURE I WOULDN'T GET SHOT BY DRUNKEN DEER HUNTERS.)

Since there was no resemblance to the deer hunters of my Midwestern/American youth I assumed they were after different game - birds. So, surely, it should be safer if they were hunting something that needed to be flushed into the air by dogs first, right? Right. Fine. Okay. We should be safe, then. (The hunters, in turn, eyed us warily as we inched past the party and into the semi-full parking lot. <- SUSPICION ON BOTH SIDES!)

We've recently had a glorious glut of weather, and despite the drop in temperature (I AM //NOT// PULLING OUT MY WINTER COAT, DAMMIT! AS LONG AS I DON'T HAVE TO PUT ON MY WINTER COAT IT CAN'T BE WINTER (THAT'S HOW IT WORKS)! Therefore I've been wearing FOUR LAYERS OF LONG-SLEEVE SHIRTS AND A FLANNEL like some sort of socially maladjusted, unfeminine lumberjack woman - SO THERE, WINTER, SO THERE!) we've attempted to enjoy every minute.

The unfortunate drawback to this glorious glut of weather? No rain. As in, not a proper drop for weeks - not exactly awesome or ideal growing conditions for mushrooms. (The dirt? Looks like sand. Seriously.) The foray started off promising; just a few feet off the beaten track we managed to excavate two lovely little boletes. The discovery gave me hope that by the end of our fungal expedition I'd have a choice array of boletes and the treasure-prize I was really after - homegrown fly agaric.

Within minutes of stepping over broken boughs and rotting wood we heard the first of the gunshots. While we didn't witness an exodus of terrified Disney animals - all stampeding in our direction - the quiet serenity of the forest was broken. (BECAUSE THERE'S NOTHING MORE ATMOSPHERIC THAN GETTING HIGH AND APPRECIATING THE SILENT, CALMING BEAUTY OF THE FOREST WHILE MUSHROOM PICKING WITH YOUR LOVED ONE AS UNSEEN, UNHEARD HUNTERS UNEXPECTEDLY BREAK THE TRANQUIL MOOD WITH SPORADIC GUNFIRE.)

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Our fungal adventure peaked with those two boletes. What started off as promising finds became our ONLY finds. We sifted through different terrains and mini-ecosystems, trampled over beaten paths, gently prodded moss encrusted bumps, stood in the golden rain of the Fox's Wedding, waded through bright meadow grasses and briskly parted seas of purple-brown heather beneath disrobing birches and prickly gorse. Nothing. (Well, SOMETHING - another bolete beneath a birch, but a flabby, larger one that wasn't nearly as firm as the two smaller ones we initially found when starting our walk.)

That sad ass looking mushroom was the last nail in the coffin. (It was at that point when our SUPER GREAT AND AWESOME MUSHROOM HUNTING ADVENTURE reinvented itself as our SUPER GREAT AND AWESOME FOREST SEX AND STONER TREE ADVENTURE.) Disappointed, but with a new goal in mind (MUST. FIND. PERFECT. SPOT. TO. HAVE. FOREST. SEX. MUST. FIND. PERFECT. TREE. FOR. STONER. TREE.), we continued to trail the edge of newish growth in the hopes of finding a crevice large enough between the trees to allow us to (AHEM) penetrate the coniferous grove.

There were dark, shadow filled clusters of spiraling pine trees reaching towards the ceiling of the sky. There were slivers of meadows with tufted grass and dry heather, fluff and insects lazily floating through the air, all illuminated by shafts of bright autumn sun. There were great living mounds; the remnants of ancient trees now gone, tucked in by a a thick blanket of all-consuming damp moss. There were small granite boulders, paths partially blocked by swinging branches and partings so tight that all you could do was close your eyes and push forward into the darkness towards the warmth of light as you felt dead and broken twigs snap beneath the driving force of your blind body.

There was all of that, but none of it caught on camera. (ACTUALLY, THAT'S A KIND'VE SORT'VE LIE. THERE ARE //A LOT// OF PICTURES, IN FACT, OF A NEARLY THIRTY YEAR OLD WOMAN WITH WAIST LENGTH HAIR AND A HUGE ASS RUNNING AROUND A MEADOWY CLEARING WEARING NOTHING BUT HER SHOES AND A PAIR OF KNEE LENGTH STRIPED (BLACK AND RAINBOW, BABY!) SOCKS IN THE OCTOBER SUNSHINE.) But you know how it is - those special moments, those special places and special images never like getting photographed, anyway.

It was arched against a moss padded rock at the foot of a natural heather and pine altar where I fucked the horned god of the forest*. With hair spilling into dying grass and body bridged up to meet his I watched the pointed tips of coniferous trees tremble in the unfelt breeze. Between thrusts and long seconds of eyes-closed-and-face-turned-to-the-sun there was a moment when everything froze and the only certainty in the world was that the sky was endlessly blue and the towering, cathedral pines would always be as they were then - fierce and beautiful, a protective fortress forever separating modern man from nature.

(* OH, GOD, HOW DO I MAKE THIS QUICK, EASY AND TOTALLY UNDERSTANDABLE? I'm not your average run-of-the-mill witch - I'm not pagan, I don't worship deities and the concept of "horned god" has been replaced by the "horned goddess" in this house. (I'm the fertility goat, the sacrificial ram, the divine nursemaid and deer priestess.) In other words, I don't do Cernunnos.)

(But what I DO do is the Old Woman, the Cailleach, the divine deer keeper. As the Old Woman I have vested interest in Our deer stock, so what better way to assess the virility and power of Our herd than by "mating" with the alpha buck? Cernunnos? Doesn't click. Coupling with the mythical MASTER OF THE FOREST (aka MY DIVINE ALPHA MALE COUNTERPART) in deer form? OH, HEY, THAT MAKES SENSE!)

Three boletes, two pot breaks and one MAGIC FOREST SEX session later I was fully dressed and complaining about our shitty lucky. An entire afternoon of searching and for what? Three mushrooms, a good selection of possible stoner trees and a helluva lot of jizz mopped off my tits - AWESOME. Being myself, I bitched all the way back to the parking lot, bemoaning my relatively empty basket and nature's inherent hatred of me and all of my nature-based adventures.

By the time we made it back to the car park the hunting party had returned. "I HOPE YOU GUYS SHOT MORE PHEASANTS THAN I FOUND MUSHROOMS," I joke-shouted over my shoulder at them while shoving my (nearly) empty basket into the trunk of the car. One of the older gentlemen said something to me which I didn't completely understand. Eventually my brain partially translated the mishmash of English, Doric (a local dialect) and heavy Scottish accent and I caught the gist of what he had said.

"OHMYGODREALLY?!" I squealed, processing that HE HAD OFFERED A PORTION OF THEIR KILL TO ME. "SERIOUSLY?!" It wasn't pheasants, it was something better - rabbits. (A mind-boggling mountain of wild rabbits.) He asked me how many I wanted, I laughed and said "ALL!" but negotiated down to "AS MANY AS YOU CAN SPARE!". (<- IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY NOTICED, MY SIDE OF THE CONVERSATION ENDED ENTIRELY IN EXCLAMATION POINTS. I WAS V. EXCITED BY THE PROSPECT OF FREE GAME.)

(You don't know "heavy" until you lug a reusable, eco-friendly grocery bag filled with rabbits (SEVEN! 7! THAT'S A SUPER MAGIC NUMBER!) across a gravel parking lot and hoist the bag'n'contents into your car's trunk.)

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And that, dear readers, is how this witch magically transformed a basket of three pitiful boletes into seven dead rabbits. (<- THE HORNED GOD OF THE FOREST? PAYS //REALLY// WELL FOR SEX.)

Answer's Always "Smoked Bacon Fat"

THEY SAY YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO PUT BUTTER ON A BURN TO TAKE OUT THE STING ALL MAGIC-STYLE. SO, LIKE, LOVINGLY COLLECTED AND PRECIOUSLY STORED BACON GREASE SHOULD TAKE OUT THE STING ALL MAGIC-STYLE //EVEN MORE//, RIGHT? ...RIGHT? (BECAUSE, LOL, THE ANSWER'S ALWAYS "SMOKED BACON FAT". ALWAYS.)

PS: IT DOES STING LESS! (IT WORKS! OH, POLISH SMOKED PORK PRODUCTS - <3!)

Seven Lousy Rabbits

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I FUCKED THE HORNED GOD OF THE FOREST AND ALL I GOT WERE THESE SEVEN LOUSY DEAD RABBITS*. (<- LOL! PUT //THAT// ON A T-SHIRT!)

(* OH, GOD, I'LL TELL THE STORY WHEN MY BACK ISN'T ACHING FROM DECAPITATING, SKINNING AND PULLING GUNSHOT PELLETS OUT OF SEVEN EFFING RABBITS.)

Altar Building Gremlins

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Altar building gremlins? Still here. (I've learned if you just close the door to the backroom you can keep them restrained and give the superficial impression that you've exorcised the last room.)

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Altar Building at 4:30 AM

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Last night the altar building gremlins crashed the altar building party and left a despair-filling trail of destruction and carnage. (This side of the kitchen? It ain't got NOTHING on the OTHER SIDE of the kitchen. Or my in-laws' bedroom. (SHH! I'LL CLEAN IT UP BEFORE SHE COMES HOME FROM HER BUSINESS TRIP.) Or the backroom, which currently resembles a stable thanks to all of the hay trampled into the carpet. <- REAPED WHEAT LAST NIGHT INDOORS AND ASSEMBLED MY DIDUKHY.)

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I was so busy I DIDN'T EVEN HAVE THE TIME TO CLOSE THE CABINETS. (SERIOUSLY. FOR REAL.) Note the McDonald's deflated box for their new chicken sandwich deal thing sitting in the middle of the crowded counter (the meal of altar building champions). IT'S OKAY, THOUGH, BECAUSE I HAD A RITUAL BREAKFAST CONSISTING OF PROPER PINHEAD OATMEAL, AN APPLE, PLUMS FROM THE BACKYARD, NUTS, WHOLE MILK AND HONEY. (The rats said "MORE PLZ!" but I wasn't about to dig into the ancestors' share to feed greedy, spoiled pet rats. RATS! CEASE WITH YOUR PATHETIC OATMEAL BEGGING!)

Harvest Moon Joyriding

Growing up I was a good kid; a super crazy good kid. Perhaps suspiciously so, since I wasn't reigning myself through an exercise of restraint - I just wasn't interested. (<-- WHICH MEANS, NATURALLY, I WOULD GROW UP TO BECOME A PARENT'S WORST NIGHTMARE SINCE I HAD AN ENTIRE MISCREANT YOUTH TO MAKE UP.)

I hung out with underage drinkers, but I didn't drink. I had stoner friends, but I didn't smoke. I didn't date, I didn't have sex (until Italics came around at age 17, but he lived in Scotland and I lived in the Midwest so any sex was very limited sex - with STUPID amounts of contraceptives because THERE WAS NO WAY I WAS GETTING PREGNANT, EVER - in two week bursts separated by several months).

I wasn't even remotely interested in the opposite (or same) sex since I was LOLtastically mentally underdeveloped (despite my bizarre behavior and reactions no one suspected I was autistic until I moved in with a teacher/principal/government worker who had first hand experience with (and knowledge about) autism).

I didn't swear, I never talked back, I had a steady part-time job, I paid for my own things, I did my chores, I was an honor student and I was involved in embarrassing amounts of extracurricular school activities. In the few instances my parents felt the need to reprimand me they were at a lost as to how to do it. ("YOU'RE GROUNDED!", "FROM WHAT?", SILENCE, "GO MOW THE LAWN!")

My parents were hard on me, though. And I don't think I'd be embellishing or exaggerating when saying that there were points when they were down right cruel to me, making me the butt of disappointment, anger, frustration and control so tight that you'd think that I was my complete opposite - my younger sister of two years.

(Who, incidentally, was an underage drinker, stole booze from the alcohol cabinet, smoked both cigarettes and pot, was sexually promiscuous, stole money and things from people, was a failing student and eventually became a meth head living in a trailer with utilities constantly being turned off.)

I wonder, now, what the source of negativity was. Was it because I was overweight? My father bordered on being obsessed with the shape of my body, and when guilt was piled on it was pile fucking on over something I didn't even notice. (Was it disappointment because being thin would've been icing on the cake for them? Was it because they saw the wild animal in me, and tried to control it and keep it caged to stop it from tasting freedom?)

I had to fight for certain rights. At age 14 I still wasn't allowed to shave my legs despite being tormented at school (it didn't even OCCUR to me that I needed to shave my legs until gym class when my leg hair stuck out between the exquisitely groomed, gangly legs of other pubescent girls and even THEN it didn't occur to me until the entire female population treated me like I had leprosy). It took me talking back for the first time - "MAYBE YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE FACT THAT I'M GROWING UP!" - which rendered them speechless.

I couldn't wear nail polish until I was in high school; couldn't touch make-up until I was 16. (And then, when I could, I couldn't be bothered waking up 20 minutes earlier just to slap on some foundation and eyeliner.) I had these puzzling weird, verging on archaic, rules thrust upon me, but my sister wasn't held to the same standard and to this day I don't understand why we were raised differently.

When I graduated to the next level it broke the glass ceiling and my sister was only one step behind; nail polish, make-up, everything. After my 8th grade outburst I was allowed to Nair my legs, my 6th grade sister instantly began shaving her legs. (They knew it, but they wouldn't let ME shave my legs. And once stubble began growing back in I tried everything from tweezing them out - way too much effort - to ripping them out with duct tape - doesn't work, trust me - because they refused to buy me another bottle of Nair. After several weeks of experimenting with deliberate hair loss I just began shaving myself since my sister hadn't been chastised or punished for breaking one of the hard rules of the house.)

ANYWAY ANYWAY ANYWAY.

Anyway, this isn't an OH, WOE IS ME AND MY TEENAGE HARDSHIP entry, I just kind've sort've wanted to give a basic idea of the schism in the house and how I was, LOLically enough, a V. good girl growing up, not out of pretension or devious intent, but because I was, I guess, a kid who wasn't interested in - or even considered the possibility of - breaking rules. So, clearly, I know that you'll know (and, more importantly, understand) why I did what I did last night -

I TOOK THE NEW FAMILY CAR OUT JOYRIDING.

