Fierce and tiny.

Hey. Look:

Toehawk throwing zombies.

And maybe to church, what.

Entrenched in a cocoon of my own mucus. Every bit as pleasant as it sounds, trust. Earlier in the week, Randy would simply kick my snoring husk to roll me over in the middle of the night; he's since graduated to actually waking me up in order to deliver a three paragraph essay on how much worse my snoring is now than it was, and hence why I should start sleeping with bubble wrap in my mouth. Tonight I'm going to really turn it on, I've decided, no more Nyquil / Benadryl cocktails. Let's move this party in the opposite direction, let's see how fucking loud this shit can go.

And this morning Randy stopped me in the middle of pulling my green South District grocery store tee shirt over my head; apparently the amount of toothpaste smeared down the front was way past acceptable levels.

"Absolutely not," he said, kicking it into the laundry, "I meant to say something Friday at the Verizon store. And I definitely shouldn't have let it slide yesterday."

I still don't see what the big deal was, I was just going to the grocery store and the mall.

I love this: Chewbacca-- the Bringer of the Noise.

And a robot squid with a boombox.

P.S. Fire everyone in your marketing department immediately.

I was sorting through something like ten days of stockpiled mail this morning when I came across a thin, legal-sized envelope sent from a local spa. I'd used a gift certificate for a service there months ago, so for once I let the part of my brain screaming COUPONS! overrule the bigger part of my brain screaming COLLECTIONS! and I opted to open it rather than tear it in half and set it on fire. It was a business letter typed on formal letterhead admonishing me for not having returned to the spa for additional services.

"At the time of your service," it read snidely, "We recommended you schedule regular follow up appointments in order to maintain a high level of personal health." Having failed to make said appointments I was now, apparently, in danger of being mistaken for mold.

Wow, they seemed pretty mad at me, the spa people, pretty harsh. I reread the whole thing to make sure I didn't owe somebody some cash. But no, they were really just scolding me for neglecting my aesthetic health.

The treatment I'd gotten at the spa was a Vanilla Rose Sugar Glow body wrap. It was nice and all, kind of like being scrubbed down with a cupcake, but I'm pretty sure it didn't add anything noteworthy to my overall life span. It's not like I'm missing chemotherapy appointments. Thanks for your tough love concern, Spa, but from here on out I think I'll just do the best I can with Lever 2000 and a washcloth. If it helps you sleep at night, just tell yourself it's like methadone.

Seriously, does NASA make the liquicap packet?

I've sucked back so much Nyquil over the past three days, the whites of my eyes are tinged green. One day the superbugs will come and won't you know it, the only pharmaceutical agent in our entire human arsenal capable of fending them off will be the Nyquil Liquicap. Roughly sixty million of us will roll our overly saturated greenish eyes and prepare to be conquered, then, mumbling in hindsight how we knew we should have stuck with Benadryl. Everyone else will smugly pat themselves on the back, fighting a month-long sniffle but satisfied, finally, that their goody two shoes refusal to abuse over the counter cold medicine has paid off. But then all those people end up dying, too, because the superbugs are swift and fast-acting and no one can find a goddamn letter opener or a grenade or an acetylene torch to open the stupid liquicap packet.

Mostly Finished.

I am sick, sick, sicky. I started shotgunning Nyquil at the tail end of the party last night, and I coasted into bed on fumes. I fell asleep with a cough drop in my mouth, so now my tongue is roughly the size and texture of a raisin.

I finally took some pictures of the (mostly) finished patio:

From this--

To this--

Click on the pictures for the whole photostream.