fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (Default)


So, long ago and far away (in the 90s!), my sister fed the stray cat that hung out in the backyard, and as a result, Stray Cat left the very best kitten from her entire litter in our backyard.



I'm also pretty sure he was the runt of the litter.
Even taking our large breed prejudices and weight fluctuations into account, he always had his tiny baby paws and tiny baby face.



Lady hated him on sight (which was not entirely unjustified given his later tendency to go after her). Whereas Ringo decided to take him on as a Padawan Learner and teach him the ways of over-eating and laziness (Ringo just gave him the one paw "I am huge so don't even try it" smackdown when he got obnoxious).





Which leads us (somehow, in a very roundabout way) to his name. Technically, he was named after Tobias from Animorphs (which my sister generously allowed to be shortened to "Tobi" to help ease my confusion over having been pronouncing the name wrong in my head). And then I had delusions of him being Tobi-wan Kenobi which never really stuck, and then it all went down the tubes when he started climbing like a little monkey up the wooden support pole in the kitchen all the way up to the ceiling.



He continued monkeying on (the hey hey we're the Monkees spelling came later).



Until PUs cruelly declawed him. Blech. I hope his erstwhile claws haunt them and scratch up all their stupid furniture.



And well, you'd be evil too if someone ripped out your fingernails.



Anyway he was rescued from the evil PUs' clutches by a brave knight and taken to the Land of Marys on an epic journey that involved getting lost on Bellona, a demonic street that stops and starts and quite possibly intersects itself creating a hellish vortex of crossroads magic.
And that's how Bellona became Monkee's patron saintdemon/war goddess.



And he lived happily ever after with his favorite bite victim person/princess (a.k.a. my sister).





There's a Monkee-shaped gap in the world now. And the world is poorer for it.

One last poke for the Monkee Face.



"No amount of time can erase the memory of a good cat, and no amount of masking tape can ever totally remove his fur from your couch." - Leo Dworken
fuzzybluemonkeys: I just read the most wonderful story about a beanstalk and an ogre and (oh really)
The Strain by Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan [re-read]
The Fall by Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan
The Night Eternal by Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan

World War Z by Max Brooks [re-read]

The Traveler by John Twelve Hawks [re-read]
The Dark River by John Twelve Hawks [re-read]
The Golden City by John Twelve Hawks

The Truth Machine by James L. Halperin [re-read]
The First Immortal by James L. Halperin [re-read]

Sabriel by Garth Nix [re-read]

Dark Lord of Derkholm by Diana Wynne Jones

Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand by Samuel R. Delany

Rainbow's End by Vernor Vinge

The Ear, The Eye and The Arm by Nancy Farmer

Midnight Riot by Ben Aaronovitch

Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency by Douglas Adams [re-read]
(For some reason I though I hadn't read it, but then realized I had and kept going anyway.)
And then started the new year off with The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul by Douglas Adams [re-read].
fuzzybluemonkeys: Your silliness is noted. (alpha)
Two of my favorites this year: The Obsolete Man and Deaths-Head Revisited

I'm just not sure if I got a batch of racist ones or if I'm just better educated about that shit now and more capable of looking through my white privilege to see it.
The show was progressive for its time in a lot of ways, but not so much in others.

Also random Robert Redford as Death in the last episode Nothing in the Dark.

Total: 22 episodes
fuzzybluemonkeys: talky tina (twilight)
An episode about the people who died in the Civil War that contains zero black people and no mention of slavery whatsoever. Unless they were walking by in the background and I just missed them? I really don't think that's the case though.

And then an episode with Peter Falk and some other white guys in brown face being all judgey about the political turmoil in Central America. And the point/moral of the episode could definitely have been accomplished with just white dudes being white dudes.