(Shhh! Don't tell the in-laws because THEY DON'T KNOW and I DIDN'T ASK FOR PERMISSION. And even though I AM insured I'm only insured under my married name, not my maiden name which is present on my still valid US license. And, technically, I'm only allowed to drive on my US license for the first year of living here, and I've been a resident of bonnie ole Scotland for nearly a decade.)

BUT YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THE TEMPTATION I FACED!

I've spent nearly 10 years being driven around, with no ability to be independent myself. I've spent nearly 10 years living behind windows and doors, unable to get a job or even go to the grocery store myself. I've spent nearly 10 years imprisoned in this house, and the only change of scenery I got was going out for a walk. I've spent the last several years not even going out - as in, 3-5 months have passed without me so much as crossing the threshold of the door - because it felt like it became too much of an inconvenience to drop me off at the movies once a week.

I've spent nearly 10 years living and existing in a gilded box due to the reluctance of allowing me to drive. Due to not having a job I don't have any money, which means I can't leave the house because I can't even afford bus fare (so when a catastrophic "incident" occurs my only option to "get away from it" is literally running into the woods and hiding amongst the brush, or hiding in the cemetery - me, a woman who turns fucking //30// next year). Due to not having a drivable car I've never been able to explore the countryside, do my own grocery shopping or errands, or even drive myself (or Italics) to the emergency room.

(Thanks to having property in Florida my in-laws take off for entire months leaving us behind, unable to drive or get around. It's terrific great that now there's on-line shopping, but that still didn't stop us from going hungry last year when we both had influenza. (<- We were so sick we couldn't walk down to the somewhat local gas station for simple essentials - milk, eggs, bread - and we didn't know the neighbors well enough to ask them to shop for us. Worse yet, all of the on-line delivery slots were full for two days since it was the fucking weekend so we just went hungry because THERE WAS NO FOOD IN THE HOUSE TO EAT, AND NO WAY TO GET TO THE STORE.))

I have wept, I have pleaded, I have begged, I have threatened, I have demanded, prayed, beseeched and nearly given up hope. And then, just after I angrily rubbed in some bloodied dirt onto a car tire, just after I found myself inching closer and closer to the end of my rope, the small red car broke. Within a few months a car - a car //I// can drive - took its place. (It officially arrived a few days ago.) Yesterday was the first day that both in-laws were away for the night, leaving the keys to the little automatic parked right outside the kitchen window in the key drawer.

(CUE PROBLEM CHILD MUSIC HERE.)

"BUT WE DON'T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING," I promised Italics, "WE COULD, YOU KNOW, JUST GET IN THE CAR AND SIT IN IT. WE WOULDN'T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING OTHER THAN JUST SIT. WE COULD JUST SIT SIDE-BY-SIDE IN THE FRONT AND...TALK." (And when he laughed that "OH, MY WIFE IS SO CLEVER AND SMART AND FUNNY AND GOOFY" laugh (you know that laugh; when your dog does something incredibly smart and funny but bad) I knew that I had him hooked.)

At twilight I flung my purse and jacket in the back and started a car for the first time in nearly five years. Rear mirror was adjusted - although not the side ones, or the seat, because IT'S NOT LIKE I WANTED TO LEAVE A NOTE IN THE CAR SAYING "OH HEY I DROVE THIS VEHICLE WITHOUT PERMISSION OR KNOWLEDGE!" - and headlights and wipers were figured out, seat belts fastened and with the first blast of fresh air through the vents WE WERE OFF, BABY.

(Actually, I was cautiously - perhaps humorously so - reversing out the driveway and slowly creeping into the dead end we live in, BUT IT WAS PRETTY CLOSE TO "WE WERE OFF, BABY".)

"SDHPGOHDFGOBNFGSPOHFDJNSLDFGOIFDHGSDOFBNGOIFD," is all I can say, really, when attempting to sum up the burst of divinely granted freedom I felt. (OOOOOOOOH, SO //THIS// IS WHAT JOYRIDING FEELS LIKE!) Carefully tracing curves and bends we followed an all too familiar path to the cemetery, but deviated at the crossroads and went up the hill and then down (up?) a country lane only traveled once or twice before.

(I totally knew where I was going, but the same couldn't be said when I made a right instead of a left when attempting to pick up the tiny road that runs parallel to a beech hedge near the new portion of the cemetery (as opposed to the old portion which we regularly visit to make offerings) to return back home.)

I KNOW my eyes should've been glued to the road (I think, second for second, it was more glued to the speedometer - making sure I wasn't going to fast even though I was only doing 40 in a 70 zone) but I got distracted, and how couldn't I? The moon - the Harvest Moon, only the BIGGEST MOST FULLEST MOON OF THE YEAR - had begun rising over darkened hills and glowed a luminous yellow-white against the powder blue sky.

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We momentarily parked in a lay-by (since the country roads are so tiny there are regular indents in the side of the road to allow one car to pull over to let incoming traffic by) and watched, both nervous and excited and jittery and free, the 80s Michael Mann moon make its ascent into the heavens. And then we were off, again, hugging the left lane as the headlights cut through the strengthening dusk, catching out a fox who paused, just for a second, in the middle of the road to glance at us before darting off into a hedge.

(V. GOOD SIGN, CRAZY GOOD SIGN, IN FACT, SINCE I'VE FINALLY ACCEPTED THE FACT THAT THE FOX IS ONE OF MY ANIMALS.)

Rabbits and hares paused as we slowly crept by, occasionally rising on their haunches to investigate the ambling vehicle before sprinting off to the safety of burrows. And before I knew it we were there, the Drum Circle, a monument I had only been to once before, a monument that I promised myself would be the very first place I drove to. We arrived just as the moon began inching above the hill's horizon, illuminating the golden husks and sheaths of wheat.

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We clambered over the metal gate and lost ourselves in a sea of rustling grain, rabbits and unseen animals darting beneath the blanket of wheat causing stalks to rattle as they invisibly raced faster and further away. And we stood, side by side, nervously glancing at the car we left behind in a lay-by, standing in the crudely shaped stone tower commemorating an ancient battle that soaked the hill with death and blood watching the moon rise.

Glorious. Unearthly. Magic. (Unfortunately none of that got caught on camera; I've got a good camera, just not a great one for night shots.) I looked at Italics and he looked at me, and there was an understood silence between us, but before either of us could act on it I said "MAYBE THE FIRST TIME OUT WHEN WE DON'T HAVE PERMISSION TO BE OUT ISN'T A GOOD IDEA" - although it would've provided a LOL story for the ages, how Italics and I got picked up by the police for having public sex at a national monument on our first joyride.

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So instead of sex (or oral sex) we went home, and I lost my way only once which was quickly corrected with a three point turn (or, uh, two point because no one important that needed to be impressed was watching). "OH MY GOD, DID YOU EVER THINK WE'D BE SEEING IT LIKE THIS?!" I laughed as we eased into the small village, glancing at the cemetery gates of the graveyard, having never been behind the wheel of a car when passing some place we know so well (but only because we've walked to it time and time again).

And then the Universe laughed as I accidentally clipped the concrete curb when laughing, bumping us up into the air momentarily as I offered a sheepish grin to Italics who didn't look entirely impressed but didn't hold it against me. (Ah, well, I'm entitled to one tiny hiccup, right? I MEAN, IT HAS BEEN FIVE YEARS SINCE I LAST DROVE. IN FACT, I COULDN'T EVEN REMEMBER //WHICH PEDAL WAS THE GAS// WHEN I FIRST GOT IN. IT'S BEEN //THAT// LONG.)

With some reluctance I parked the car, ensuring we left nothing behind and Italics even going as far as to using a kitchen wipe to clean off some of the mud and debris from the frame. (Will they notice? Will they see it's not exactly parked how they left it? Will someone see that the rear view mirror was readjusted? That new miles were somehow tacked on? That there's mud or dirt that wasn't in, or out on, the car before?)

By the time we were home the otherworldly moon and turned worldly, and through the torn veils of translucent clouds I could still see the roundness and fullness of this year's Harvest Moon above the house, shining down on us, the car and the freshly made memory of our secret joyride road trip. It's only taken about 10 years, but, baby, I finally got this harvest in.

My life? It suddenly began yesterday, September 5th, celebrating a teenage cliche that's only 16 years late.

I, Being Myself

So, like, yesterday Italics and I went on a sort've date. (SORT'VE DATE = CASTLE/FOREST WALK COMPLETE WITH A HOMEMADE MEZE PICNIC IN OUR SPECIAL LITTLE SECRET SPOT AMONGST THE OAKS.) I wore my best pair of ASS JEANS (<- SHOWS OFF MY HIP TO WAIST RATIO AND SNUGLY FITS IN A PERFECT DIPPING SORT'VE WAY TO REVEAL MY LOWER BACK AND SHIT) because I knew there'd be many-a ASS PICTURE OPPORTUNITY.

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(It's a relationship/in-joke thing - he likes my ass, I like putting my ass on stuff and letting him take pictures. "OKAY! NOW TAKE A PICTURE OF ME SITTING NAKED ON THIS ROCK! OKAY! NOW TAKE A PICTURE OF ME SQUATTING OVER THIS RUSTY OLD BUCKET WE JUST FOUND IN THE WOODS SO IT LOOKS LIKE A BUCKET'O'ASS! OKAY! NOW TAKE A PICTURE OF...")

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Less than 10 minutes into our afternoon foray I slid - belly first - down a huge ass moss-encrusted rock overlooking a babbling brook, and when I fished around to button my jeans THERE WAS NO BUTTON TO BE FOUND. (LOL!) I, being myself, wasn't wearing any underwear. (LOL!) I, being myself yet again, wasn't wearing any sort of belt. (LOL!) I, being myself but 10-15 pounds heavier since my stomach valve fucking broken two years ago, was completely relying on said button to keep my pants zipped. (LOL!) I, being my stubborn Aries self, refused to end our date on grounds of indecency and simply threaded the sleeves of my zip-up hoodie through the front belt loops of my jeans and clumsily tied them together until my pants weren't falling off.

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And then? And then I commenced in LOLOLOLOLing for the rest of the day, artfully dodging suspicious glances from parents and children with my version of censorship (i.e., pulling my t-shirt down over my stomach, pulling my jeans up over it and then tying the sleeves of my hoodie together to hide bare flesh behind several layers of clothing, hands and a bottle of large water held just in front of my pubic mound) and lamenting all of the wonderful, atmospheric scenes that would've benefited from the addition of a bare ass.
Ah, well, next time.

(These are the whole three pictures we actually manged to get, minus one blurred photo of an out of focus European robin.)

I See You Looking

I love seeing variants of Ms. Graveyard Dirt turn up in my stats; I know you're looking for me, and I can see you. (Although I can't be held responsible for the repercussions of typing out my name three times in front of your computer monitor in a darkened room.)

Egg Wash

I've just finished washing my hands and face with an egg yolk. I DON'T KNOW, DON'T ASK ME; I'M REALLY, REALLY HIGH RIGHT NOW.

(For whatever reason I "wash" my hands with ingredients when MAGIC cooking; when the egg broke crazy and the white (I DIDN'T SEE A WHITE, ACTUALLY, BECAUSE THE YOLK WAS STUCK TO THE INSIDE OF THE SHELL, WHICH IS WHY I GOT SOME ON MY FACE BECAUSE I SMELLED MY HANDS, AFTER, TO SEE IF IT WAS OFF) disappeared I had slippery, liquid gold in my hands and I thought OH SHIT! CAN'T LET THIS GET AWAY, BETTER WASH AND RUB IT ALL IN! and before I knew it I had massaged it into my hands, my forearms and my face. After striping off every gelatinous layer (LIKE AN EASTER CHICK, BABY, FRESH AND NEW AND FLUFFY AND YOUNG) with warmish water I buried my face into a starched kitchen towel catching, just for a second, a scorpion emerging from its watery home and crawling onto land underneath the light of a crescent moon.)

  
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#18, Moon
"Lobster: Also depicted as a crayfish or a crab in other deck renditions, crustaceous creatures are a symbol of hidden psychic power. These creatures live in water (which is a symbol of the subconscious) and when they emerge from the depths of the water it is an expression of coming out of the dark or coming out of hiding. Further, these creatures are usually equipped with a hard exoskeleton which is a symbol of armor which protects the tender, beauty we all carry inside our souls. As mentioned in the introduction above, the lobster is a representation of us on our pilgrimage to carry out our higher (most often hidden) divine purpose. Additionally, it's worthwhile to investigate the astrological aspects of Cancer as the moon is its ruler. "

Source: Moon Tarot Card Meanings

(OH, LORD, IT'S GOING TO BE ONE OF //THOSE// NIGHTS, ISN'T IT?)

Accidental Altar

You know how sometimes when cleaning you throw everything you don't know what the fuck to do with in one room with the grudging acceptance that you're creating a new mess, but at least it's contained in one room that you can kind've sort've ignore?

(OH, I KNOW YOU DO. THE VERY BEST, VERY ANAL OF US DO IT. <- UH OH, I THINK I JUST SPOILED THE ANCIENT SECRET OF WOMEN'S MYSTERIES. IF THE GREAT CHTHONIC CREATRIX AND DESTRUCTORIX ASKS, IT //WASN'T ME//, OKAY? I'M ALREADY ON PROBATION FOR ONLY HALF FINISHING HIEROS GAMOS.)

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It started with Papa's incense burner. (IT ALMOST //ALWAYS// STARTS WITH PAPA, RIGHT OLD MAN? *nudge nudge, wink wink*) When roasting marrows and cooking the lamb-tomato-spices filling for dinner I thought "OH, HEY, IN-LAWS ARE GONE FOR A FEW DAYS, MIGHT AS WELL ROCK THE HOUSE WITH INCENSE AS MUCH AS I CAN" and dragged the doorstop of an incense burner through to the kitchen.

(I SLEEP WITH A MACHETE NEXT TO THE BED IN CASE WE EVER GET ATTACKED BY ZOMBIES, I SLEEP WITH THE RESIN INCENSE HOLDER NEXT TO THE BED IN CASE WE EVER GET ATTACKED BY A BURGLAR. <- BECAUSE THE LAST THING A CRIMINAL WANTS TO SEE IS THE MATRIARCH OF THE HOUSE (THE MATRIARCH WITH A V. V. V. SHORT FUSE; I AM ARIES, HEAR ME ROAR TEAR OUR YOUR THROAT WITH MY BARE TEETH), BUCK NAKED, SWINGING A HEAD SHOP BOUGHT SKULL BURNER LIKE A NEOLITHIC STONE AXE.)

