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Tuesday, November 24th, 2009
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10:14 pm - Dignity. Always dignity.
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At first, I didn't pay much attention to the guy sitting by the side of the road. The cover of the book he was reading looked familiar, but he was covering about half the surface of it with his hand and it took a few seconds to sink in: the guy was reading The Stars my Destination. I immediately doubled back, stopped in front of the guy, and pointed at him with authority.
“Awesome book.”
“Thanks. You've read it?”
“Hell yeah. Just thinking about Alfred Bester makes me want to do backflips.”
“Well,” he said, gesturing to the empty stretch of sidewalk, “go ahead.”
“Uh. Can't. Unskilled limbs.”
“Aw. Don't know if I can believe you about the book then.”
And oh man, that was it. I wrote my first high school essay on The Stars my Destination. I dressed up as Gully Foyle for Halloween my freshman year in college. I've got a crazy conservative uncle back home and the main reason we get along despite our radical differences in worldview is an uncanny ability to bond over mutual appreciation for Alfred Bester. You do not question my devotion to this book.
I stood back and fixed road guy with The Eye. I shook my fist. “Respect my enthusiasm!” I yelled. Then I did a cartwheel and ran away.
Apparently it's easy to get me to abandon all shame. You just have to goad me into it properly.
Oh, and speaking of abandoning shame, here's what Zim said when Arabian Flatbread asked him about his recent habit of chewing on a cinnamon stick:
ZIM: I was watching Sherlock Holmes and I thought “I really need to chew on something as a sort of phallic smoking thing. Wait – I have one of those!”
I like it when Zim chews on cinnamon sticks. It makes him smell really good and reminds me of the time when we were fictional Russian nomads together.
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| Saturday, November 21st, 2009
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1:25 pm
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Zee stood in my doorway as I rummaged through the drawer at the foot of my bed, searching for clean socks.
“Sometimes I walk into your kitchen and you're not there,” she said, “but there is a cute shirtless boy making bread. Your life rules.”
And as soon as she said it I knew it was true. Even when I have to wear one dirty sock to work and spend the whole day feeling like scum-weevils are eating through the flesh of my right foot, life is still pretty great.
Thing is, a lot of people I care about end up slogging through their days instead of reveling in them. I've been talking to my roomates about this lately, 'cause, like, I don't want to be the rich man who spends all his time filling his bathtub with hundred dollar bills and then rolling around in the dollar bills when his friends have trouble making enough money to put food on the table. That guy is totally a jerk.
But the problem with my dollars is that they're almost all metaphorical and I don't know how to share metaphorical emotion-dollars. I can't just put them in a bag and be all HERE YOU LOOK SAD PLEASE TAKE THIS BAG OF HAPPINESS.
Arabian Flatbread says his old girlfriend valued her depression because it helped her think deep thoughts. I guess that makes sense. When you're discontent, you probably want to examine things – figure out why they're bad and maybe how to fix 'em. (And when I say “you” here, I really do mean you. I am a special kind of intellectually lazy, so instead of wanting to fix my problems when I'm sad, I mostly want to lock myself in a small closet full of spiders until I feel better.)
So... yeah. I'm maybe a little worried about being shallow? Not too worried though, because ( OH MY GOODNESS CHECK THIS OUT )
P.S. Oh Madison, I still love you so much. Today had that marvelous in-between weather where it was cool enough to wear my big fwishy Wicked Witch of the West coat but still warm enough to go barefoot. Perfect combination. Walking down State Street today, I saw 1) a girl riding a unicycle 2) a bunch of guys doing skateboard tricks in their pajamas and bathrobes, and 3) a man playing the guitar while standing on his head.
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| Saturday, November 7th, 2009
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4:06 pm
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I am a salivating dog. But so is everyone else, so I guess it's okay.*
Working at Coffee of Annihilation can create some interesting pavlovian responses. Like, serving fresh coffee is an important priority for our store, so we dump the old coffee and brew a new batch every half hour. We've got a timer that beeps to tell us when this needs to happen.
Thing about this timer, though... it's the generic cheap timer that everyone uses for everything ever. I'll be in another coffee shop, or even at home where Zim is using a timer to preheat the oven, and I'll hear this beeping sound, jump out of my chair, and be halfway across the room before I realize I am not at work and nobody needs new coffee.
