I lied.

I am not in the holiday spirit.  I wouldn’t give away bees.  Not even killer bees.  Dear anonymous friend, true confession: I don’t like the Holidays.

They make me go, “Bah Humbug.”

December drags me down.  When I feel it coming, I put up my privacy fence and don my crash helmet.  I get quiet.  I let it win.

I enjoy the opportunity for a little introspection.  Did you notice how I didn’t blog, for like, a year?  I was introspecting.  The people around me get down too.  The cold is too wet, the cold is too dry, the cold is too cold, etc.  Instead of introspecting, they get festive.  They force themselves out in public, to parties, and on the roads.  They make bad decisions about speed, holiday sweaters, and political opinions to angrily share with relatives.

While you celebrate your holiday this year, whether grump or elf, take a few minutes out of your day and allow yourself to say aloud, “Fuck all this plastic shit.  Fuck everything in my year that wasn’t good.  Fuck everything that didn’t work and fuck this stupid sweater.”

Follow that simple step for a merry and bright new year.


It was a bad idea.

But i did everything to keep this goldfish safe and warm. As warm as goldfish care to be, that is.  But unforch, this goldfish died within a couple weeks.

I didn’t know what to do with it.  I didn’t own my house so I didn’t feel like I could bury it.  When you rent a home, you aren’t supposed to flush anything that you didn’t eat first and I am a vegetarian.   I am not going to eat this dead goldfish.  Besides, it probably had kennel cough or whatever they get at the puppy mill.

So, in a fit of inspiration, well, not inspiration, without thinking about it: I dumped the entire fishbowl down the drain.

I can’t explain the sound, and I won’t, but I am still perplexed by the sense of relief I had once I had solved my burial problem.  As penance, every disposal I ever have in a home, I nickname “Frank,” just like my goldfish.

Update:  Dissenting opinion here.

Sometimes I take herbal supplements to help me sleep.  I decided that I didn’t want to take melatonin anymore, because it made me have very strange nightmares.  The naked in public kind.  Not the getting murdered by Satan kind.

So last night I decided to regulate my sleep with some Valerian.  I had a dream.

In this dream, I was a passive observer, as if it were a movie.  The noble lord of the sea, who happened to look a bit like a sea monkey father, needed to move his sea denizens (mostly bottom feeders like starfish, mussels, and squid) before the water receded.

See image left for sea monkey father.

So to make a long, somewhat boring dream short.  It turns out the only way for all the sea creatures to have enough energy to migrate would be to eat their own dead and dying.  But they didn’t have a sushi chef.

In my dream, I was a sushi chef. So they picked out of the audience to help them make ocean cannibal sushi.

Everything was prepared: my workspace, the dead or dying creatures in a bucket next to me, rice done and nori on the mat when the noble advisors to sea monkey dad decided to step in.  They were really mad about the pr they were getting from this whole “eating their own dead thing.”  They wanted me to come up with something else.  They didn’t have a sushi chef, but they brought in their human chef.

And you know what, friend?  I didn’t have a machete.

Employed Again

After being funemployed for 4 months, I finally got a job. I need one, but man, I am not looking forward to actually having to do stuff again.

I am out of the loop of responsibility. Did I tell you that I live with my mother? That she washes all my clothes, dishes and my sheets? I have a funny story about the sheets…


Two weeks ago, I went to the local flea market.  Right now isn’t the high season, but it is still an enormous space filled with some of my favorite kinds of absolute garbage.  Cheap Chinese electronics, Taiwanese “Shoupie” Markers, it was amazing.

However, everyone was charging some ridiculous Inflationland prices.  A pack of “Shoupies?” $3.  You could get the real Sharpie(tm) for a few bucks more and have a more solid guarantee of it’s quality and colorfastness.

So the prices were shit and no one wanted to bargain.  Except for one booth.

One booth had bins.  Rows and rows, covering a space larger than Pizza Cottontail’s cabin.  Granted, his cabin is small, but what I’m trying to say is that this booth had a lot of shit.

6 packs of bras for $10 (That’s cheap, if you don’t know what bras cost.), PandyPaws for $3 (probably a pet health hazard), and in another bin, for just two dollars, machetes.

This Thing is Fucking FierceThey even had sheaths.  I don’t know what came over me, but in a very disappointing display, I did not buy it.  Friend, this is a very stupid thing for me to do.  I basically live alone in a big scary city now.  This is no longer the boonies where it isn’t a problem to leave your door unlocked.  This is the big city.  There are city rats.

Ever since I didn’t buy this very useful tool, I have had dreams about Very Scary Things.  Last night, I dreamed that I lived out of my car and had parked in the woods.  Then the aliens came and started killing everyone and I did not have a machete.

The night before, I dreamed that my cats were not cats, but smother-monsters and I did not have a machete.

Obviously, I must remedy the situation and buy a machete, but the problem with going back is the $4 parking fee at the fairgrounds where the flea market is held.

The machete becomes a $10 investment at that point. ($4 for my initial park, $4 for my second park, and $2 for the actual salvation knife.)

And that’s why I am making vegan mayonnaise.

I recently had the benefit of taking a shuffle-a-bout from location r to location h on his way to the Burning Man Festival. This young man, nice, polite, and only a touch cavalier, typical shitty taste in music, came my way through a friend I trust greatly.

Her assumptions were correct in that he was a fine paying cargo for one of my frequent Southwestern jaunts. He felt chatty at first. We didn’t share our last names, soaking the whole trip in a dishwater skizz. It certainly made it feel cheap.

I had scored free coffee to share on the drive. An hour after downing his espresso, he asked me what I was thinking about. Lately, it’s been my own mortality. Ha… when am I ever not thinking about myself? I countered his question, using my own superior interview skills, by asking him the same. He, he’d said, was no longer a thinking person. It was once a great priority, his posits, his gambits, his synonyms I’ll insert later, but now through meditation, he was no longer focused in the linear nature of time and was free of forethought and planning. His observation of the area gutter punk skate park had only sustained his belief that he, now, was a being outside of time. Youth, he said, were free from this mysterious binding energy and now he was too.

We talked about family for a while.

He knew that he was 34. I guess after that statement, I was certain that I didn’t believe him. He fell asleep for the rest of the drive. I’ll bet he writes on his blog about how my car smells like cat urine or some similar awful thing.

I offered to return him to location r once he gets back.