Too lazy to return it to its rightful place (I'M ANAL AND LAZY, WHORE AND VIRGIN, CHILD AND OLD WOMAN; BLAME GEMINI IN MY VENUS) I dropped it off on the coffee table in the backroom.

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Later on Italics pruned our, uh, houseplants in the bathroom and left the leaves on the cutting board so I could dry them out and store them. (They aren't psychoactive, but still useful in a symbolic/representative sort've way and I've been meaning to grind up our dried leaves to add to incense and things.)

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While he was hacking away I was outside in the back doing my nudist gardening thing in the sun (I TAKE IT BACK; I WORE ONE ITEM OF CLOTHING, CAN YOU GUESS WHAT IT WAS?) moving container vegetables around (sub-arctic tomatoes went outside into the bonsai house, so I tossed their plastic coasters onto coffee table), planting newly arrived seeds (cucumbers, parsley and thyme), sweeping the patio floor with a small dust pan brush, weeding my herb containers, planting out seedlings from trays (sweet peas and sunflowers), moving acclimated trees'n'plants to get better sun and arranging everything in a visually pleasing manner.

(TRANSLATION: SYMMETRICAL, UNINTENTIONAL OUTSIDE ALTAR CONSISTING OF CONTAINER TREES, PLANTS, VEGETABLES AND FLOWERS.)

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The glass cutting board and leaves got absently moved into the backroom as I got ready for a shower (post gardening, pre-realization of how red this partial red man...er, uh...woman, red WOman really was) but before I could climb into the tub Papa began a-pattin' my shoulder to remind me that OH, HEY, YOU PROMISED ME A PIECE OF THAT HOMEMADE PIE, BABY GIRL. So, still sweaty, light-headed and covered in dirt I cut him the promised piece and left it on top of the leaves on top of the cutting board which was on top of the table.

(When I'm not making a big production of offering food to ancestors, deceased friends and relatives or our incorporeal housemates I usually leave a plate of food in the backroom which Italics and I use as our private lounge area and greenhouse. <- GARDENING, BOARD GAMES, TURNTABLE, RECORDS, BOOKS, TV AND VIDEO GAMES; I THINK EVERYTHING "VISITING" HAS SOME INTEREST COVERED. <- AS IF "FREE, HOMEMADE FOOD" WASN'T ENOUGH.)

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Once it dawned on me how badly I had been burned I bee-lined to my recently deceased aloe plant (someone - "SOMEONE" = NOT ME, NOT ITALICS, NOT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, BUT MY FATHER-IN-LAW, MR. AWESOME, NOT TO NAME NAMES, OR ANYTHING - moved my aloe into the dark and rather than start WW III I didn't say anything or do anything and it cost me my goddamn plant) and shook out a handful of plump leaves to cut open and apply to my skin. I only needed one, so the rest got dumped on the last uncluttered corner of the table.

  
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Because I find straight-up aloe vera gel a little sticky I concocted a massage oil (an organic baby oil with an addition of rosehip seed oil) in my communion cup for Italics to rub me down with before applying aloe. I took my paring knife through so he could cut a small portion from a leaf rather than bruise it by breaking one off. Once anointed (LOL!) I threw the knife, used section of leaf and oil filled cup onto the (now V. familiar, no doubt) backroom coffee table.

(LOOK, THE KITCHEN'S ON THE //OTHER SIDE// OF THE HOUSE, THE BACKROOM RIGHT NEXT TO OUR BEDROOM - I'M HUMAN, AND EVEN BEING PARTIALLY DIVINE I HAVE MY HUMAN TRAPPINGS AND FAULTS TO WRESTLE WITH. <- SOMETIMES THE PARTIAL DIVINE JUST WANTS TO GET INTO BED ASAP WITH A LAPTOP TO CATCH UP ON THE DAILY SHOW AND COLBERT REPORT, OKAY? I'M A WEAK THING CONSTRAINED BY THE WEIGHT OF HUMAN EMOTIONS...OR SOMETHING, HEH HEH.)

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At day break, the morning after, I found three feathers at the foot of the mostly-practically-done outside container altar. Seeing as how I consecrated the place with an offering of flesh (sunburned) and blood (scraped my knuckles against concrete and bled onto the patio) - OLD TESTAMENT FIGURATIVE? OH WHY NOT! - I thought there was something significant about the three perfect, downy white feathers sitting on on a surface that I had sweated, bled and exerted control/energy over the day prior.

(Three white feathers - three wishes, three curses? Who knows, only time will tell. They'll get squirreled away with everything else and added to my growing collection of dehydrated animals parts (blackbird feet and wings, hedgehog skins, rabbit skulls with teeth...), rusted junk found while walking through the countryside and various graveyard dirts.)

(OH, HONEY, YES, I'M //THAT// SORT'VE WITCH - THE KIND THAT MAKES THERMITE FROM OLD FARMING EQUIPMENT. <- LOL!)

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You know how something can just appear out of NOTHING? First it wasn't there and then, by a miracle of God and ALL THAT IS HOLY ZOMG, it suddenly exists. (OKAY, OKAY, SO IN THIS INSTANCE IT WAS ROUGHLY 48 HOURS IN THE MAKING, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. <- I THINK WE'VE ALREADY ESTABLISHED THAT YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT I MEAN BY PARAGRAPH TWO.)

Before the white feathers rolled out of my palm and onto the tiled surface of the table it was just the backroom coffee table filled with "OH, GOD, I'LL JUST DEAL WITH IT //LATER//", but the second the feathers fell into a neat pile on 70s ceramic? "HOLY FUCKING SHIT, DUDE, THIS ISN'T A...HOW THE HELL DID IT...MAYBE I'M JUST SEEING THINGS FROM THIS ANGLE..."

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"...OR MAYBE I'M NOT."

(Hellooooooooooooooooooooooooooo accidental altar born from my subconscious and lack of motivation! HOW ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? CAN I GET YOU SOMETHING TO DRINK, OR MAYBE SOME CANDLES? <- LOL!)

I'm pretty hawk-eyed about shit but, somehow, this one managed to slip beneath my radar. Now to turn this mystery around on its axis - all Rubik's Cube-style - to see if I can solve this riddle I left for myself.

Grabbin' the Ass

OH, ANUBIS. DON'T TRY AND DENY IT; YOU'RE TOTALLY THINKING ABOUT GRABBING HER ASS. ("BUT I WAS LOOKING/WALKING THE OTHER WAY!" SURE YOU WERE, YOU ANTHROPOMORPHIC, MALE-GENDERED DEITY WITH ONE HAND SLYLY STUCK OUT WHILST SEEMING TO UNKNOWINGLY PASS THE GYRATING NUDIE GIRL CERAMIC MUG. MEN, PFFT.)

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(Both were gifts for Italics that never made it into the GIANT GIFT BOX. He saw the auction for the mug over my shoulder, and after he gave me a belated birthday gift I couldn't help turning over the "ivory" Anubis statue that had just arrived.)

(From certain angles Anubis looks MARGINALLY ACCEPTABLE, but from others he looks like some sort of unfinished Warhammer figurine. Ah, well, "ivory effect"...)

Grabbin' the Ass

OH, ANUBIS. DON'T TRY AND DENY IT; YOU'RE TOTALLY THINKING ABOUT GRABBING HER ASS. ("BUT I WAS LOOKING/WALKING THE OTHER WAY!" SURE YOU WERE, YOU ANTHROPOMORPHIC, MALE-GENDERED DEITY WITH ONE HAND SLYLY STUCK OUT WHILST SEEMING TO UNKNOWINGLY PASS THE GYRATING NUDIE GIRL CERAMIC MUG. MEN, PFFT.)

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(Both were gifts for Italics that never made it into the GIANT GIFT BOX. He saw the auction for the mug over my shoulder, and after he gave me a belated birthday gift I couldn't help turning over the "ivory" Anubis statue that had just arrived.)

(From certain angles Anubis looks MARGINALLY ACCEPTABLE, but from others he looks like some sort of unfinished Warhammer figurine. Ah, well, "ivory effect"...)

11th Day of Marriage

"WAIT, DID I PUT YOUR DICK IN MY MOUTH TODAY, OR WAS THAT YESTERDAY?"

A Lot of Food

If there's no obvious holiday decorations, ornate altar spread in the lounge, or sheepskin rug and rocket bucket in the backroom, how do you know we're on vacation?

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Food. A lot of food.

(A lot of food of the likes you've never seen and probably don't want to see and probably shouldn't see after a day or two of mingling and standing at room temperature. <- LOOK, IF YOU'VE GOT YOUR ENTIRE LIFE TOGETHER WHERE EVERYTHING RUNS FLUIDLY INTO ONE ANOTHER LIKE EFFORTLESS MOVEMENT IN GOLDEN WATERS AS HEAVENLY CHOIRS SING, CONGRATULATIONS. SOME OF US - THE LESSER EVOLVED - ARE STILL TRYING TO IRON A FEW KINKS OUT. <- ONE OF MINE BEING "THE DISPOSAL OF RITUALLY OFFERED FOOD AND BEVERAGES IN A TIMELY MANNER.")

(AND WHEN I MEAN "IN A TIMELY MANNER" I MEAN BEFORE IT BEGINS WITHERING AWAY LIKE MOLD ENCRUSTED ASTRONAUT FOOD AND SMELLING LIKE FERMENTING CAULIFLOWER MINERAL WATER.)

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After a day or two shit begins to pile up, and by day three our speaker/stereo cabinet begins to look like the table of a buffet enthusiast who's prepared to exploit every single word in the promise of "all you can eat." (One of my greatest sexual fantasies? Italics, unlimited pot and a booth at Warsaw Inn. I AM THAT BUFFET ENTHUSIAST, AND I DON'T WEAR UNDERWEAR, REALLY, SO I'LL BE MORE THAN COMFORTABLE WHEN MY WAISTLINE'S EXPANDING.)

Papa (the Baron Samedi altar doll) doesn't usually "head" the table, but, somehow, his ass managed to park itself right next to the food. I love his GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON LOOKING RESOLUTE WHILE CROSSING THE DELAWARE expression in the picture below, if you look above (at the first picture) you'll see the target of his grim, fixed gaze - the dessert plate.

(FOOD. IT'S HIS JOB (OR AT LEAST WILL BE FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS), AND HE TAKES HIS JOB V. SERIOUSLY, THANK YOU.)

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State Fair Pasta

LIKE, YOU KNOW HOW WHEN YOU PASS A DAIRY FARM OR THE ANIMAL STALLS AT THE STATE FAIR IT'S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE YOU GET PUNCHED IN THE FACE WITH THAT PUNGENT AND OVERWHELMING WARM-ANIMAL-SHIT-EARTH SMELL? THAT SMELL IS //EXACTLY// WHAT THIS TESCO "THREE FOR £5.00!" HAM AND MUSHROOM CARBONARA TAGLIATELLE TASTES LIKE.

SERIOUSLY.

(WITCHES DON'T LET OTHER WITCHES EAT DISCOUNT, SINGLE-SERVING PASTA BAKES.)

To-Be-Bridge

HIGH AND ON THE INTERNET. WRITING DESCRIPTIONS FOR FLICKR IMAGES JUST UPLOADED (RE: Miel de la Mariée INGREDIENTS). ACCIDENTALLY WROTE:

INSTEAD OF:

LOL, BRIDGE! (IT'S ALL ABOUT LADDERS AND BRIDGES, BABY!)(WHEN IS A LADDER NOT A LADDER? WHEN IT'S A BRIDGE; NEITHER GOING UP OR DOWN.)

LATE YESTERDAY DUSTED OFF LADDER IN BACKROOM AND MOVED BROOM FROM LOUNGE TO BACKROOM TO STAND OPPOSITE OF LADDER. (NEW UNEXPECTED ALTAR, AHOY!)(SURPRISE, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, AND NICE OF YOU TO FINALLY JOIN US!)

BRIDGES AND LADDERS BE ON THE MIND, YO.

...

...

I GET MARRIED IN LESS THAN TWO WEEKS.

PS:

ALSO, WHILE I'M ON THE CAPS:

TWITTER, I AM //SO// NOT APPRECIATING YOUR UNEXPECTED GREMLIN CHOICE OF REVERTING TO THE "GREEN ANGRY POINTING HARPY WOMAN PICTURE THAT DOESN'T WORK AS A TWITTER ICON" INSTEAD OF THE "DEAD GIRL CRAWLS OUT OF TV TO KILL YOU THAT WORKS OKAY AS A TWITTER ICON" WHICH I HAD SETTLED ON.

(OKAY, OKAY - I KIND'VE SORT'VE LOLED A LITTLE INSIDE.)

(LOLOLOL, SHE'S BITCHY AND ANGRY. OH DEAR, ISHTAR, OH DEAR.)

Love Cake

Love cake received on Valentine's Day.

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(ME? CANDY? HA! I GOT A //CAKE//!)

(Just for him I ate it like a little piggy with my nose buried deep into the cake.)

(It was like the bestest ever Little Debbie snack.)

Bok Chek Stare

When Beh was alive she's sit and stare blankly for hours at a time and neither Italics nor I knew what the fuck she was up to. It wasn't until recently - very, very recently - that Italics discovered that "fixed staring" was a symptom of a brain tumor. (Beh was diagnosed with "a brain thing" around May of 2008 and passed quite suddenly in early June.)

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We found this incense burning frog in the local health food store when Christmas shopping on Winter Solstice and couldn't resist its Bok Chek stare. (BEH WAS ALWAYS CHEWING UP THE FUCKING CARPET, HENCE ALL OF THE CHEWED UP FUCKING CARPET.)

Black & White Wyches

Locating your regional black and/or white "wych" has never been easier in Scotland!

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(PSST! SHE'S THE ONE WEARING MAC'S "RAGE" LIPSTICK, DECKED OUT IN HER SANTA MUERTE GEAR AND IN THE BEER AISLE LOLOLOLOLOLING AT THE WYCHWOOD BREWERY ALES AS THE BATTERIES FALL OUT OF HER TRES BROKEN DIGITAL CAMERA.)

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(NOTE: DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPROACH THE ABOVE MENTIONED REGIONAL WITCH UNLESS YOU CAN TELL, 100%, THAT SHE'S IN WHITE "WYCH" MODE THAT DAY.)(ABOVE MENTIONED REGIONAL WITCH'S DEFAULT "WYCH" MODE IS "BLACK WYCH", FYI.)