But that's the boring, normal conditioned response that that most Coffee of Annihilation workers develop after a while. Sometimes it gets much worse.
You know the shift supervisor I call Dracula because of his nearly hypnotic vampiric charm with the ladies? Dracula sometimes flinches when he sees girls on the phone. Yesterday, I found out why.
One of my other coworkers went to the laundromat a while back, and while she was there a couple of our regulars recognized and approached her.
GUY: Hey, I think I've seen you at Coffee of Annihilation.
COWORKER: Yup, I work there.
GIRL: Oooooh, do you work with that gorgeous tall boy?
COWORKER: ...Dracula? Yeah, occasionally.
GIRL: Sometimes my friends and I come in just so we can take secret pictures of him with our cellphones.
My coworker didn't really know how to react to this. I think she just smiled and nodded.
When Dracula found out about what happened, he was super embarrassed. He's not the sort of vampire who revels in his dark power. He's much more the I MUST NOT DRINK OF YOUR BLOOD FOR IT IS WRONG AND ALSO KINDA CREEPY sort.
It's too bad he also sings and plays the guitar. If the lady customers ever found out about that, they'd storm his grave in the day and defile his body.
Dracula Dracula Dracula... I do work with other people too, you know. Like Lord of the Dance.
Lord of the Dance has a masters degree and used to work as a professional performer and dance instructor until she realized how much she needed heath insurance.
Yesterday, she started reading the business section of the newspaper in the back room.
DRACULA: Are... are you reading the business section?
LORD OF THE DANCE: What, don't you ever look at it?
DRACULA: Nah, it's not my tambourine.
LEX: Dracula? Did you just say the business section wasn't your tambourine?
DRACULA: ...no. I said it wasn't my type of reading.
LEX: Oh.
~~*~~later~~*~~
LORD OF THE DANCE: So I guess I should make another vat of mocha sauce...
LEX: Oh, I just did that.
LORD OF THE DANCE: Heck yes! Lex, you are my tambourine.
* and it's extra super okay right now because a highschooler just called me an elf ninja. Aww. <3 Inaccurate, but I'll take it. I think she was dazzled by my piercings or something.
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| Sunday, November 1st, 2009
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2:59 am - Pumpkins scream in the dead of night
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So I didn't have time to accumulate many October points this year. Turns out it doesn't matter because Halloween itself was awesome.
( Pictures ahoy! )
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| Sunday, October 25th, 2009
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11:39 pm
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Initiated! Woohoo! I got so nervous waiting in line for the baptism that by the time my turn came around I had to pee. Like, really bad. It was the most awkward thing ever.
There were all these cameramen and local news people there and... I always thought I'd try to concentrate on my game the day I got baptized – keep my kicks clean, create a dialogue, all that. Yeah. Didn't happen. All details got lost in favor of one new overwhelming goal: do not pee on Instrutora Cotonete.
My game was super ugly but I didn't urinate inappropriately so I'm calling it a success.
And then a thing happened. Thing. I got promoted. My cord is half yellow now.
I'm really not sure I should've gotten promoted yet. I'm the second worst of the half yellows, and some of the white cords are better than I am. I've heard stories... people who get promoted and then stop improving. Now that I have this thing, I need to, ya know, step up and earn it.
Ak! I'm bad at responsibility. Also I'm bad at muscles. Having muscles-responsibility is more than I currently know how to how to handle. I'll have to grow as a human being in order to avoid shaming myself.
But but but maybe this means I've improved? At least a little? It certainly doesn't feel like I'm much better than when I started, but I don't think my instructor is into handing out pity cords.
It was harder than I thought, taking my white cord off for the last time. We've been through a lot together these last ten months. Hell, that thing is stained with my actual blood and sweat. No tears, though. Maybe I should've made an extra effort to cry at some point and wipe my eyes with the little tassel bits. I'll keep that in mind for this new half yellow cord so I can complete the triumvirate – I should have it for the next several years, after all.
