Adult Problems...

My radiator leaks.

Mine’s only like drip, drip, drip, so a towel on the floor is enough to save me for now.

The heating system in this new apartment wants me to be warm so much that it’s expelling boiling droplets into my room.

I should feel honored.

I don’t.

Frozen Grapes...

Life is kind of tumbling out of control in the best possible way. For the next several months, I think I’ll be an incredibly busy person. Increasing responsibility at two jobs in two different boroughs, neither of which being the one I reside in, will be leaving me with what looks to be possibly one day off a week. Perhaps two if the odds are in my favor. Occasionally not even the one.

Sandman, Schmandman...

It’s 3:42 in the god damned morning.

I really don’t think I’ll ever understand how this Sandman guy gets to keep his fucking job. My entire life all I’ve ever seen is a slacker and a half. He floats around doing who knows what to people’s eyes all night, and then what? Forgets about me? I don’t know whether to be furious or offended. Put that shit in my eyes, man!

Just a Quickie...

Hello my dearest friends and readers! This weekend, any of my normal dedicated writing time was taken up by various emergencies and life happenings, so I thought I would simply do an update post this go around. You know? Talk about what's good in the hood. And stuff. Yes...let's begin.

WORK:

I'm now a full time manager at my little metaphysical shop on Christopher St. We're a tiny family there, but I'm so happy I'm finally feeling like an actual member of the group. This store has been a life, faith and happiness saver, and I'm so grateful for it.

Also, every Friday night from around 9 to 12 I am a zombie at an attraction called Zombiefest. It is one of the most fun and ridiculous jobs I could have ever imagined having the pleasure to work. We (that is, we actor zombie peoples) run around with patrons for a few hours in the most epic game of laser tag I have ever experienced. Seriously, if you come to visit me, let's set up your run through the Asylum. I'll scare you shitless, you'll get to shoot me in the head. Fun!

WORLD:

People keep telling me it's Spring. Even the trees are waking up, flowers are fucking with my nose and I'm greeted by a chorus of chirping birds any time I arrive home too learly. The issue I'm having, though, is that it's still averaging around 50 degrees. We're way into April, world...get that shit together. I want to go busking, and I need some warmer times to make that a thing.

WOES:

My neck has been hurting. I think my body was just spoiled by years of a tempurpedic mattress. This spring nonsense just isn't cutting it. Might have to get some kind of cushy pad cover business.

Last Friday night, I received my first major zombie injury. A patron's gun made unintentional contact with my nose. It's a bit sore, but it's getting better. Should be totally alright in another day or so. Zombies don't die, and neither shall I!!!

I've been falling behind on my keeping in touch through letters resolution, and I'm sorry. If you're reading this, you have my permission to harass me into getting back on track. I'll appreciate it.


To keep it quick, I think that's it for now. I intend to take some time on a more creative post sometime between the Monday Fun Days this week. Sending love and light out to each and every one of you, my lovelies.

A Mouse in the House...

When I was little, one of my favorite books to read with my mother was A Mouse in the House by Henrietta. Honestly, there was very little reading involved. This beloved childhood book of mine was in actuality a large book of assorted two-page long pictures in which my mother and I were charged with finding a tiny mouse amidst a seemingly endless sea of refuse and household crap. Think of it as a Where’s Waldo? for rodents.

Now I’m grown, the book spends its days stored in a box within the closets of my mother’s North Carolina home, and I sometimes think back on the memories and smile. I find myself thinking back on all those fun pre-bedtime mouse hunts more often of late. The reason, you ask? It’s quite simple, dear reader. Now that I’m grown and sharing a big boy apartment with two lovely ladies in Brooklyn, I have my very own mouse in the house.

The Animal Within...

If you were an animal, what would you be?

Seems like a simple enough question, right? All you have to do is close your eyes, search deep within yourself, release your inner child from the shackles of adulthood for a moment or two and let ‘em go to town. Every animal that has ever appeared cool, groovy, nifty, awesome, badass or in any other way even remotely the shit to you in your entire life will be put on rapid display behind your eyelids. Within mere moments, you and your itty bitty childhood self sort through images of winged assassins and slithering poison factories, furry bundles of cuteness and scales with teeth. All of these scenes play out in a matter of seconds. Feverishly, the two of you whittle away at the choices until you reach the conclusion that seems to be the most logical conclusion of all conclusions ever to have been concluded. Jeez, I don’t even know why you had to ask such a question. I can see it so clearly in my mind’s eye now…I thought it would be obvious.

I am a mother fucking dragon.

Facts...

It’s 9:51 PM.

It has been dark for almost five complete and total hours now, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I like the sunlight, but at the same time I feel most productive during the darker twilight hours.

I do not enjoy the Twilight series. I’m all for team ‘burn that atrocity.’

Pretty Pretty Princess: Rise of the Goth

Take a walk with me, dear reader, down memory lane. When I was a young and innocent gayling, I would frequently find myself over at my neighbor and best friend Dani’s house for some ridiculous shenanigans or other. Together with our other neighbor Liz, we wrote short plays, built a club house, founded the Animal Savers Club, played steam roller in the front yard, attempted cartwheels, had underwater adventures in our pools, rocked out Halloween parties and made home movies…we knew how to live. Occasionally we would break out one childhood board game or other. Operation. Mousetrap (if only to set off the intricate trap and put it away). Loopin’ Louie. Once or twice there was even a game most remember but refuse to admit to remembering: Pretty Pretty Princess.

Open your mind, open your mouth, and stick it in...