Creatrix & Destructrix

IT'S ALWAYS A GOOD SIGN WHEN THE LAST THING YOU DO BEFORE COMMITTING YOURSELF TO 45 MINUTES OF AEROBIC EXERCISE IS LOCATE ALLRECIPE'S HIGHEST RATED CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE RECIPE SO THE FIRST THING YOU DO AFTER EXERCISING IS BAKE COOKIES.

A BALANCE IN ALL THINGS, DEAR READERS. (HOW'S //THAT// FOR A LIVING-YET-DIVINE EMBODIMENT OF CREATION AND DESTRUCTION?)

Oh, HELL No

THIS MORNING? JUST BEFORE I WOKE UP? I DREAMT ABOUT BEING BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL AND STEALING FOOD. THAT'S RIGHT - NOT NAKED, NOT LATE FOR A CLASS, NOT FREAKING OUT OVER A TOTALLY UNEXPECTED POP QUIZ, BUT STEALING FOOD OUT OF THE TEACHER'S LOUNGE.

IT WAS THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL AND THE FRIDGE HAD A BAG OF BUTTERMILK FRIED CHICKEN AND I WAS ALL "OH HELL NO, SOMEONE'S JUST GOING TO //LEAVE// THIS CHICKEN HERE?" QUICKLY FOLLOWED BY "OH HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLL NO, IT'S GOIN' HOME WITH ME, THIS CHICKEN'S COMIN' HOME WITH ME!" AND BEFORE I KNEW IT I HAD A BAG OF FRIED CHICKEN, A LOAF OR TWO OF GARLIC BREAD AND A SWORN DUTY TO ORGANIZE A MID-SUMMER BEACH PARTY FOR MY CLASSMATES AT LAKE MICHIGAN.

(I DIDN'T EVEN WAKE UP HUNGRY!)

(AND, ALSO, THE BAG OF FRIED CHICKEN? ALL BREAST. 100% WHITE MEAT AND BATTERED SKIN, BABY.)

I MEAN, LET'S BE COMPLETELY HONEST - WHAT THE FUCK WOULD'VE YOU DONE WHEN FACED WITH THE PROSPECT OF SCORING A FREE BAG OF BUTTERMILK FRIED CHICKEN WHOSE MERE EXISTENCE APPEARED TO HAVE BEEN A DIVINE JOINT EFFORT/PROJECT BETWEEN ANGELS, DEVAS AND BUDDHAS? AND NOW WHAT IF - WHAT IF! - EVERY PIECE IN THAT FREE BAG OF FRIED CHICKEN MADE BY THE SPIRITUALLY ENLIGHTENED WAS PURE, UNADULTERATED CHUNKS OF SUCCULENTLY JUICY, GLEAMING-AS-IF-IT-HAD-BEEN-BLEACHED BREAST?

(EXACTLY, "OH, HELLLLLLLL NO! FUCK THE TEACHERS; THE CHICKEN'S GOIN' HOME WITH ME!")

1 of 2 Cs

EARRING "COW TAG" WORN AS EITHER A PINNA, AURICLE OR CONCH PIERCING? HMM. (LOLOLOL @ "HMM", MORE LIKE "MOOOOOO".) Now if I could only remember what the other fucking "c" was...

(A WRENCH ON MY ANKLE, A CROCODILE ON MY BACK AND A COW TAG DANGLING FROM MY EAR - PAGANISM/WITCHCRAFT 2K!)

Hardened Dope Criminals

SO, LIKE, I HEAR THE RATS SCAMPERING BACK AND FORTH IN THEIR EXCITED "HOLY SHIT LET'S TAKE ALL OF THIS SHIT AND HIDE IT SOMEWHERE FOR LATER" WAY AND I'M ALL "WTF ARE THEY EFFING UP TO?" BECAUSE IT'S THE FUCKING //DRESSERS// AND NOTHING'S ON THE DRESSER TO GET THEM THAT WORKED UP EXCEPT FOR MY SEX PIG PLUG-IN TAIL (THEY DON'T COME IN PINK, WTF?!) AND THE BONG BUCKET. BUT! BUT BUT BUT! BUT THERE //WAS// SOMETHING ON THE DRESSER THAT I FORGOT TO MOVE BEFORE I LET THE BEARS OUT OF THEIR CAGE -- OUR CURING POT.

(OH, WE HAVE GROWN AND HARVESTED MY DARLINGS. 2008 SAW THE FIRST OF THREE PLANTS FLOURISH IN OUR LITTLE CLOSET GROWING SPACE AND ITALICS HAS JUST PLUCKED THE LAST TUFTS FROM OUR LITTLE JIMMY PLANT. <- JIMMY TURNED OUT TO BE FEMALE BUT S/HE'S STILL "JIMMY"...IN OUR HEART.)

THE NEXT THING I SEE, ONCE TURNING AROUND, ARE TWO RATS RACING TO THEIR CARDBOARD BOX WITH HUGE ASS DRY BUDS HANGING OUT OF THEIR MOUTH AND A THIRD SITTING IN THE BOX PACKING THE SHIT AWAY IN A CORNER. AND I EXPERIENCE A SOUL SPLITTING "ZOMGWTFLOLOLOLOLCAMERAAAAAAAAAAA!" AND "ZOMGWTFSAVETHEPOTOMGRAAAAAAATS!" BECAUSE IT WAS REALLY, REALLY FUNNY BUT ALSO, WELL, NO, ACTUALLY, IT WAS PRETTY MUCH FUNNY ALL AROUND WITH A TINY FRACTION OF PANIC ("NOT THE POT! NEVER THE POT! SAVE THE POT!") AND I REALLY WISH YOU GUYS COULD HAVE SEEN THEIR FACES AS THEY TURNED THE BUDS IN THEIR LITTLE RAT PAWS LIKE A RUBIK'S CUBE TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW THE FUCK YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO EAT IT.

BAD, BAD RATS. BUT, MY GOD, SO CUTE. (I ACTUALLY REACHED FOR THE CAMERA TO TRY AND VIDEO THEM RUNNING AROUND WITH THE BUDS AND SQUIRRELING THEM AWAY BUT THAT MEANT //EVEN MORE PRECIOUS THC WOULD'VE BEEN LOST// SO I HAD TO MAKE AN EXECUTIVE DECISION, AND ALL THAT I TOOK AWAY FROM THE EXPERIENCE WAS THIS STORY. SIGH.)

(SERIOUSLY, YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW MUCH POT THESE RATS, OVER THE COURSE OF THEIR LITTLE RAT LIVES, HAVE INGESTED. WHEN WUZZA IS BEING SUPER BAD AND TRYING TO GET ONTO ITALICS'S DESKTOP SHE'S AFTER TWO THINGS - WHATEVER FOOD HE HAS SITTING AROUND IN CRUMB FORM AND POT. (YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW MANY TIMES WE'VE HAD TO YANK A DIME BAG OR WHATEVER OUT OF HER MOUTH. MIZ DENIZE, I DON'T THINK WE CAN IGNORE YOUR SELF-DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR ANY LONG. YOU ARE ON THE VERGE OF AN //INTERVENTION//.))

Hardened dope criminals.

Baby Steps

So, I open Word because, FUCK, Lent is only a week away and in a week, almost sort've exactly, both Italics and I go into celibate mode until our Easter wedding. (TECHNICALLY, I'M THE ONE WHO GOES CELIBATE, AND SINCE ITALICS ISN'T CURRENTLY DATING THE OBSERVATION OF RITUAL PURIFICATION GETS OBSERVED BY BOTH OF US. SUCKS TO BE SPIRITUALLY INVOLVED WITH ME, I KNOW, BUT AT LEAST HE CAN STILL RECEIVE HANDJOBS.)

And because practicing celibacy (THAT INCLUDES MASTURBATION OF SELF, IF YOU'RE, YOU KNOW, WONDERING) for something like 1/6th of the year (IT'S RELIGIOUS, OKAY? LET'S ALL PRETEND I'M A BETTER PERSON FOR KEEPING IT IN MY PANTS DURING A TIME UNIQUE TO CATHOLICISM EVEN THOUGH I'M NOT CATHOLIC. <- LOL, BUT I WAS BAPTIZED SO I AM AMONGST YOUR SHEEP, CAKE HATER, CLOTHED AND DISGUISED LIKE ANY OTHER HELPLESS LAMB THAT NEEDS SHEPARDING) is so goddamn easy I decided to up the ante this year; I decided to give up Livejournal and drastically scale back my use of the intranetz.

(I may be giving up good old "EL JAY" and huge amount of time on the INTRANETZ but I'm //NOT// giving up Graveyard Dirt because I'm divinely, and enigmatically contradictory like that. And, also, because I'm deliberately getting rid of distractions so I can focus more clearly on GD to make a longstanding fantasy a reality, baby.)

I'll be honest with EVERY SINGLE PERSON READING THIS SENTENCE RIGHT NOW (past, present AND future!) that I've been using Livejournal as a crutch because I'm a lazy fucking whore. (And in a week's time I'll be a lazy fucking whore in spirit.) I've gotten use to the interface, I've gotten use to selecting privacy modes, I've gotten use to "POST AN ENTRY" always being open, I've gotten use to posting the equivalent of yellow sticky notes to remember significant spiritual experiences and observations and I've grudgingly gotten use to the immediacy of unsolicited advice, regardless of topic, conversation, and/or intent.

("I THINK YOU SHOULD BE DOING //THIS//!" FUCK, DUDE, DID I EVEN //ASK YOU// WHAT YOU THOUGHT? AT WHAT POINT DID MY LIFE BECOME //YOUR// CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE? LOL, TURN TO PAGE 56 AND FIND OUT HOW I REALLY FEEL!)

A lot of time and effort and words that should've been going HERE were going THERE and it was only getting way, way more convenient to hit "POST TO..." in broken, fragmented sentences (OR UNBROKEN, UNFRAGMENTED SENTENCES IN CAPS LOCK) than make a semblance of sense in what's supposed to be, ostensibly, a record of the things I'm doing, seeing and feeling. I mean, even NOW I have "POST AN ENTRY" open in another tab JUST IN CASE I CAN'T KEEP IT TOGETHER IN MOVABLE TYPE.

So I was using Livejournal as an immediacy crutch. And, more recently, I've been using it as an entry writing crutch. I've literally been popping open livejournal, writing an entry for Graveyard Dirt as a Livejournal entry, spellchecking it, modifying it, editing it and then, instead of hitting "POST TO..." I've been copying and pasting the finished project into an empty "NEW ENTRY" tab and saving/publishing it for all of the world to see.

That? That last bit? That's totally bizarre, and totally weird and that shit makes me a little uncomfortable at the very bottom of my soul. (Without dragging out my INTERNET BABY BOOK for strangers to see I'll just say I'VE BEEN DOING THIS SHIT, THIS JOURNALING SHIT, ON AND OFF FOR //YEARS//. I've spent YEARS AND FUCKING YEARS in Movable Type's 2.5 interface and yet, after several years off, suddenly it's COLD AND ALIEN AND UNFAMILIAR AND UNWELCOMING.)

Come Ash Wednesday (the 25th of this month) my preferred method of record keeping and entry writing will be blacklisted. In eight days my self-assigned crutch - which I've grown to depend on, lean on, sleep on, fuck on - gets impounded until Easter morning. This is, needless to say, V. serious, yo. (AND, AS WE ALL KNOW, I'M COMPLETELY SERIOUS IN THE LEAST SERIOUS WAY POSSIBLE.) LULZ aside, I do take this shit pretty hardcore which means you won't find me picking at the tire lock with a hairpin. In fact, there's no hypothetical chainsaw fit with nuclear weapons that's going undo that booted, impounded crutch.

So - SO! So, I open Word because, FUCK, Lent is only a week away and in a week, almost sort've exactly, both Italics and I go into celibate mode until our Easter wedding and, if that wasn't enough, I'm voluntarily impounding my nitrous fitted journaling crutch to refamiliarize myself with an old adversary.

(OKAY, THAT'S HARSH. I GUESS WE DID HAVE A //FEW// GOOD TIMES, WORD, AND IT'S SHITTY OF ME TO HAVE SAID THAT, ESPECIALLY DURING THIS VERY FRAGILE AND EMOTIONAL TIME WHEN WE'RE TRYING TO REESTABLISH OUR ONCE VERY INTIMATE CONNECTION.)

Word, for the first time in a year, was opened on Feb. 17th, approximately 8:08 in the morning. I stared at the flat expanse of a clear, white screen, absolutely virgin, absolutely untouched and unsoiled. I stared at the flat expanse of a clear, white screen that, unlike Livejournal's "POST TO" interface, went on like a vast, endless ocean.

I stared at the solid block of white, neatly framed by my 600X800 resolution, and I didn't see PROMISE or A NEW BEGINNING or even HOPE. I saw the blankest sheet of paper ever known to man. I saw a white black hole, where any and all text entered and returned would immediately sink into a netherworld of eternity. I saw dark matter in negative image, and in that tonal inversion I understood that there would never be enough words to fill this blankest sheet of white black hole paper, neatly framed by my 600X800 resolution.

I got angry.

I got angry at Word. At the blank, white screen. At the cursor, lamely blinking in the corner. At the unnecessary, built-in tabs and drop-down menus above. At not remembering and not knowing which was //MY// font size and font spacing. At realizing I now had a souped up version of Word, one I've never actually used before. At the fucking blank, white screen, that somehow looked bigger and whiter and blanker than any other fucking blank, white screen I've ever seen in my entire fucking life.

And before I knew it I GOT FUCKING MAD AT THE FUCKING SCREEN. I mean, MAD, MAD. I mean ANGRY TO THE FUCKING CORE, DRUNK, WHITE TRASH ITCHING FOR A FUCKING FIGHT AND WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU FUCKING LOOKING AT YOU FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER mad. (KIR MAD! JUNIE MAD!)

...so I wrote the entirety of this entry in Movable Type's "NEW ENTRY" interface because HEY, I might still be using a crutch to write BUT AT LEAST IT ISN'T LIVEJOURNAL, RIGHT? (Baby steps, my dear and gentle readers, baby steps.)

Wings vs Wangs

ME: DO YOU THINK IT'S OKAY TO CHANGE "WHISKY AND WINGS" TO "WHISKY AND WANGS"? I'M AFRAID PEOPLE WON'T GET IT AND BE...I DON'T KNOW...OFFENDED, OR SOMETHING.