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1:19 am
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Holycrap batizado week. I kinda can't believe I'm typing this right now because even my fingers are sore. If you're not familiar, a batizado is basically a capoeira initiation ceremony. Tomorrow a 70 year old brazilian man who could kill me with his left earlobe will throw me to the ground and then I will become an official student of artful face kickings.
Batizados are also where more experienced students can get promoted and start wearing different colored cords to hold their pants up. This goes a long way toward explaining why my kitchen and bathroom are covered in dye splatters and cord remnants and I've got seven out-of-town capoeiristas sleeping on my couch.
So anyway, we've been having crazy intense workshops and preparation events all week. Today was the newbie naming ceremony, which was pretty cool.
It started with our group's Mestre giving a speech about why you need a nickname to do capoeira (it is to CONFUSE THE POLICE no joke). And then he went on to explain the attitude he takes toward naming his students:
“You're not supposed to like your name. My name means “lazy” or “sloth,” and look at me -- I'm not lazy. So you're not going to get a name like king or queen or princess. Don't expect that kind of thing. Well, maybe if you're really, REALLY ugly we'll call you princess just to tease you.”
So then time sped up and the next thing I knew it was my turn to get a nickname. I went up in front of the Mestre while my group sat around me in a circle and shouted suggestions. “Firefly! Firefly! Zombie! Gargoyle! Gnome! Key! Pixie!” Mestre looked me up and down and ignored most of the group's suggestions. Instead, he named me Rapunzel.
Rapunzel.
Hey, didn't she marry a prince? Wouldn't that make her a... well... wouldn't that make her a princess?
Oh crap. Mestre thinks I'm ugly. Ah well, his own fault if he can't see the beauty in a face like this:
A group of us went home afterwards and we were all excited and babbling about the naming ceremony, and I happened to mention that I was a bit disappointed my name wasn't in portuguese.
“That's okay,” said Maria, “you can just pronounce it HapunZEL.”
“Yeah,” said one of the out-of-town guests, “Mr. Rodgers from our group keeps telling people his name is Senhor Hodgers.”
Senhor Hodgers. Man, I hear it's a beautiful day in his vizinhança.
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| Saturday, October 17th, 2009
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8:32 pm
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A thing I like about my job is that it's easy to run away when work starts to eat my soul. Or, well, I can't literally run away most of the time, but I can fight off the soul-eating portions of Coffee of Annihilation. I do this with metaphorical punches. I've been pulling lots of long shifts lately, and I had to work unexpectedly early yesterday. By around three, I began to sense a tentative nibbling at my soul extremities.
I cast around for makeshift weapons and couldn't come up with any good metaphorical brass knuckles, so I quickly scrawled a note and taped it across Dracula's register screen.
There are twenty trees in all the land.
In all the land, there are twenty trees.
Weep, fair cousin, in silent solemnity.
The next time Dracula went to ring up a purchase, he called me over.
“Lex, did you do this?”
“No.”
When he wasn't looking, I took down the note and replaced it with a new one:
Those pesky dryads never know when to shut up.
On my next break I went outside, grabbed a handful of leaves, drew little sad faces on them, and spent the rest of the day sneakily taping them one by one to Dracula's register. At the end of the day, he told me I should “own my poetry.” Buh? Um, okay.
Dracula owns his poetry, I guess. We've got a big board in the hallway with pictures of everyone who works at Coffee of Annihilation on it. Next to our pictures, we all had to write reasons why we enjoy [name brand instant coffee.] Dracula stole one of our more timid-looking coworker's blurbs and replaced it with a sign that said “I drink [name brand instant coffee] when I'm feeling shy.”
This sign is still on the wall.
It's been there for a week.
I like Dracula.
...and maybe that's the problem. Not my coworker Dracula but actual vampire Dracula. See, it's the middle of October and I've been so busy all month that I've hardly had time to do anything spooky at all. Arabian Flatbread and I lit candles the other night and read monster stories out loud to each other and that was good, but it's like one October Point at most. I need more points! I have no time! Quick, someone sew giant insect limbs to my body or haunt me with a ghost or something auuuugh!
