Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Birthday Offerings

Just a few pictorial offerings from April 11th (my birthday):

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My birthday cake; a homemade, gluten-free German chocolate sheet cake. (<- I was too goddamn lazy to bake three separate 9" rounds and do the entire layered thing.) If you can believe it (and you should, because my ability to pack food away borders on being a divine motherfucking gift from God), only a tiny corner remains.

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To include everyone in the birthday festivities offerings were made to my ancestors, companions and the roommates-with-benefits comedy team cohabiting with us. This makeshift altar in the backroom was for my indoor companion animal spirits: Chippy, Tiger and The Shango Man.

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All I can say about this picture is: the less said about it, the better.

Well, maybe one thing - if you really fucking dig German chocolate cake and haven't had it in motherfucking years having your ass eaten out as you dive face first into your piece of birthday cake while under the influence of nitrous is probably the way to go. (I should know.)

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The quiet before the "stoned off my fucking ass and crawled around on the flour at 5:45 AM wearing nothing except my new Sunday school goth dress and an antique wooden goat's harness" debacle: homemade sole'n'almond gin (a gift from a friend), and a spring hedgerow-themed jigsaw puzzle.

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Birthday gifts wrapped in Christmas paper for a mostly benevolent goddess made incarnate. Hidden beneath Yuletide greetings? Vintage jewelry, new altar pieces, some clothing and a handful of other miscellaneous items that fall beneath a Ms. Dirty persuasion.

Tiger's Metal Tiger Ribeye

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After several years filled with empty promises, Tiger finally got his steak. (Ancestors, friends, relatives and Papa get fed at their own place setting, anything remotely animal-like gets fed on the floor.) I coincidentally made the offering on the eve of the Chinese New Year (2010 is the year of metal tiger) which was TOTALLY unplanned or premeditated. (<- My mother-in-law bought a steak she didn't eat, and when it began emanating interesting odors I tactfully intervened for spiritual profit.)

My proper Tiger fetish is in our bedroom - a faux tiger skin throw (with head). When we first got him he adorned the bed while we slept (one of his front paws always managed to migrate to my cunt, covering it protectively (<- I've had "spirit sex" problems so I employ Tiger and Chippy - and even Papa to some extent - to keep unwanted nocturnal visitors at bay)), but straightening out five levels of sheets and coverings (fitted sheet, duvet, loose sheet, coffin cover and tiger) every fucking day got old, quick, and Tiger was moved to the top of our closet altar.

When retiring last night I had to remove the steak from the top of the closet because the scent was absolutely noxious. WOW, HE LOOKS PISSED, I thought as I held the ceramic tray with the rotting ribeye, unsure if I should take it away, but sure that I wouldn't be able to sleep in a room that carried the stench of putrefying meat. Then Italics appeared and suddenly said "WOW, HE LOOKS PISSED THAT YOU TOOK THE STEAK" to me I could only roll my eyes.

To placate my irritated large feline (Tiger's more aggressive and pissy, Shango Man (a jaguar) is more confused and laid back) I unearthed his statue and created a mini-altar on the ground in the backroom, returning the wrapped steak and giving him an offering of fresh whipping cream. After I publish this entry I'm going to bust open his energy drink (appropriately named "Tiger") and add it to his spread to ensure he's sufficiently buzzed for his reigning year.

HAPPY YEAR OF METAL TIGER, TIGER!