ITALICS: PEOPLE NOT UNDERSTANDING YOUR USE OF "WANGS" IN AN ENTRY TITLE IS THE LEAST OF YOUR WORRIES WHEN IT COMES TO THIS SITE.

(HE'S THE SMARTER ONE, IF THAT ISN'T ALREADY BLINDINGLY OBVIOUS.)

IN OTHER NEWS-THAT-DOESN'T-INVOLVE-A-PARAPHRASED-CONVERSATION-THAT-YOU-PROBABLY-WON'T-FIND-FUNNY:

I HAVE JUST DISCOVERED A STRAND OF KINKED, LONG HAIR LYING ON MY KEYBOARD. (I HAVE LONG STRAIGHT, ITALICS HAS LONG KINKED...WELL, SORT'VE.) I SUSPECT, SHE SAYS, MALE WITCHCRAFT. (IT BEGAN WITH THE SALT THROWING AND HAS NOW PROGRESSED TO HAIR ENCHANTMENT. MY ONLY SAVING GRACE IS THAT HE DOESN'T HAVE A UTERUS, SO I HAVE THE MENSTRUAL BLOOD MONOPOLY IN THIS RELATIONSHIP.)

(LOLOLOLOLOL, MALE "WITCHES". SURE, DUDE, WHATEVER. KNOCK YOURSELF OUT WITH ALL OF THOSE WANDS AND BROOMS AND SHIT.)

(LOL, MALE WITCHES. SERIOUSLY, WTF.)

(ALTHOUGH, I THINK, THE CONSENSUS WAS/IS/WAS THAT JULIAN SANDS IS THE SOLE EXCEPTION TO THE MALE WITCHES RULE.)

On schedule

You do realize there are solar eclipse sabbat cakes you should be baking right now - the day of the solar eclipse - otherwise you're never going to get it done, right?

(Happy year of the Earth (<- chthonic) Ox (<- bull!), baby.) (Chthonic bull? Fuck me, this //is// going to be a "crazy, but fun" year; Negro knows what he's talking about.)

(LOL @ CHTHONIC BULL, BTW, AFTER SPILLING THE BULL'S BLOOD IN THE WHEAT FIELD LAST YEAR. <- LOCAL FARMER OWES US -BIG TIME- FOR THIS YEAR'S HARVEST.)

Singing the Blues

LAST NIGHT I CLICKED ON "WHAT IT'S LIKE" THINKING IT WAS THAT ONE "WHAT I GOT" SONG BY SUBLIME (I KNOW; THAT'S AN ENTIRELY NEW SET OF LULZ) BUT IT TURNED OUT TO BE THAT ONE EVERLAST SONG.

LOL, DOWNER. (LOL.)

Nasty Ass Tobacco Spit

ADD "WART" TO THE LIST OF AFFLICTING GIFTS I'VE LOVINGLY BESTOWED UPON MY FATHER-IN-LAW. (I TOLD YOU WITCH'S SPIT IS VENOMOUS.) (LOLOLOLOL! NASTY ASS TOBACCO SPIT. OH, PAPA, YOU DO MAKE ME LOL, <3!)

How Many...?

Q: How many witches wake up at 4:30 in the fucking morning to consecrate a hole that city workers dug up right in front of her house (SYMBOLICALLY IT'S A GRAVE, OKAY?) the day before with blood, urine, magic mushrooms, and antique hair pins?

A: NONE, LOL, THEY HIT THE SNOOZE BUTTON BECAUSE IT'S WAY TOO FUCKING EARLY IN THE MORNING AND IT'S RAINING, ANYWAY, AND SLEEP FOR ANOTHER TWO HOURS AND THEN RUSH TO GET EVERYTHING DONE BEFORE EARLY COMMUTERS CAN CATCH THEM IN ACTION. (BURN THE WITCH!)

Volvas

Oh, we bad. (If we aren't handwashing our father-in-laws' underwear for nefarious reasons we're catching innocent victims in our magic snare of sex.)

Bean Nighe

I STILL LOOK AT THIS PICTURE AND CACKLE.

"Bean Nighe"
Not all of us have to die in childbirth.

Sex Yoga

SEX YOGA.

(LOL @ ME ALMOST NOT SAYING IT AT ALL.)

(LOL @ ME NOT SAYING THE MCCAIN THING AND THEN ITALICS IMMEDIATELY SAYING IT AFTER I WAS DONE.)

(AND WHILE WE'RE AT IT LOL @ HOW 86% OF FOX VIEWERS SAID THAT MCCAIN WON.)

"Three Fold Law"

IF I HAVE TO SEE ONE MORE GODDAMN THING ABOUT THE "THREE FOLD LAW" I'M GOING TO PUKE.

(AND WHEN THAT FINALLY HAPPENS THE POSTER IS GOING TO HAVE TO FUCKING COME TO -MY FUCKING HOME- AND CLEAN VOMIT OFF -MY FUCKING MONITOR- BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT THE "THREE FOLD LAW" STATES.)

(WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE, ANYWAY? I SWEAR TO FUCKING CHRIST IT'S LIKE -ESTABLISHING AND MAKING UP YOUR OWN RULES- HASN'T EVEN BEEN -CONSIDERED-.)

(I MEAN, YOU GUYS KNOW THIS ENTIRE -MAGIC- THING EXISTED BEFORE BOOKS BY NEW AGE PUBLISHERS CAME OUT, RIGHT? YOU KNOW THAT THERE WAS A TIME -PEOPLE HAD TO MAKE UP SHIT FOR THEMSELVES- BECAUSE THEY COULDN'T REFER TO A BOOK OR SITE OR A LJ USER WHO'S ALREADY PRETTY HARD ON THE EYES WITHOUT HER ICON BEING (DELIBERATELY) DEFACED TO LOOK LIKE THE JOKER.)

(THERE WAS A TIME WHEN NONE OF THIS SHIT WAS TALKED ABOUT OR PERSONALLY ENFORCED AND SHIT STILL GOT DONE AND SHIT WAS FINE AND THE WORLD CONTINUED SPINNING ON ITS AXIS AND THERE WERE A HELLUVA LOT LESS "OMG, GUYS, LOVE SPELLS - IMMORAL AND WRONG OR OKAY?" DEBATES GOING ON.)

(GRANTED LIFE WAS TOUGHER, HARDER, AND REQUIRED MORE WORK TO ENDURE THAT SORT OF LIFESTYLE. BUT AT LEAST IN THAT LIFESTYLE PEOPLE WERE FORCED TO TAKE PART IN THE NATURAL CYCLE OF LIFE AND THE SEASONS, GET THEIR HANDS DIRTY, AND SEE THAT LIFE AND ALL OF THE EXPERIENCES THAT COME WITH IT AREN'T BLACK AND FUCKING WHITE, AND CAN'T BE SHOVED AND CONTAINED IN A FUCKING "WICCAN REDE". MODERN (WESTERN) SOCIETY'S SO REMOVED FROM THE HARSH REALITIES OF LIFE AND DEATH AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN THAT MAGIC'S BEEN REDUCED TO ARGUING ABOUT WHETHER "LOVE SPELLS" ARE AMORAL, OR NOT, ON-LINE.)

(DO YOU REALLY FUCKING THINK THAT A SCOTTISH WITCH TWO OR THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO WHO WORKED AS A CROFTER IN THE FUCKING HIGHLANDS AND WHOSE ENTIRE LIFE DEPENDED ON HER SHEEP AND WHAT HER FIELDS COULD PRODUCE IN THE VERY MEAGER GROWING SEASON WE GET IN THIS PART OF THE WORLD FUCKING CARED WHETHER A FUCKING LOVE SPELL WAS AMORAL OR NOT? AND THAT IF SHE DID SOMETHING, IT WOULD COME BACK TO HER -THREE TIMES OVER-? JESUS FUCKING CHRIST - DON'T MAKE THIS TOTALLY HYPOTHETICAL CROFTING SCOTTISH WITCH LOL, OKAY? <- LOLOLOL, BECAUSE SHE DOESN'T FOLLOW THE "THREE FOLD LAW", LOL!)

(JESUS, I DON'T KNOW, MAYBE I'M THE ONLY PERSON WHO'S REALLY DECIDED THAT THE ONLY LIMITATIONS SHE HAS ARE THE LIMITATIONS SHE -CREATES-. (WITHIN REASON, OKAY? DON'T GET ALL CHEEKY ASTROPHYSICS WITH ME BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.) "OH, HEY I'M GOING TO PLAY THIS GAME MY ENTIRE LIFE THAT SOMEONE ELSE MADE UP!" FUCK, WOULDN'T YOU RATHER PLAY A GAME WITH RULES THAT YOU CAME UP WITH YOURSELF USING YOUR UNIQUE LIFE EXPERIENCES? DOESN'T THAT FUCKING -RESONATE- WITH ANYONE ANYMORE?)

Broken Bone

OH, WAIT, ALSO --

Strawberry mug? The one that I broke immediately after making two separate strawberry offerings? It was - officially - Italics's mother's mug. Apparently, while they were away this weekend (while I was breaking their kitchen ceramics), she mysteriously broke a tooth...

...oops?

I'M GONNA GIVE THIS ONE A PASS, JOHN.

(LOL, I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO THE FUCK "JOHN" IS OR WHERE THAT CAME FROM. LET'S JUST PRETEND I WAS THINKING ABOUT BILL O'REILLY GOING "WHAT'S JOHN EDWARDS SELLING AWNINGS FOR? LOL, WHAT'S JOHN EDWARDS DOING THAT FOR? LOL! JOHN EDWARDS, LOL!" SO IT SEEMS LIKE I SORT'VE HAVE IT TOGETHER.)

(I HAVE IT MAGNIFICENTLY TOGETHER, THANK YOU. AND DINNER WILL BE SERVED IN ABOUT 20 MINUTES.)

Impressive Hernia

So I said PLEASE, GOD, SHOW ME A SIGN, SHOW ME ANY SORT OF SIGN SO I KNOW THAT IT'S NOT A BIG DEAL! (See FINAL ANSWER.) Wait, wait, I can actually copy and paste shit - LOL!- so I believe a direct quote would be:

At 1:12 AM today (the day of the full moon, the day of Harvest Moon) I found this "stat" waiting for me:

When I traced back the search there were only nine web sites that Google even listed for "impressive hernia"; Graveyard Dirt, out of that nine, was number five. (FIVE IS A MAGIC NUMBER!) Regardless of the numbers (BECAUSE 7+1=8 AND 8 FITS -RIGHT NOW- SO THAT'S ANOTHER NUMERICAL THUMBS UP!), I think I just got my answer.

Hiatal hernia, here we come?

(OH, WAIT THAT'S MISSING SOMETHING! I WONDER WHAT IT COULD BE? OH, THAT'S RIGHT, -IMPRESSIVE-! IMPRESSIVE HIATAL HERNIA, HERE WE COME?)

OH, INTERNET, DON'T LISTEN TO WHAT THE NEO-H8ERS SAY, YOU'RE -TOTALLY- MAGIC!

Strawberry Mug

I gave the last three to the old woman. (The last nicest three.) The last overripe plum, the last three nicest strawberries, a crust of stale rye bread, and a shot of apple cider. TEH-BEH YEAST-EH, BAH-BAH. (She's old, She knows what I mean.) Her plate and glass are sitting on the back step next to the wooden chair leg that we used to beat the ice off the outside freezer two or three weeks ago.

("YOU BROUGHT THE SNOW AGAIN," ITALICS SAID, AND I SNORTED, DUMPING ANOTHER BUCKET FULL OF MELTING SLUSH ONTO THE SUMMER GRASS. THAT NIGHT THE MIST SWIRLED AROUND THE LAMPLIGHT LIKE THE EXORCIST; I CAUGHT MY FATHER-IN-LAW STARING INTO THE DENSE FOG MUMBLING "IT'LL BE FROSTY TONIGHT" TO MY MOTHER-IN-LAW. SHE LAUGHED - "DON'T BE SILLY!" - AND BROKE THE SPELL. HE DIDN'T KNOW THAT SNOW PASSED THROUGH MY HANDS EARLIER IN THE EVENING, BUT HE KNEW.)

Then there were five left, and five - as we all know! - is a magic number. So those five, naturally, went out to the hedgehogs just after I spoke to the wind and cold, just after I invited Her to eat, just after setting Her plate of overripe fruit and stale bread and booze on the back step next to the sun bleached, wooden chair leg used to shatter a layer of overgrown ice off the outside freezer way, way too long ago.

AND IMMEDIATELY FUCKING AFTER FEEDING HER STRAWBERRIES, AFTER FEEDING THE HEDGEHOG STRAWBERRIES ONE OF THE OLDEST GODDAMN COFFEE MUGS IN THE FUCKING HOUSE SLIPS OUT OF MY MOTHERFUCKING HAND WHEN I'M DOING THE DISHES AND SHATTERS AGAINST ANOTHER COFFEE MUG ALREADY LOADED IN THE DISHWASHER.

THE DESIGN OF THE NOW BROKEN COFFEE MUG? THE DESIGN OF WHICH THERE WAS ONLY -ONE OF- THAT I EVER REMEMBERED SINCE MOVING HERE NEARLY EIGHT YEARS AGO?

STRAWBERRIES.

Sickle Bandits

WE STOLE A SICKLE. Wait, strike that out because that's so...wrong (i.e., "STEAL" or "TO STEAL" or "STEALING"). We needed a sickle and one was there during //THE PERFECT MOMENT//, and we enthusiastically accepted the gift from the universe.

(This was AFTER I tried to figure out to forage in the walled garden - peas were still there (the rats LOVE peas, and love tearing into pea pods to remove said peas), gourds, lettuce, lemon balm, and OMFG - TOBACCO?! But I didn't take anything because I stupidly didn't bring my SPECIAL SHEARS with me (the pair that stabbed me back in May; the pair that has seen WAY TOO MUCH OF THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB so the lamb now keeps them wrapped up in the same kitchen towel that was used to staunch the bleeding) and, really, I didn't have any space or proper storage and the one bag I did have ended up getting stuffed with mushrooms we picked from a fairy ring beneath a tree. <- When we go for cemetery walks I have a pre-packed bag I take with me that has scissors, string, various plastic bags, paper towels, baby wipes, etc. so I'm /prepared/ when I come across something - which I always do - that needs to come home with me (usually in the form of roadkill).)