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| Saturday, October 3rd, 2009
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3:31 am
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Yesterday we all piled into Zee's car for a road trip to Milwaukee to see Great Big Sea in concert. I don't feel guilty about requesting off work or spending the money for a ticket, because it was a MEDICAL EMERGENCY. Only Great Big Sea could cure my most recent bout of I-only-want-to-listen-to-Nick-Cave-constantly-forever disease.
So: pictures! Way hey and away we go donkey riding, donkey riding...
( Riding on a donkey )
So yeah, Great Big Sea still has amazing energy even if all their songs are about boats or being happy or being happy on boats and half their fans are werewolves.
current music: The Weeping Song - Nick Cave (okay, so maybe I'm not quite cured)
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| Sunday, September 27th, 2009
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11:47 pm - I don't believe in an interventionist God, but darlin' I know that you do
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A friend of Sam's once claimed that people who are biologically female tend to be competent judges of perfume, even if they aren't very girly. I don't have any authority when it comes to universal tendencies, but I can say this for certain: My two x chromosomes fail to give me any superpowers regarding nasal taste or capacity.
Zim's friend Sarah visited yesterday, and she wanted to go shopping for scented massage oil. I thought that sounded like a good way to celebrate my newly un-swollen and fully-functional nose, so I decided to tag along. We approached the smelly stuff counter and Sarah immediately held a dripping tester wand in front of my face.
SARAH: Does this smell like a good woman to you?
LEX: A... what now?
SARAH: Well, a lot of people I pass on the street smell like harlots, or like... like candy-coated five-year-old girls. I want a scent that makes me smell like a woman, but, ya know, a woman of strong moral fiber.
I stood there, frantically searching my brain for a time I'd ever thought somebody smelled like a harlot. Or like a five-year-old. Or like... well, like anything other than “pleasant” or “sweaty n'gross.”
SARAH: Well?
LEX: It smells *sniff sniff* kinda like grandma couch?
SARAH: Oh. I was afraid of that.
Dejected, she put the bottle back on the shelf.
I continued to smell the oils, and then I started to feel guilty. Because, well, they all smelled a bit like grandma couch to me except for plain tea tree oil. And I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to think tea tree oil is the best perfume ever? At least not according to conventional wisdom? Sarah seemed not to like it much anyway.
Also I like the smell of rubber cement and permanent marker. So I guess in my head if you're not killing bacteria or brain cells you're a grandma. *shrug*
Anyway, after shopping on State Street, Justin and Becca came over and we paid Karcus-the-stabbin' guy to shove hooks in Justin's back and tie him to my wall. (Justin wants to try suspension eventually, so we set him up with a pulling first.) It was pretty great because Karcus usually caters to a very specific subculture and I suppose he was expecting more of the same, but then at one point somebody mentioned that Justin was in seminary studying to become a Catholic priest. When he heard that, Karcus's eyes bugged out of his head and rolled around on the floor for a little while. After he'd regained his composure and popped his eyes back into their sockets, he turned to Justin.
“You're my first priest,” he said.
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Watching Justin break people is always pretty great. I love Madison because it's such a crazy liberal hippie town, but communities like ours can easily develop certain prejudices - like that all hardcore Catholics are a bunch of intolerant, closed-minded asswads. And that just isn't true in a lot of cases. In fact, it's pretty darn intolerant and asswadish of us to make such assumptions.
So Justin ranted about religion for a while and he said some smart things and some deep things and some tongue-in-cheek-but-with-a-grain-of-truth things like “Whenever other Catholics say that God wants us to disrespect the environment, you beat them with a steel ruler.”
And then, because he's Justin, he did handstands on my living room floor with blood running down his back. I'd show you a picture, but I know Justin's planning his own post about all this, and I don't want to steal his thunder.
Later, I helped Karcus lug his stuff back to the car. Before he drove away, he stuck his head out the door.
“Hey, thanks for connecting the two of us there. Justin was so thoughtful and open to new experiences, and I really respect that. I mean, I've considered joining the church of Satan, so I never expected a Catholic to inspire me that way.”
D'aww. <3
current music: Into My Arms - Nick Cave
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| Wednesday, September 23rd, 2009
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11:52 pm
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Hey Lex, how was class today?
( Well, it finally happened )
It doesn't really hurt, but my nasal passages are all swollen so it's hard to breathe on one side and I feel a bit like a hooded seal.