If there is nothing else to be learned about New York City, learn this: living here is like living in every country on the surface of this beautiful blue-green ball all at once. Half of the time, especially in the outer boroughs, I can’t read most of the signs. And in a matter of blocks, I still can’t read the signs, but the language has completely changed. Quite often I find myself wondering if it’s a language at all. Then people walk by having some kind of debate in what I can only assume is the vocalization of the current set of hieroglyphs before my eyes. I’m not sure if you can call this city a true melting pot, though, as the cultural sections of town are pretty definite in their invisible and unspoken territorial dividing lines. But with so many different groups clumped together in such a tiny space, there is only one certainty.

The food here is the bomb.

Alternate Youniverse...

So there was this time about two or so months ago when I moved my happy go lucky behind up to the ever fabulous and always interesting New York City, and since then my life has been fucking awesome.

Adulthood and stuff...

I love antiquing!!!

Before you jump down my throat and start berating me on how old I am, how you can see my crusty wrinkles from space, how you think you found my teeth in a glass…before any of that, just shut up and listen. And if you dare to question my eternal youth-osity, I will happily direct you to "Finding time to play..." Give that a read over and understand that my wrinkles are not from age. They are from excess awesome.

Where was I before you so rudely interrupted? Yes, antiquing.

Nudism Kills...

Imagine for a moment that you are watching one of those ridiculous (and often times awful) horror movies. You know the ones of which I speak. The only remotely recognizable actors are that one guy from that show you liked when you were a kid and the younger sister of some mediocre one hit wonder pop singer. Throughout the film you realize that either the writing for your favorite show was infinitely better than this drivel, or your childhood celebrity crush really can’t act worth a damn. Every fifteen minutes or so you think to yourself, or more frequently aloud to the group, “Why the hell are we watching this shit?”

Yup…those movies.

Listen Up!

Ladies and gentleworms! On top of being a temporary summer home for the cold bug, I have managed to sprain my knee walking up and down the subway steps. It is official: I am in fact made of glass. I will say, though, that I’m getting pretty good at wrapping an ACE bandage for support. Go life experience skills!

Anywho…

I'm A Little Tea Pot...

Out there in this big bad world there is a sinister group of individuals who have been controlling all of humanity from behind a veiled curtain of obscurity. Much like Oz’s Wizard, there has been a great deal of behind the scenes showmanship, lever pulling, and manipulation. So long has this been happening that the identities of these sheep herders have fallen completely out of history. It would take an entire season of Dr. Who to uncover exactly who or what masterminds the whole ordeal. Don’t think you can call it easily like another Dalek invasion. Or for my pokemon minded readership, think of this as a Team Rocket type organization. This is a group that has achieved a level of such deep infiltration into the infrastructure of society that we couldn’t possibly hope to go to a new town without seeing their goings on. New members are recruited, though I am unaware as to how, every single day. The streets teem with members you will never recognize.

Collectively, this organization prefers to call itself: “They.”

Gotta Catch 'Em All

In the heat and sweaty stank of these early summer days, I notice myself sitting on benches about as often as I can find them. I’ll have you know, the sun beats down here in a much drier way than in Florida. There never seems to be enough water to drink, and that is quite strange for me.

So there I was one day last week sitting my winded, dripping self down on a park bench in the 97 degree weather. Guzzling down the last of my water from my nifty neon green bottle, I took a moment to relax in the shade. My weekend partner in crime, Bryan, sat down next to me also glad to take a moment to rest. A light breeze helped to cool us down a bit and bring the scent of street meat to my nose. Across the cobblestone way, some movement caught my eye. A decent sized black squirrel was dancing back and forth between the posts of a metal fence. He didn’t seem to be phased by the passersby who all wanted a picture. One man even offered this undaunted animal some food which the creature eagerly hopped up onto the bench to take from him.

King of the Jungle

Monday Fun Day fact about me: I am pretty darn allergic to cats.

Now I’m not saying that they’ll hospitalize me or anything. But if I haven’t taken strong enough meds when they’re around, my day can get miserable really quickly. And this brings me to Monday Fun Day fact about me #2: I recently moved in with my grandmother. She has FOUR cats.

Learly Birds

Some days, and by some days I mean pretty much every day of my life ever, I find I can’t manage to fall asleep until after 2am. That might even be considered an early night for me. Sleep has never come easy. I am a creature of the twilight, and reside in a place of transition. There’s a short while in the middle of the night when the days mingle. Yesterday and tomorrow blend together into this amalgamation of now-ness I like to refer to as ‘learly.’

Broganism:

Learly (adj.): 1. Having the quality of being simultaneously late and early; 2. Used in reference to any time between the hours of 2:00 and 5:00 in the morning.

Rooster Thoughts

“I wonder what color rooster eggs would be. Dark brown I think. Do you think so, Bro?”

These are the words of my grandmother. This is just another reason I love her (and another reason I know we are blood related).  How else could we have such similar and ridiculously interesting thoughts at the breakfast table? And with German accents, too!

Hot and Cold

I lay here in bed, naked and squeaky clean, having just had one of the niftiest experiences in the world. It took place in my shower.

Stop being gross. I can hear your thoughts, you nasty.

White Pants and Bastard Bugs

I own a pair of stark white slacks, and until now they have served me quite well.

Since the day of their purchase, their brilliant, blinding whiteness has remained untarnished. They have come out with me to the seedy stank nasty clubs of Tallahassee, to several big ceremonies, to plays both big and small, and even to a friendly get together or two. In these white ninja pants, I’ve managed to dodge smear happy dirt bombs and pointed alcoholic beverage attacks. Italian restaurants haven’t even been able to so much as leave a funny odor in the fabric, let alone leave a mark.