Besides, during my Ebay traveling I had found an ANTIQUE HAY CUTTER and I was all "OH MY FUCKING GOD - WE NEED THAT! CHRISTMAS GIFT FOR ITALICS, CHRISTMAS GIFT FOR ITALICS, CHRISTMAS GIFT FOR ITALICS!" (actually, I had planned on maybe giving it to him as a sort've Harvest gift, so we could use it for Reaping) and was crazy ecstatic when I won it for the opening bid of £0.99. I was significantly less ecstatic, however, WHEN THE SICKLE NEVER APPEARED, THE SELLER REFUSED TO ANSWER EMAILS AND THEIR ACCOUNT WAS FORCIBLY CLOSED BY EBAY PERSONAL.

So clearly, surely, without any question or a shadow of doubt, we had that antique sickle coming. (IF THE WORLD, UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING HOLY DIDN'T WANT US TO HAVE A SICKLE THEY WOULD'VE NEVER WITHHELD THE FIRST ONE, USHERED US OVER TO THE WALLED GARDEN AND THEN SIMPLY LEFT THE MOCK-VICTORIAN GARDENER'S DEN DISPLAY UNLOCKED WITH VARIOUS SHARP AND VINTAGE IMPLEMENTS HANGING UNLOVED, UNUSED ON DUSTY, FORGOTTEN WALLS.)

Stone Fruit Season

IMMORTALITY THROUGH WRITING? LOL, ONLY IF YOU'RE THE CHARACTER! BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME AROUND, BRAH! (LOL @ THE ATHEISTS WHO WON'T BE SITTING THE RETEST.)

(THE SHEER FABRIC OF TIME AND SPACE AND EVERYTHING THAT IS ANYTHING COULD SPLIT IN HEAVENLY GLORY BEFORE MY EYES AND I'D STILL BE ALL "...BUT I STILL DON'T ACTUALLY -KNOW-, YOU KNOW?". EVEN THEN.)

(I GUESS I WILL SOMEDAY.)

(LOL, "I GUESS"! LIKES IT'S SOME SORT OF VOLUNTARY CHOICE!)

(LOL @ THIS ONE HANDED DISCUSSION TAKING PLACE AS JUICE FROM A HALF-EATEN PLUM RUNS DOWN MY ARM LIKE BLOOD.)

(OH, SYMBOLISM. <3.)

This ain't a scene

So two days ago Italics tells me I'll never be able to leave Livejournal because I'm from Chicago and was born in the 80s and I just laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and became really fucking nostalgic for Shed's mausoleum in Rosehill, that one Thai place on the corner of Clark and Belmont (YOU GOT TO SIT ON PILLOWS ON THE FLOOR, OKAY?), and the free admission day of the Art Institute on Michigan Avenue.

JESUS, I AM EMO'S BITCHY (AND WAY, WAY COOLER) OLDER SISTER.

(CHRIST.)

Two Out of Three

OKAY, LAST ONE I PROMISE:

LOL, THE THING IS, I KNOW WHEN PEOPLE READ THIS SITE / MY ENTRIES THEY PROBABLY THINK "WTF IS THIS CRAZY BITCH ON?" (POT, MOSTLY, BTW, WITH A DAILY DOSE OF OMEPRAZOLE TO KEEP MY STOMACH FROM TURNING INTO AN ACID PIT) BUT IT -ALL MAKES PERFECT, AMAZING SENSE TO ME-.

...EXCEPT FOR WHATEVER THE FUCK I'M QUOTING ABOVE.

I HAVE FUCKING NO CLUE AS TO WHAT I WAS ON, WHAT THE FUCK I WAS TALKING ABOUT, OR EVEN THE YEAR IT TOOK PLACE. (LOL! APRIL FOOLS? JESUS.)

(TWO OUT OF THREE AIN'T BAD?)

Recipe for a Handjob

I was thumbing through some of my old notes and came across this passage and couldn't help but LOL AT MYSELF (because my PAST SELF still manages to amuse my CURRENT and FUTURE SELF):

LORD, I STILL HAVE THAT BOTTLE OF PERFUME AND BOTTLE OF SALT -SOMEWHERE-. (I THINK IT'S IN THE NEGRO'S DRAWER WHICH MEANS IT COULD LITERALLY BE -ANYWHERE IN THIS UNIVERSE- KNOWING HOW THAT MESS LOOKS.)

(IF HE THINKS HE AIN'T GOING TO CLEAN UP THAT MESS WHEN HE COMES HOME HIS DISTINCTLY BLACK, BONY ASS HAS ANOTHER THING COMING. <- THERE ARE PROS AND CONS LIVING WITH AN ANAL WHITE WOMAN WHO HATES CLUTTER, AND HE KNOWS IT. <- LOL @ THE SO MANY JOKES THERE.)

The BEST Chocolate Box Day

FIRST DAY OF CHOCOLATE BOX DAY!

(LOL, YOU KNOW THE SAD THING? THAT I'VE HAD SEVERAL -PROFOUND- THOUGHTS / REALIZATIONS TODAY, AND THE BEST I COULD DO IN MY PERSONAL JOURNAL / DIARY IS "YOU KNOW WHAT THE BEST CHOCOLATE BOX DAY IS? THE -FIRST DAY-!".)

Name Tags

I love to hear "HELP, I FEEL SPIRITUALLY DEAD!" from people who insist on defining their beliefs by using someone's last name.

Rat Party

I have to save this for a (much) later LOL:

RATS ESCAPED CAGE THREE NIGHTS AGO.

HAD RAT PARTY IN COMPUTER ROOM.

HAD RAT PARTY IN TRASH CAN.

HAD RAT PARTY ON DESKS.

(ATE MORNING DOSE OF SELENIUM, KELP, AND PRESCRIPTION ANTACID.)

(ATE WALRUS'S PRAWN CRACKER TRIPOD HAT.)

(ATE PIECE OF ASS (SHAPED) BREAD.)

HAD RAT PARTY BEHIND COMPUTERS.

(ATE COMPUTER CABLES.)

(ATE EXTENSION CORD CONNECTING ALL PLUGS TO WALL.)

RAT PARTY MOVED TO EXCLUSIVE -CAGE- LOCATION.

CONTINUED RAT PARTY INDOORS, LOCKED.

HIRED CLEANERS STILL TRYING TO PICK UP PIECES.

(ONE OF TWO HIRED CLEANERS NOW HAS WORKING COMPUTER AGAIN.)

DAMN RAT PARTY.

Things to remember: August 7, 2008. Tower (literally!). All computer room altars torn down, rebuilt. 42 soul card @ bucket. Even chose "tower" from Aldi before incident.

Buy Me Things

Papa is an opportunistic bastard. When you have your guard down he'll slip in during that second when you're too far past the threshold to go "OH, HEY, HEY NOW! LET'S NOT BE HAVING NONE OF THAT BUSINESS HERE, PLEASE!". He waits until you've crossed the point of no return, and then invites himself over (invites himself in?).

Sometimes he slides in for a partial ride, and sometimes I discover, afterwards, a skull or skeleton inexplicably staring me in the face when there wasn't a skull or skeleton there before. ("WAIT, HOW DID THIS GET HERE AGAIN?") FOR INSTANCE (OH, LORD, YOU KNEW THIS WAS GOING SOMEWHERE DEEP DOWN INSIDE!), FOR EXAMPLE, FOR THIS ONE SITUATION CIRCUMSTANCE I GIVE YOU...TODAY!

Today? Today I pulled my brand new BUY ME THINGS t-shirt over my demi-cupped tits and proudly showed off my newest gift from Italics to Italics. And then, approximately 15 minutes later, we were both on our knees, stoned, and he was fucking me in the ass against my computer chair while the Commodore's song Nightshift was playing in MP3 form. (THE SAD PART OF ALL OF THIS? I WASN'T EVEN TRYING. (COME TO THINK OF IT, THAT'S ALWAYS THE SAD PART.))

(LOL, ACTUALLY, THAT'S A SORT'VE FUNNY STORY WITHIN ITSELF! I WAS ALL "WHAT SONG DO YOU THINK WOULD BE GOOD FOR BUTT SEX?" AND HE WAS ALL "I DON'T KNOW" SO I THUMBED THROUGH MY 80S COLLECTION AND WAS ALL "SOMETHING, YOU KNOW, NOT CRAZY BUT MORE FUNNY" AND KNEW THAT THAT DIDN'T MEAN PURPLE RAIN, OR, UHM, THE OTHER ONE I SUGGESTED WHICH MADE ITALICS LAUGH AND MADE ME GO "OH, RIGHT, THAT PROBABLY FALLS IN THE "CRAZY" CATEGORY, DOESN'T IT?" (DAMN MEMORY) SO I WENT "WHAT ABOUT WE GOT THE BEAT?" AND HE WAS ALL, LIKE, "ISN'T THAT MORE NITROUS MUSIC?" AND I WAS "YES, TOTALLY, 100%! WHAT ABOUT I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW?" AND HE LAUGHED AND I LAUGHED AND WE BOTH LAUGHED AND WHEN SETTING IT UP I NOTICED THAT WINAMP LOADED NIGHTSHIFT AGAIN BUT I DECIDED TO -NOT- REMOVE THE SONG AFTER HITTING "REPEAT" BECAUSE ME KNOWING ME I KNOW HOW QUICKLY I COME DURING ANAL SEX AND I KNOW I AIN'T GOING TO LAST AS LONG AS TIFFANY DOES IN I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW. (OR, LOL, SO I THOUGHT!) SO WE ACTUALLY STARTED ON I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW BUT BECAUSE I TOOK SO GODDAMN LONG WE ENDED UP FINISHING DURING NIGHTSHIFT. ("GONNA BE SOME SWEET SOUNDS, COMING DOWN ON THE NIGHTSHIFT...") SEE WHAT I MEAN ABOUT HOW I'M NOT REALLY TRYING EVEN THOUGH IT MAY APPEAR THAT WAY? I'M JUST A VICTIM (OF MYSELF, APPARENTLY).)

What's the first thing I see after collapsing into my computer chair? Four top hatted skulls and three crows staring at me (at eye level):

See what I mean about SKULLS and SKELETONS inexplicably appearing? I hadn't planned on having anal sex, let alone against the computer chair next to the window. But the next thing I know I'M BUTT BEEF EXTREME (just think of "butt beef" as a pet name for the act in this house; kind've like how you give your favorite child a cutesy nickname...or something) AND MOVING IN TIME WITH THE COMMODORES IN FRONT OF A BLACK CLOTH ALTAR WITH GREY SKULLS AND WHITE CROWS. (I THINK what must've happened was me thinking that I would quickly pull my new Four of a Kind tee on after sex to see how it fit and slung it, all absently, over my computer chair for safe keeping. AND THE REST HAS BEEN SLOPPY RECORDED IN PREVIOUS PARTS OF THIS PARTIALLY CAPS LOCKED ENTRY.)

Sneaky bastard. (I hope he got my "message". (LOL! "BUY ME THINGS"! LOL!)

About a week back I heard that René Cigler from StrangeMonster.Com passed away. The name stuck with me for a day or two but I couldn't remember why it seemed so familiar until I remembered, long, long, ago, that I had bookmarked (DOG EARED?) a hoodie she had designed.

When poking around Strange Monster I came across Four of a Kind and was immediately sold. I mean, HOW COULD I NOT BE - it was on -SALE-! It was BLACK and had THE ACE OF SPADES and SKULLS and PAPA and CROWS and IT WAS ON SALE! So I ditched the hoodie (it wasn't there, anyway), and wound up with an unexpected, 100% out-of-the-blue purchase.

I haven't had a chance to try on the shirt, but the quality seems fantastic, and the material is THAT PERFECT SORT OF T-SHIRT COTTON. So I'm definitely going back for DECADENCE OF RED (the hoodie I originally wanted had that design!), and possibly (POSSIBLY!) for the BOLT SKULL (I go back and forth; I like the skull / lightening coupling and have other paraphernalia around the house using the same concept, but I'm not 100% sure...) and DECADENCE OF LOVE (a little too pink? a little too girlie? oh, I don't know, I don't know...) because you know the universal black t-shirt rule, right? (NO, IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE UNIVERSAL CRAMPING / SEEING BLOOD RULE!) You can NEVER HAVE TOO MANY!

(Actually I'm rather keen on the DECADENCE OF LIVE MIRROR, I know I'd definitely be covetous if I saw someone whip that out in the bathroom.)

My Four of a Kind t-shirt arrived the day before my first appointment with the specialist. I felt sad for a second, handling something so obviously death related, knowing that the only reason why I was holding it in the first place was because of René's unexpected death, and then it felt...I don't know...right.

And fall.

It felt like fall had come, and it felt like Papa was letting me know that he's getting ready to come home for winter. (I've missed you, Old Man.)

The Great Temptation

Sometimes Mr. Awesome just leaves things sitting out. Like sweaty socks, mangy underwear, and, my personal favorite, a cup of coffee that sits uncovered, untouched (SUPPOSEDLY) on the kitchen counter for 12+ hours.

(IT'S ALMOST LIKE HE DOESN'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ITALIAN WITCHCRAFT, OR A BASTARDIZED VERSION OF VOODOO, OR HOODOO, OR VODOUN OR WHATEVER YOU WANT TO CALL IT WHEN YOU USE GRAVEYARD DIRT FOR NOT SO NICE THINGS. (His loss, right?) IT'S ALMOST LIKE HE'S -DELIBERATELY TEMPTING ME- OUT IN THE FUCKING OPEN.)

You don't even want to know what I did with his suspiciously stained unmentionables during the 25 day summer vacation. (Oh, no, honey, I did. By hand. Suspicious stains and all. On THE fucking day they came hone.) (<- The hand that cleans the streaks out of y-fronts, is the hand that rules the house. And, also, your balls. THANKS FOR THAT, MR. FATHER-IN-LAW!)

(But if you DO want to know then you're in luck. Because I have a story.)

(...and some pictures.)

(So stay tuned.)

STORIES

I LOVE IT HOW WHEN I'M CRITICALLY/CHRONICALLY SICK I FIND MYSELF LISTENING TO OLD THERAPY? AT THREE IN THE FUCKING MORNING.

("HAPPY PEOPLE HAVE NO STORIES.")

Thirty Minutes After

I stopped it from raining last night.