That purplish placenta-lookin' thing? inflated nasal cavity. For serious. Scientists aren't sure if male hooded seals make their noses explode like that because the ladies like it or because it scares other seals or if they do it for some arcane reason known only to the inner circle of seal nobility. I suspect they do it 'cause it's fun. You can bet if I had the ability to inflate my nasal cavities I'd to it all the bloody time. Or at least whenever I got bored.
...it's a good thing I was already a college graduate when I found out about hooded seals. The balloons I'd have stuck up my nose during lecture if I'd known probably would've hurt my GPA.
* You have no idea how much I wish I'd gotten kicked by CAPTAIN AMERICA oh man.
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| Sunday, September 20th, 2009
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11:30 pm
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So the prospective pie I mentioned last night? Turns out Arabian Flatbread had never heard of one of my favorite ancient and venerable traditions: goth baking. Goth baking is where you put on lots of silly black clothing and then you make a mess with bowls of flour. You get extra points if you talk about pain and blood and maybe pretend you are a vampire until you finish cooking. I know I've talked about the practice on here before, but I don't know if I've flailed about it enough that you'd remember.
Anyway, Arabian Flatbread's ignorance hurt me. As did my lack of pie. Clearly, there was only one solution.
( Behold the PIE OF DESPAIR (and blueberries) )
current music: super-tragic goth baking playlist of misery
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| Saturday, September 19th, 2009
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11:18 pm - I spy with my little eye...
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Extra! Extra! Update o' sameness! I still <3 my roommates.
One of them can warp space-time. I know this because Zim owns absolutely everything and does absolutely everything, but still he never runs out of space for new stuff or time for aimless hangin' out. Zim says he accomplishes these mind-boggling feats by living a life of ruthless efficiency, but I dunno. I still suspect he's a Time Lord. He certainly behaves like somebody who owns a TARDIS.
Like, I wanted a magnet to hang Maggie's cannibalistic Miss Muffet drawing* on the refrigerator, so Zim ran into his room and emerged one second later with this giant horseshoe-shaped deal and several clippy magnets.
LEX: Wow, that was quick.
ZIM: Wasn't hard to find - it was in one of my boxes in the box of boxes.
LEX: You have a box of boxes?
ZIM: Yes. Most of the boxes in it are full of boxes, but this one had magnets instead.
Zim has a bunch of other boxes not in the box of boxes of boxes. Like, he's got this one labeled “shiny bits” that's full of sparkly things he pulled out of computers after smashing the computers with a hammer. (And hey, did you know computers have little tops in them? They do. And they're remarkably well-balanced. We spun them all over the kitchen floor and they wandered around and looked like they were hovering instead of spinning.)
...and I had to stop typing there because my window is open and my neighbor's window is also open, which means I can hear everything they're saying next door. And the last thing my unknown neighbor-guy said was “I can't believe you peed on three girls.” 0_o
…
Wow.
Neighbors.
Anyway, my apartment keeps getting better and better, but it still doesn't have a name. Zim wanted a title related to the fact that nobody who lives here drinks, smokes, or eats meat, but the only name I could think of related to that was Castle NoFun which isn't really accurate because we all have a heck of a lot of fun.
*sigh* I still like the Xanadome.
Right. No more typing. Walking to the store instead. Arabian Flatbread will be back from D&D soon and he said that if I got fruit tonight we could make a pie.
* Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet
drinking his blood through his bones.
By the blood she could see the young man and his dreams
And recall his expiring moans.
current mood: something beginning with b
current music: A hora é essa
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| Saturday, September 12th, 2009
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8:53 pm - Lazy update: pictures from the last few days
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| Friday, September 11th, 2009
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12:14 pm
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I got together a few days ago with some people I know from capoeira. We were all wearing normal-person clothes, so of course we decided to spend a good chunk of time bitching about The Pants. It's so rare that we're together somewhere far away from The Pants that we just couldn't help it. We thought we were safe. We thought The Pants couldn't hear us.
I think I started. "It's so sad that we have to wear all white," I said, "means we can't have a roda at the park like this without getting grass stains everywhere."
