I was born in West Virginia.

If anyone asks though, I just say Silent Hill or Shangri La.

I need a security blanket

I finally finished the last Harry Potter book. Considering that it was bought on the night it came out, I don't think it really could've taken longer, but I've been reading it a page or two at a time until the night before last, when I read from about page 200 to the end in one marathon session.

Page 665 was when I started enjoying it, and I know that because I remember looking down at the page number and thinking, Wow, page 666 and Snape is being nice.

I've always been a Snape fan, moreso now that Hermione seems to have been consistently ragging since book 3 on, and Sirius got whacked. So needless to say, the authoress gained at least a little respect from me by the way she peppered hints about my favorite Dark Arts Professor. When I realized who's patronus the white doe was, I about squealed. Although, it would have been better for me at least, if it wasn't lamed down by 'Oh, he was in love with Lily and that was why he had that patronus, not because he could have had further redeeming values or anything'.

My problem with the books has always been that Harry is a boy of very little flaw, and everyone does seem either unfairly against, or so very in love with him. I'm pretty sure that if I tested the boy who lived with the Mary Sue Litmus Test, the results would be in the top percentile. I also wasn't a fan of how out of the blue the Hallows was.

Wow, that has to be one of the nerdiest rants to ever leave my head. I'll go back to internally obsessing about the new Indiana Jones movie now.

... because it belongs in a museum!

Yesterday I hopefully cleared up my apartment stuff, but just didn't go back to work. I'm going to put in 40 hours next week and from therein, but to be honest, I was wee inches close to locking myself in the regrettably unisex bathroom and hiding, I was so upset. Knowing my track record of behavior when I'm upset, leaving really was the better option.

After getting to Brandon's pad, he, and a friend, and I watched this hilarious documentary about sex addiction and commitment phobias, the latter of which I really could've taken notes on. His friend was really cool too, and I wouldn't mind hanging out with her more (omig subtle hintery).

On the drive home though, it was weird. The weather had cleared up but it was very foggy out, it was about midnight or midnight thirty and I was going down the highway at about 50mph because it was deserted anyway, and I didn't want to hydroplane. Going that slow though, I still almost hit a car that was halfway on the shoulder. The emergency lights were on and a woman was walking not too far from it.

I called the highway patrol to report a possible accident, and it was in the middle of nowhere but near a landmark everyone knows (how can you miss a quarry?), gave them the car's color and as good a description of the woman that I could, but kind of hung around a little bit just in case. When I volunteered for the Red Cross, I noticed that a lot of the people we looked for in the woods were seen earlier by people who just drove by; I don't want to be one of those people, obviously.

Not too long afterward, maybe an half an hour, an officer called my cell and told me they found the car but no woman, and asked if I was sure about what I saw. I told him yes, she had bright blond hair and that's hard to miss even in the dark, then I told him to call again if they still don't find her and I'll lend a hand.

They never called back so I'm assuming they found her, but I can't help but remembering when I was younger and with the car that seemed to hate me. So many times that, without a cell phone, I was stranded on the side of the road. For miles I would walk, but I never really thought about how easy it would be for me to just slip into the woods and disappear forever.

Has anyone ever called the highway patrol for me, and have they ever gone looking, only to find I was already gone?

There's something upsetting about that.

There needs to be a hotline, a 1-800 number that you call, you leave your name and a message just to let them know you're okay. That way, if anyone ever calls, they can know. Even if by then you're not fine, you need to hear that from people sometimes, that they're safe and secure.

In which I'm a sloppy blogger

I feel really weird lately. It's a combination of my job and worry, I think, but on the upside I'm about halfway through this book and working on getting prescribed something mind-numbing so work is tolerable again. And did you know how hard it is to find an apartment during fall semester?

Or stealing back Xanax from relatives? When it should be really easy because they're in a full arm cast? And would probably go down like a ton of bricks?

Bah.

It's the first day of the projeckt!

Gmail is down, so my blog roll is in need of updating- if you don't see your link yet, my apologies.

Anyway, Aaron Kafton and I are starting a groovy photoblog soon, so be sure to keep an eye out for it. I'll be relaying a list of phrases or sentences to him, which he'll photograph, and then post daily. Of course I'm stoked, and you should be too.

Today's entries?

the kite-eating tree
emancipation
the fluff
take a bite out of _____
secret garden
smashed to atoms
tell a secret
spidersilk
cats are up to something
snake-oil salesman

Wish me luck for tomorrow, by the way. I'm turning in my apartment application and could really go for not being homeless.

IT'S FUCKING KITTY HEAVEN OKAY?!

There is a cat food commercial that features a cat prancing through a field of... well, cat things, I guess. The first time I saw it I said, "Holy shit, it's fucking kitty heaven!"

Yes, Virginia, there really is a cat heaven. Also, Liz and I have strong-armed Andy into including more cat memes into the newsletter because, as I told him about it, he gave a mouse a cookie and now he has to deal with it.
-
There was another setback in my apartment hunt, but hopefully it will be settled by tomorrow. Hopefully.

It isn't bothering me too badly because today, someone gave me barnacles that Grandpop pried off of a ship in the Phillipines during WWII. While I never knew Grandpop because he died a few days before/after I was born (depending on who you ask), the shells of the barnacles are the objects of my affection right now.

When he pried them off the ship, his fingerprints were pressed into their surface, and all these years later, the things are like engraved porcelain. His fingerpads had the same whorls and peacocks eye that mine have, and a psychic once told me years ago that those are the sign of a freewheeler.

My Grandma told me that I have his mouth and his swagger, and an accidental time capsule tells me that I have his hands and gypsy ways.

Happy Jimmy Hoffa Day!

I went to work today, but after sleeping in and then only for two hours. I left so early because I felt like a scab, and if there's one thing my grandmother's taught me (she taught me a lot actually), it's that the best thing to do with a scab is punch them in the coinpurse, then kick their teeth down their throat while they're down.

Since I don't have a coinpurse, I'm just going to eat a big steak and play video games.

And because I love you, here's some Labor Day reading:
Sunshine Mine Disaster
It is appropriate, therefore, that the nation pay tribute on Labor Day to the creator of so much of the nation's strength, freedom, and leadership — the American worker.
How the mafia works

Chaneling WC Fields

W. C. Fields (January 29, 1880 – December 25, 1946) was an American juggler, comedian, and actor. Fields created one of the great American comic personas of the first half of the 20th century—a misanthrope who teetered on the edge of buffoonery but never quite fell in, an egotist blind to his own failings, a charming drunk; and a man who hated children, dogs, and women, unless they were the wrong sort of women. - Wiki

I have, arguably, an undesirable way of life. I'm perpetually homeless, stressed to the point of going grey, bounce between unbalanced men, and act like a dick to people who don't deserve it.

However.

When I feel like sleeping, I usually sleep. When I feel like trashing my liver, I do that too. Most of the time, if I feel like telling someone to suck it, it's gonna happen.

Someone had confronted me about that, and in my defense, a third party replied "she's just channeling WC Fields and fucking Alistair Crowley".

So. The next time I start to regret an audible office fart, I'm just going to remember that crazy old man who waits in the bushes with a BB gun, and remember that apparently I'm his second coming.

While I'm at it: Fuck you too, Sammy Hagar. We didn't want you here anyway.