(It held for an evening and thirty minutes; it waited for a shower and a beer. I pulled Our apron tight - high above the stars - and We cradled the rain against Our body, against Ourselves, with arms unwavering as the clouds billowed and rolled below Us. The Universe said "YOU DID THIS. YOU DID THIS, YOURSELF." and I laughed and I cried while we watched my rain from the kitchen windows, after a shower, after a beer - thirty minutes after I looked up at the sky and said "NOW IT CAN RAIN!" as the blood and semen and spit and wine sank into the earth where there were roots without sheaves of wheat.)

New Goals & Aspirations

Two things I am absolutely one million percent sure of:

1. I want to become a professional, certified butcher.

2. I want a Bundt pan.

(The certified butcher thing goes way, way back like...several months...or something. (LOL, OR SOMETHING!) The tin? That's a little more recent.)

("Bundt" is one of those words YOU JUST WANT AN EXCUSE TO SAY OUT LOUD.)

(BUNDT! BUNDT! BUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNDT!)

LOL, OF COURSE!

Number of period panties left in this house: 0.

(Okay, okay - so there is ONE pair that I stained YESTERDAY but IT HASN'T BEEN WASHED and IT'S ONE OF THOSE MINI-BIKINI CUTS and I'm having one of those periods that DEMANDS COMFORTABLE, BIG, GRANNY UNDERWEAR because YOU JUST DON'T WANT TO FEEL AN ITTY BITTY THONG RIDING UP YOUR CROTCH WHILE YOU'RE BLEEDING ALL OVER THE PLACE (in fact, you don't want to FEEL ANY SORT OF PRESSURE OR CONSTRAINT BELOW THE WAIST FROM ANYTHING, BUT ESPECIALLY YOUR PANTIES).)

(WHY THE FUCK DID I BURY ALL OF MY COMFORTABLE PERIOD UNDERWEAR IN THE FUCKING CEMETERY? FOR CHRIST'S SAKE...)

A White House in a Red Square

AWESOME!

I've JUST RUINED my LAST PAIR OF WHITE PANTIES because MRS. GENIUS HERE thought it was a REALLY FUCKING GOOD IDEA TO PUT ON HER LAST UNBLEMISHED PAIR OF WHITES DURING HER PERIOD. (Just add it to the pile, right ladies?)

I believe my "MAURY, MAKE MY WIFE SEXY AGAIN - PLEASE!" transformation is finally complete.

"What is 7 Inches Long?"

Dear RPA,

Teachers and students are currently enjoying the summer holidays, so "What is 7 Inches Long?" will become a reality as soon as students return to school in September, Ms. Smith wrote you this note:

Dear RPA,
Thank you so much for the measurement centers!!!! I am so excited to be able to have these hands-on materials and activities. My students will enjoy them and will use them to acquire skills they will need for the rest of their lives. Thank you for doing this for us!!! I am looking forward to being able to use these centers this fall and for many, many years to come. Sincerely, Miss Smith

Sincerely,
The DonorsChoose.Org Team

(This is after our fourth choice, "Help Immigrant Students Learn About the Salem Witch Hysteria" (LOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!), expired due to insufficient funding (WHICH IS OBVIOUSLY - OBVIOUSLY! - NOT OUR FAULT!).)

Solar Eclipse in Leo

Yanked all of the relevant bits from an eclipse article found on AstrologyCom.Com. (OH, INTERNET, HOW IS IT POSSIBLE YOU CAN BE SO GOOD EVEN WHEN YOU'RE SO BAD?)

Eclipse in Leo
This eclipse occurs at 9°32' of Leo the Lion, conjunct Mercury the divine messenger, so, being a Friday, the party vibes will be fabulous! It awakens the nebulous cluster of The Aselli, the Asses, being closely conjunct Asellus Australis, South Asellus (a star of the Sun and Mars), which is considered less than fortunate. It is also conjunct Giansar a star of Saturn and Mars in the tail of Draco, but one which is less aggressive. This star is often symbolized by the Tarot Card "Death", which stands for the sweeping away of old things, to make room for a brand new beginning.

According to Vehlow, the Chinese gave this group of stars the name The Spirit of the Ancestors and were of the opinion that, if conjunct the Moon, they would produce peculiar experiences with the realms of the dead. Since the eclipse involves both Sun and Moon, it might be an interesting time for a séance! The Aselli are representative of the Sun and Moon, so their prominence in this figure is increased, but the need for caution, especially in travel, business and with fire is emphasized. The Aselli could be seen as fortunate in that they do represent the Lights, but their effects are not always as enjoyable as they could be!

Mars and Mercury
This eclipse does lie in the shadow of the upcoming Mars/Uranus opposition on August 6, suggesting it would be a waste of time to try and coordinate group efforts. This aspect is aggravated by the simultaneous opposition between Mercury and Neptune, which advises us not attempt anything that requires logic and clear thinking! A warning for the organizers of the Beijing Festivities: information and ideas may be illusive, intentionally deceptive, or even quite dangerous. Making a wise decision, or finding out the truth, is well-nigh impossible. It's not that good for travelling over water, photography, business transactions, or spiritual studies and activities.

Solar eclipses don't often pass over populated areas, but when they do, they appear to have significant disruptive effects on the people and nations concerned (e.g., economic or political crises, civil unrest). My colleague, Ian Thurnwald, points out that Solar Eclipses also seem either to trigger or amplify natural events in the regions they affect (e.g., severe weather, earthquakes). Whether this effect is an astrological one or not, is a moot point, though recent scientific work on the effects of the Moon on earthquakes and other terrestrial phenomena is interesting. No doubt they would hasten to deny any astrological effect! See my article on Moon Wobbles. The eclipse being in Leo means that people with Fixed signs (Aquarius; Leo; Scorpio; Taurus) featured in their birth charts are more likely to be affected. The next eclipse of the Sun will be on January 26, 2009.

Busy Bee

IT'S OCCURRED TO ME, JUST NOW, THAT MAYBE I COULD BE DOING SOMETHING A LITTLE MORE CONSTRUCTIVE DURING THIS LEO SOLAR ECLIPSE THAN PLAY THE NES VERSION OF "THE FLINTSTONES".

...OOPS.

So It Begins

A close friend of mine explained to me, years ago, that in astrology your ascent almost describes the way others see you. Since then I’ve always read my ascent horoscope (Leo) as MY INTERNET LIFE because I work at home so the majority of interpersonal relationships happen over the net. This is this week’s message to Leo, courtesy of Jonathon Cainer (LOL! "CAINER"! LOL!):

Your Week Ahead: Imagine training your whole life long to be a concert pianist. One day, to amuse some children, you improvise a couple of merry melodies. Your performance is greeted with such rapture, that word of it spreads far and wide. Suddenly, you are in demand, but not for the ability that means so much to you. There's something a little irritating and exasperating about this week's great advantage. It is not quite the one you were hoping for. It is, though, nonetheless, an edge that can prove extremely useful to you. Be glad of what 'is'. Forget what 'ought to be'.

Oh, Lord, I just caught my daily horoscope:

Your Day Ahead: Nature is much more generous than society. Where people tend not to allow one another too many fresh starts and new beginnings, she positively hands them round like sweets. She does a wonderful line in new seasons, new moons and new dawns. To say nothing of new breaths. Every few seconds we make a symbolic fresh beginning. Today, the sky breathes in and out. A glorious Solar Eclipse speaks of a change which, though difficult to accept at first, leads to renewal, success and joy.

So it begins.

(At least I’m on the right track?)

Happy Burning!

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from Nov. 27th, 2007.

F-2-THE-A:
Going through some old emails and found this frankly prophetic comment in reply to your email letting us know that the incense had arrived and saying "All I can say is "HAPPY BURNING!", heh!"

> On Mar 25, 2007 7:36 PM, F-2-THE-A wrote:
> Whistles :Burning Down the House...:
> Thank you, darling!

(SHORT STORY? F-TO-THE-A AND I ORDERED INCENSE TOGETHER AND SPLIT THE SHIPPING COST. WHEN HER SHARE WAS SENT I WISHED HER "HAPPY BURNING!" AND SHE RESPONDED WITH A JOKE ABOUT "BURNING DOWN THE HOUSE" AND HER HOUSE DID, IN FACT, BURN. (THANKS TO THE INCENSE I SENT HER.))

(ISLAM AND PAGANISM - BFF! <- IT'S SORT'VE LIKE THAT ONE "FOX AND HOUND" DISNEY MOVIE!)

Perfect Storm

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from Sept. 21st, 2007.

Showed off unintentional sigil to Italics last night (*), and took spoonful of cough syrup before bed to sleep uninterrupted. Chippy asked for bone while settling down to sleep, talked him down from bone to raw hide treat, but decided, at last second, he wanted chocolate. Shared w/Papa but gave him the silver one (kept gold one for himself). Got praised for sharing, seemed very happy.

Can't remember full details of dream, or any sort of lead-in or explanation to why Italics, Chippy, and I were on triangular (TRIANGLE! MAGIC SHAPE! SHAPE OF FIRE & MASCULINITY! (SHAPE ALSO HEAVILY FEATURED IN SIGIL!)) warship in the middle of ocean. "Perfect storm" storming, all three on deck in middle of huge ship. Gigantic waves crash into massive boat rocking everything. Lightening illuminates otherwise pitch black sky, able to see massive maelstrom heading directly towards. (WHIRLPOOL? OH, GOD, HERE WE GO...) Frozen petrified panic. Bury face deep into Chippy's fur, ask, beg, plead, demand he take control of boat and navigate to safety. (CAPTAIN CHIPPY, LOLOLOLOLOL!) Crush dog toy to body and half will and half wish triangular warship to skim very edges of whirlpool, brave enough to look up just as boat sails through or past swirling vortex.

(Already identified possibility of "fire" (triangle) as "male" and "water" (ocean) as "feminine". Symbolic of balance needed in life? Ocean represents aspect of uncontrollable emotion that can't be navigated? Warning not to be swallowed (Aries/fire/consciousness) by overemotional aspect of life (Pisces/water/emotional unconsciousness)?

"In Scotland, the Cailleach is a blue-faced hag and represents the three months of winter. Her reign is broken by the appearance of Brigit at Imbolc. At Beltaine, the Cailleach hides her staff underneath a holly bush. In the game of Sibyl, which is very similar to the game of Snakes and Ladders that children play today, the Cailleach was the Dragon. This game was played on a seasonal basis and demonstrated the battle which was fought between the Cailleach Bheara and Brigit."

LOL!

(*) FROM LJ ACCOUNT: IT IS MY BELIEF THAT I HAVE V. V. V. RECENTLY CREATED (SEPT. 19TH, 2007) MY FIRST MAGIC SIGIL, EVER, BY ACCIDENT. (<- AND IT LOOKS COOL COOL COOL, AWESOME AWESOME AWESOME! (OKAY, SO I THINK IT LOOKS COOL AND R SEEMED TO LIKE IT THEREFORE IT HAS TO BE "COOL COOL COOL, AWESOME AWESOME AWESOME" TO SOME DEGREE, RIGHT?)) I <3 THESE LITTLE MAGIC "OOPS!" and "LOLS!".

Two Down, Seven to Go

Today Italics fucked me so hard I couldn't walk straight. Literally. (I'm expecting a bruise after the metal bed frame incident. And another one thanks to the entire walked-into-a-wall thing.) (THE FACT THAT I GOT CALLED "A FAT FUCKING SLUT" DURING SEX AND SLAPPED ON THE ASS DEFINITELY TAKES THE EDGE OFF OF WHAT OTHERWISE COULD HAVE BEEN A VERY TRAUMATIC EVENT.)

Side note to self: Two rooms "sealed" (back and bedroom). Anointed threshold of every door and every windowsill in room with combined body fluid immediately after sex. ("WHO SMEARED SEMEN AND VAGINAL SECRETIONS ALL OVER THE ROOM WHILE WE WERE GONE?") Seven more to go (includes outside room). (Garage for the LULZ?)

#1 Source for Voodoo Socks

This is what makes it all worth while.

Socially Awkward Dilemma

IT’S SOLSTICE! (Can we get Noddy Holder to scream that for us? No? Well, maybe next year...)

Today’s (possible) socially awkward dilemma? CAN RURAL SCOTTISH FARM FOLK ACCEPT (OR, AT LEAST TOLERATE) FISHNET AND BAPHOMET LOOKING CREATURES WITH BARED BREASTS AND HORNS ON A T-SHIRT AT THEIR FARM FOLK COUNTRY FAIR? (WHO’S FAULT IS IT REALLY? IS IT THE INNOCENT YOUNG WOMAN DRESSED IN FISHNET AND CARRYING A BANNER OF A LACTATING FERTILITY DEITY ACROSS HER BREASTS? OR IS IT THE SEEMINGLY SIMPLE, BUT REALLY NEFARIOUS AND SCHEMING, FARM FOLK WHO DECIDED TO HOLD THEIR ANNUAL EVENT ON MIDSUMMER’S EVE THIS YEAR?)

I have less than an hour to come to some sort of decision.

(PS: About that final decision? You’ll know I missed the mark if you hear that somewhere in Scotland a witch was burned today for the first time in over two hundred years.) (It’s alright, maybe the Devil will save me.)

Sharp Shooter

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from May 23rd, 2008.

OH HEY REMEMBER A MONTH OR SO AGO I SAID THAT I MALICIOUSLY KNOTTED A PAIR OF MY FATHER-IN-LAW'S SOCKS TOGETHER FOR A BIT OF MAGIC FUN (SEE JOURNAL ENTRY PAYMENT, PUNISHMENT, & PROMISES)? WITHIN THE PAST WEEK (OR TWO?) ITALICS'S MOTHER TOLD HIM (WHO, IN TURN, TOLD ME) THAT ITALICS'S FATHER HAS DEVELOPED SOME GANGLION CYSTS IN HIS HANDS/FINGERS MAKING THE WORK HE'S DOING (I.E., GARDENING ON A RENTED PLOT OF LAND) EXCEPTIONALLY DIFFICULT AND PAINFUL.

...LULZ. (I KNOW, I KNOW, ANKLES/FEET AREN'T HANGS/FINGERS BUT YOU KNOW HOW MAGIC IS - IT'LL DO AS IT WILLS (<- ANYONE? ANYONE? OKAY, SO MAYBE NOT EVERYONE HAS THE SCRIPT MEMORIZED FROM THE MOVIE). IN OTHER WORDS - I SHOULDN'T BE GIVING SPECIFICS TO THE UNIVERSE WHEN MAKING A REQUEST BECAUSE I'M THE LAST PERSON WHO CAN APPRECIATE HOW IT MIGHT ADVERSELY AFFECT ME OR THE SITUATION. BEST LEAVING THAT SORT'VE SHIT OPEN ENDED BECAUSE THE UNIVERSE KNOWS BESTEST.)