"Hey," said Kris-like-the-knife, "at least you don't have a penis."
Macaco looked over from the flippy thing he was doing by a tree. "Yeah, in those pants everyone can see the exact size and shape of your junk."
I thought about it, but decided not to mention the difficulties people without penises might encounter every month or so when it comes to spending several hours doing high kicks in clingy white pants.
Anyway, the discussion was good and cathartic, and it couldn't have done any harm because all our pants were at home where they couldn't hear us. Or so I thought.
So then Sam (SAM IS HOME NOW WOOHOO!) called yesterday and asked if I wanted to sleep over.
LEX: I think s... oh wait, I have class tomorrow and I'm out of clean whites. Mind if I do a load of laundry while I'm there?
SAM: 'course not. Go ahead.
So I did.
And then I crawled, distraught, back into the bed where Sam was sleeping. He poked his nose out from under his bright red comforter.
SAM: What's wrong?
LEX: Aaaaaagggh I don't understand it! There was nothing else in the washing machine WHY ARE ALL MY CLOTHES BRIGHT PINK NOW?
SAM: Oh. Uh. Sorry.
LEX: Huh?
SAM: The last thing I washed in there was this blanket. It dripped oceans of pink everywhere.
LEX: *facepalm*
Several additional washes and rounds of bleach later, it still looks like the majority of my stuff won't recover. I AM SORRY, STUPID WHITE OUTFIT, FOR IMPLYING THAT YOU LACKED DIGNITY. YOU HAVE MUCH MORE DIGNITY IN WHITE THAN THE SAME OUTFIT IN CANDY PINK.
Hmm. Maybe my pink-fueled rage will make me kick harder. Worth a try, I guess.
current mood: Pink. Auuugh!
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| Wednesday, September 2nd, 2009
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3:16 pm - blah blah blah spiders
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I have this plush spider, Fuzby Percival Wilkinson. If you know me in real life, chances are you've met him and/or seen me wear him as a hat a few times.
Fuzby Percival Wilkinson is crazy soft and super cuddly, and I usually take him to bed with me, especially when Sam's not around. But then Arabian Flatbread made an amazing discovery. I have this one nail sticking out the corner of my wall just above the door, and, well...
It's perfect! Like he's going to pounce on anyone who walks into the room. Thing is, I'm not very tall, so I can't actually put him back by the ceiling myself, at least not without dragging the furniture around. So now I kinda don't want to take him down.
So mostly I leave him up there. It makes sleep a little lonelier. I stood below Fuzby Percival Wilkinson and told him about it the other day, and I guess he must've heard me because I woke up last night and saw this a few inches away from my face:
He sent a friend to keep me company! Aww. This friend is less squishy, though, so I had to shoo him off the bed before going back to sleep. I hope this doesn't make Mr. Wilkinson think me ungrateful.
In other news, Zim, Arabian Flatbread, and I have been trying to come up with a house name. I tentatively want something with “dome” in it so we can call it The Dome for short. Zim says the Thunderdome sounds inappropriately savage, though, and Stately Pleasure Dome is a lot of syllables.
I guess I don't really need a dome. I do need a name, though. Any suggestions?
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| Sunday, August 30th, 2009
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10:27 pm - Flying
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| Tuesday, August 25th, 2009
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2:53 pm
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Quote of the day:
“Oh shit! I have oatmeal on the stove. You made me forget about it with your gun.” ~Arabian Flatbread
Ahh, domesticity. Our third roommate moved in a few days ago, and so far we've all indulged in varying degrees of unpacking frenzy. “Unpacking,” for Zim, is a more complicated concept than it may at first seem. Like, he'll come across a box of boffer-making supplies and nerf gun parts, and decide that the only way to unpack the box is to put together a bunch of boffers and nerf guns.
And you can't really spend an evening that way without using the fruits of your labor.
So sometimes I wake up and find this standing in my doorway.
And then there's a nerf gun fight* in the hall. I got murdered.
But I guess I deserve to get murdered, what with killing Arabian Flatbread's yeast that he'd left to culture in the oven last night. I tried to earn back some good roommate points by offering to wash all his white clothes along with my own. So I took our pile of stuff down to the laundry room, dumped detergent over the whole thing, and then the machine ate my quarters and refused start washing. It's a washing machine! Its purpose is to wash stuff! That machine could use a lesson in self-awareness, I tell ya. Grr.
So then I slunk back upstairs to tell my tale of soap and scum.
“Well,” said Arabian Flatbread, “we do have a bathtub. And feet. We have feet.”
( Good point )
* Not a proper fight – mostly just me getting shot a bunch
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| Thursday, August 20th, 2009
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6:16 pm
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Still getting settled in the new apartment. Another thing that's different about living not-with-Sam is that I get my friends as roommates instead of Sam's friends. Now don't get me wrong, Sam's friends are fine. But my friends? My friends are flying-monkeys-in-bowler-hats awesome.
I couldn't really sleep last night for wanting to rip my face off (wisdom tooth is infected again. I am the opposite of wise for not getting it removed last year when this happened for the first time.) but I figured out pretty quick that it's a lot easier to not claw at your face in impotent woe when you're distracted by something else. So when I got up this morning I stopped by Zim's room and lo! He proved pleasantly distracting.
I mentioned... something. I don't remember perfectly because I'd just woken up and was still living half in dream at the time. But I think I said something about all the times my computer got stolen at the old place. And then this happened:
ZIM: You don't have to worry about that so much anymore. I eat peanut butter nutella sandwiches and don't wash my knife between the peanut butter and the nutella.
LEX: ...what?
ZIM: So, like, what if a robber breaks into our house and decides to eat our food? If he's allergic to peanuts, he'll be all 'it's a good thing they have nutella – I'm not allergic to hazelnuts.' And then he'll go into anaphylactic shock and the police can come get him.
A foolproof plan! Why didn't I think of that at the old place? Because I didn't live with Zim then, that's why. Oh, and:
ZIM: I keep waking up engrossed in thoughts about the zombie apocalypse. I think it's because I'm reading War for the Oaks.
LEX: But. But War for the Oaks doesn't have any zombies in it.
ZIM: No, but if I got recruited to act as the avatar of death in a faerie war, there's no way I'd do it like the main character in that book – unarmed and dressed like a normal person. I'd bring ALL MY WEAPONS. And really, the zompocalypse is more likely than getting recruited by faeries.
LEX: *blink*
ZIM: And when else will I get to use a bulletproof vest and a machete at the same time?
Best. Roommate. Ever.
current music: To you Kasiunia - Warsaw Village Band
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| Tuesday, August 18th, 2009
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12:13 pm
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First full day in the new apartment. Huh. This whole living-without-Sam thing means I'm unlocking a new level of adulthood. I've never lived this close to on my own before. Turns out Adulthood Level Three* comes with a new set of required skills.
Previous move-in experiences have been all about nailing dead spiders to the wall and making sure I have a place to put my tea. I've done both of these things at the new place, but now I've got a bunch of other tasks to complete as well. Like, at Level Two, I thought I'd known about the need to buy food and hygienic supplies, but I guess my understanding was incomplete. Did you know that things like trash bags and olive oil don't spontaneously manifest in kitchens? I never quite realized that before. I guess I thought magical gnomes provided the truly basic stuff, and you, Responsible Adult Person, just had to fill in the blanks. But now experience has taught me that's not always true. So I bought some trash bags and olive oil. Does this mean I'm a real grownup now? Hm, probably not. I know I'm forgetting someth – soy sauce! Holy crap this place doesn't have any magical soy sauce gnomes either.
Geez. It'd be way more efficient to go right to the source and buy some gnomes. You probably can't unlock the gnomes until Level Four, though. Patience, patience...
UPDATE: Oh hey – turns out magic gnomes do create olive oil. Man, we have a lot of oil now.
* Level One = college, Level Two = graduate living with older and more experienced SO
current music: Do you Wanna Date my Avatar - Felicia Day
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| Monday, August 17th, 2009
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3:21 pm
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MOUNTAIN MOUNTAIN MOUNTAIN HERE WE GO
( right here )
Val took this picture of me in the tree. If my skin were green, I bet you couldn't see me at all. Then I could attack from above with impunity. Man, why don't I have green skin yet?
( Or, if you prefer, here )
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