ETA: AND IT'S NOT EVEN SO MUCH THAT HE HAS THE CYSTS, BECAUSE THEY'RE THE PRODUCT OF OVER-GARDENING. IT'S THE FACT THAT HE GOT THEM - AND TO MY KNOWLEDGE HE'S NEVER HAD THEM BEFORE - DURING A TIME WHEN HE -CAN'T STOP WORK- BECAUSE HE NEEDS TO MOVE ALL OF HIS SHIT OFF THE LAND ASAP SINCE THEY'RE NO LONGER RENTING TO HIM.

I AM MOSTLY LULZING OVER THE TOTAL DISCOMFORT AND INCONVENIENCE OF IT ALL AND HOW HE CAN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. AND, ALSO, HOW IT DOESN'T AFFECT ME, ITALICS, OR OUR HOME LIFE IN ANY WAY. (<- THE FEET/ANKLE THING LAST YEAR WAS SUPER SPECTACULAR, BUT IT DID END UP LAYING US UP FOR A FEW MONTHS. THEN AGAIN, THAT WAS SORT'VE NECESSARY SO I COULD SEE, FIRST HAND, THE REPERCUSSIVE SHOCK WAVES OF SUCH ACTIONS, AND MADE ME APPRECIATE ALL THE MORE WHY I HAVE TO BE VERY CAREFUL WITH THE GUN I'M SHOOTING.)

Darkness Suits Me Well

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from May 10th, 2008.

Internet LOL! Quiz: Which Goddess lurks in your soul?
My Results: Hecate

You hold more power in your little finger than most do in their entire being! Hecate is perhaps the most selective of all deities who inhabit the souls of mortals. Being the goddess of the crossroads, Cosmic Knowledge, and of course witches and magic she can’t be bothered by residing in the souls of the mundane. She often chooses those who practice the craft of the old ways and those who harbor deep mystical secrets that must be kept close. Your soul is old, perhaps having been present at the birth of the cosmos in some form or another. Your ability to comprehend the necessity of death and it’s beauty have awakened a connection to the underworld, where Hecate has been known to reign and you relish this otherworldly bond. Darkness suits you well, as many of the best secrets of the cosmos can be found there.

THIS WAS SO EXPECTED THAT THE RESULTS ARE -ANTI-CLIMACTIC-. (<- IT'S BECAUSE I SAID I'D KEEP BODY PARTS IN JARS, RIGHT? ...RIGHT?) (ALSO I LIKE THE SUN, OKAYTHNX. <- I'M ON -VACATION- IN THIS HEMISPHERE RIGHT NOW, "DARKNESS", OKAY? SCHEDULE YOURSELF IN SOMETIME AFTER OCTOBER 31ST. SEE THE OLD MAN FOR BOOKINGS, THE OTHER ONE DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO WRITE. <- LOL, I'M JUST -ASSUMING- HE CAN READ AND WRITE. <- I'D TOTALLY TAKE IT TO THE NEXT LEVEL EXCEPT I JUST GOT UP AND AM NOT NEARLY HIGH ENOUGH TO ENGAGE A MASK IN A COMICALLY RACIST THEMED GAME OF VERBAL TAG THAT ENDS ON AN UNAPOLOGETICALLY (AND V. V. V. UNSUBTLE) SEXUAL NOTE.

DINNER WAS SO FANTASTIC LAST NIGHT THAT I THINK I STILL NEED SOME TIME TO COMPOSE MYSELF.

ALSO, BEEBEE IS DOING TERRIFIC, BUT DOESN'T HAVE A ROOMMATE YET BECAUSE THE ONE PLACE WE GET ALL OF OUR RATS - THEY'RE MORE...ANIMAL-SY, AND LESS PET STORE-SY AT THE GARDEN CENTRE - WON'T BE GETTING ANY FRESH STOCK UNTIL WEDNESDAY. THANKFULLY SHE IS TOO DISTRACTED BY SPACE PIRACY TO LET DEPRESSION SINK IN. GO, BEEBEE!

SPEAKING OF THINGS THAT BEGIN WITH "BEE" - BEES CONTINUE TO INVADE MY HOME. WTF, BEES, I LOVE YOU, BUT, REALLY, WTF? (THERE WAS ONE THAT HUNG AROUND FOR NEARLY 12 HOURS. FOR SERIOUS - 12 HOURS. AND WHEN I FINALLY KICKED ITS ASS OUTSIDE IT SPENT ANOTHER SEVERAL HOURS TRYING TO GET BACK IN -THROUGH A TINY VENT IN THE WINDOW-.)

I'M SERIOUSLY CONSIDERING STOCKPILING JARS OF HONEY. FOR MONTHS I FORGET, AND THEN I REMEMBER, AND THEN I WANT TO THROW UP AS THE PESSIMIST IN ME SAYS: "THIS IS BIBLICAL, THIS IS HUGE, THIS IS LIKE WHEN THE EPA GUY FLIPS THE SWITCH OF THE ECTO-CONTAINMENT UNIT IN GHOSTBUSTERS!" IT'S TOO DEPRESSING; I DON'T EVEN WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT. (36%? GAH.)

Famous Grouse

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from April 8th, 2008 (although the events that took place pre-date the writing; actual date of said events would have been during the 2008 Easter Wedding holiday).

(ALSO IT'S SNOWING AGAIN AND I THINK THIS IS PRETTY MUCH MY FAULT BECAUSE AT THE BEGINNING OF WINTER I GOT IT IN MY MIND TO LEARN HOW TO MAKE IT SNOW SO I GOT ALL BUDDY-BUDDY WITH THE INDIGENOUS WINTER HAG AND BECAUSE SHE'S SORT'VE AN ASPECT OF THE RUSSIAN SEX'N'DEATH GODDESS THAT GOVERNS ME I LEFT AN OFFERING OF A SHOT OF VODKA AND A CRUST OF BREAD EVERY FUCKING TIME IT SNOWED AND LAST MONTH I WAS ALL "I AM A DUMB ASS BECAUSE THE WINTER HAG HERE IS SCOTTISH AND NOT ACTUALLY RUSSIAN WHICH MEANS SHE WOULD PROBABLY PREFER WHISKEY TO VODKA" SO I WENT AND GOT HER A SMALLISH BOTTLE OF "FAMOUS GROUSE" TO LEAVE INSTEAD OF VODKA AND EVER SINCE THEN IT HAS BEEN SNOWING -EVERYWHERE- AND -EVERYONE- IS COMPLAINING AND I'M ALL "OH DEAR, I DID WONDER WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF I CONTINUED TO LEAVE OFFERINGS THAT ARE ADDICTIVE SUBSTANCES AND NOW I KNOW." BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT -THIS- "PAGAN/WITCH" DEBATES IN HER MIND (I.E., "IS IT MORALLY ETHICAL TO LEAVE ADDICTIVE SUBSTANCES AS OFFERINGS KNOWING THAT THEY'RE ADDICTIVE AND A SERIOUS ADDICT WILL DO SOME SERIOUS THINGS FOR A QUICK FIX?") SINCE THE ENTIRE LOVE SPELLS VERSUS MORALITY THING IS SO WAY OVER MY HEAD PHILOSOPHICALLY. <- SOMETIMES YOU JUST NEED TO ADMIT WHEN YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR INTELLECTUAL DEPTH.)

(SO, UH, SORRY ABOUT THE SNOW, YOU GUYS, BUT I THINK SHE'S SET ON FINISHING THE BOTTLE OF WHISKEY.)

(PPS: THERE'S LIKE 2/3 LEFT.)

For Whom the Bell Tolls

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from April 3rd, 2008 (although the events that took place pre-date the writing; actual date of said events would have been April 2nd, 2008 (i.e., 2008 Easter Wedding)).

LOLOLOLOL! WAIT, BEFORE I FORGET BECAUSE I NEED TO TAKE A SHOWER --

-- YOU KNOW THAT CITY IN WISCONSIN WHERE THAT CHURCH EXPLODED A FEW HOURS BACK (NEWS ARTICLE LINK HERE!)? THAT'S THE HOMETOWN OF MY EX-BOYFRIEND; THE GUY WHO I WAS "INVOLVED" WITH BEFORE ITALICS. (It was one of those rites of passage affairs that happened when I was 14 or 15. One of those embarrassing, eye-rolling "OH, WOW, YOU TOUCHING MY NIPPLES IS SO -NOT- EROTIC AT ALL...HOW DISAPPOINTING...FOR ME." affairs that really shouldn't have any weight in my life at all if it weren't for the fact I hooked up with Italics almost immediately after and we've been ever together since.)

...

...

...

...

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!

(Why is this so wonderfully LOLERIFIC? ALL OF THIS HAPPENED ON THE DAY ITALICS AND I RENEWED OUR WEDDING VOWS. (I LIKE TO THINK OF IT AS A "LOL!" WEDDING GIFT FROM THE UNIVERSE.))

"On April 2, 2008, a gas line exploded just west of downtown, destroying the First Baptist Church on West Wisconsin Avenue. The church, which was first built in 1910, was completely destroyed, except for the frame of its bell tower. The cause of the explosion is unknown, but utility work was being done on Wisconsin Avenue in preparation for reconstruction of the street's entire length through downtown."

AWESOME.

A Job Well Done

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from March 27th, 2008.

WEDDINGALTARFINALLYDONE.

ETA (APPROXIMATELY ONE MONTH LATER): LOLOLOL! DATE OF DEATH FOR THE NEW GRAVE @ CEMETERY COINCIDES WITH THE DATE OF THE 2008 WEDDING ALTAR BEING OFFICIALLY "DONE"! LOLOLOL!)

Divine, but Not Sacred

So I wake up this morning and I’m fine, but as the day progresses my tonsil – the one I cut after accidentally swallowing a piece of sharp pork crackling (YES, THE SKANKY TONSIL, THE HOSPITAL TONSIL, THE DEFORMED TONSIL, THE “WOW, I REALLY WISH THE MEDICAL PHOTOGRAPHER WAS HERE TODAY TO TAKE A PICTURE OF YOUR TONSIL BECAUSE IT’S DEFINITELY ONE FOR THE BOOKS” TONSIL, THE WITCH TONSIL, THE TONSIL THAT IS FOREVER SWELLING AND NOT BACKING THE SHIT UP WITH AN ACTUAL COLD - THAT TONSIL) – begins to twinge, and that familiar feeling is eventually followed by dryness and the dryness, surprisingly enough, is just as familiar as the oh so familiar twinge I recently mentioned which means the depth of my shock and disbelief was very shallow indeed by the time my old acquaintance, the last of the mysterious and wise magi (aka swelling), appeared on the scene. (PERHAPS I COULD HAVE A NEW CONNECT THE DOTS PATTERN SOON? SOMETHING DIFFERENT AND UNTRACED FOR, OH, I DON’T KNOW...VARIETY?)

And I go “IS IT THE WEATHER? IS THE GODDAMN WEATHER GOING TO TURN BAD?” because it would SO BE LIKE THE WEATHER to suddenly TURN BAD just as our schedules shift (we’ve been sleeping days and working nights) so we miss the really fucking great spell. I mean, it’s NOT LIKE THIS HASN’T HAPPENED BEFORE, HAS IT, WEATHER? It’s not like you HAVEN’T decided to have glorious, unseasonably balmy days for weeks on end when we were sleeping during the days, RIGHT? IT’S NOT LIKE YOU HAVEN’T DECIDED TO INEXPLICABLY TURN THAT FAUCET OFF WHEN YOU NOTICED WE WERE INCHING OUR WAY TO BEING ABLE TO ENJOY THOSE GLORIOUSLY, UNSEASONABLY BALMY DAYS THAT WE HAD BEEN PREVIOUSLY MISSING BY SLEEPING, RIGHT? Let’s be honest, weather, it’s not like we haven’t been here before – you, me, and the tonsil.

(OKAY, SO, I KNOW IT MIGHT SOUND REALLY, REALLY LEFT FIELD, BUT YOU’RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO BELIEVE ME ON THIS ONE...I HAVE OLD PEOPLE ARTHRITIS WEATHER DIVINATION SKILLS, BUT WITH MINOR DIFFERENCES. LIKE, INSTEAD OF BEING OLD I’M YOUNG AND, UHM, INSTEAD OF HAVING ARTHRITIS I HAVE A MUTATED TONSIL. CLEARLY, AS YOU CAN SEE, THE BASIC PRINCIPAL’S THE SAME AND SO IS, MOST IMPORTANTLY, THE END RESULT. I FEEL BAD WEATHER – IN MY SWOLLEN TONSIL.)

Guess who’ve been experiencing some fan-fucking-tastic weather? And guess who’ve been sleeping days, but are quickly creeping up on the light to make up for some lost time? AND GUESS, IF YOUR IMAGINATION IS POWERFUL ENOUGH TO ALLOW YOU TO NAVIGATE THIS MULTI-LAYERED, MULTI-DIMENSIONAL WORLD WE ARE CREATING, WHO’VE BEEN VERY, VERY EAGER TO ENJOY THIS SPECTACULAR CLIMATE PHENOMENON WE’VE BEEN PRIVY TO WHILE FAST ASLEEP IN OUR BED? Now take a wild, crazy, insane out-of-this-world guess at why my left tonsil feels inflamed and comically enlarged today, out of nowhere?

PS: Today’s Monday!

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL! MY FAVORITE IS HOW THERE’S A TWENTY-FUCKING-THREE DEGREE TEMPERATURE DROP IN THE SPACE OF FOUR FUCKING DAYS. (NOW THERE’S SOMETHING EXCITING AND TOTALLY WORTH GETTING OUT OF BED FOR!) MY SECOND FAVORITE IS HOW MY WITCH TONSIL IS SORT’VE LIKE CASSANDRA – DIVINE, BUT NOT SACRED. (IT’S LIKE AN ORACLE WHOSE PREDICTIONS NO ONE REALLY WANTS TO HEAR IN THE FIRST PLACE.) MY THIRD FAVORITE IS HOW THE WEATHER HAS A PERSONAL GRUDGE AGAINST ME. (BITCH, DON’T YOU KNOW I CAN MAKE IT SNOW? YOU DON’T WANT TO BE MESSIN’ WITH THIS SHIT.)