So I'm starting to wonder if there isn't a reason that these episodes tend to get left out of the SyFy channel marathons. Or they just played them when I wasn't watching. Because I wouldn't expect the SyFy channel to be very sensitive to that sort of thing. And I'm pretty sure I saw the Dean Stockwell yellow face episode on TV. Which, again, made a good point that could have been made without yellow face. Like, the irony of it being Dean Stockwell is that they could have established him as having swapped bodies or whatever with a Japanese actor by doing the Quantum Leap look in the mirror and see a reflection that is not your own trick.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Your silliness is noted. (alpha)
With one of my favorites: The Obsolete Man. Librarians will never be obsolete, and if they do go out, they're taking you with them.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Your silliness is noted. (alpha)
As suspected, The Silence was not a Doctor Who reference despite his ability to go back and make it one. I actually think I've seen it before because it's one of those ones that seems familiar and then I remember what the twist is halfway through.
I definitely have not seen Shadow Play or The Mind and The Matter although I kept nitpicking the latter to the point where I realized the moral was directed at me and I just refused to accept it. Because it's a guy who basically wishes all the people away and then he's lonely, but like he goes to work and is bored like of course you're bored you're at work at an insurance company with no one to insure, go do something fun you idiot. So then he wishes the people back but makes them all like him which is dumb and he realizes it and puts everything back the way it was, but seriously if you can change the world with your mind, why not make there be less people? Which then gets tricky because which people get to stay and which ones go, so leave the people there and just make it so you don't have to commute on the crowded train or cram yourself in the crowded elevator (and I relate to the hatred of crowds so much) because you don't have to work at all. Like give yourself a nice house somewhere uncrowded such that you can avoid people when you want to and go see them when you get lonely. It's not an all or nothing proposition, dammit. There are ways to avoid people without removing them from existence. So yeah, I maybe related to the guy's motivation a bit too much, if only he hadn't been so ridiculous on the execution (and I do realize that part of the point is that no matter how you change things, it'll still be messed up in some way, see The Lathe of Heaven, but stop telling me I ought to like people, Mr. Serling, you're not the boss of me!)
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (Default)
...but sadly he's mean and bite-y and aiding and abetting in child abduction-y.

The Ear, the Eye and the Arm by Nancy Farmer
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (Default)
Thrilling Intestinal Fun!

Combined with (and exacerbated by): Thrilling Uterine Fun!

What could possibly be more fun?

Fall

Oct. 13th, 2013 02:52 pm
fuzzybluemonkeys: winged fuzzy blue monkey (silly)
She awoke this morning
As a bird
But none of that chicken shit
No ground-bound emu
No ostrich for your burger
Proper wings
For proper flight
Wax-free and catching thermals
An angel in the air
But when you are an angel
The only thing left to do
Is fall.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Bootsie (kitty)
So I was trying to get Bootsie to eat the more healthy canned food, and he did okay for the first serving in the morning, but then serving number two when I got home from work he was less interested in but did eventually eat all of it. Unlike his beloved Friskies, however, he'd eat some and then wander off, and then come back and eat some more, and so on. The third and final serving is when hilarity ensued. And it's funny because there have been times when he wouldn't eat at all if he really didn't like something, but this time I knew he would eat it, he just wouldn't be happy about it.
So Bootsie's regular walk is all weird and stompy because of brain damage whatevers, but he was having like, a temper tantrum over this food, and he started stomping really loudly and intentionally and well, petulantly, and it was HILARIOUS because he'd eat a bit of the food, and then stomp all over the kitchen in a snit and then go back and eat some more, followed by *STOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMP* followed by more eating.
I don't think me laughing at him was the result he was going for, but that's the result he got. (And I did give him some Friskies once he ate the grain-free stuff.)
fuzzybluemonkeys: Rufus/Bucket of Sunshine (oh the humanity)
Not physical pain like a headache.
The pain of loss and emptiness.
The pain of yearning to feel awake.
Or at the very least not tired.

...


In other news, I feel like "The Geography of Dreams" would be a great title for something, but not this. Okay, I googled it and other people thought so too, so I guess not.
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (Default)
Traded in my wisdom
For a [not so] perfect smile.
Kept my calloused feet
So I could walk [another] mile.
Swapped out all my social graces
For a [well-used] well-written book.
All of the characters were me
Except the one who knew [what] to look [for].



(The pain isn't too bad yet, but the numbness of my lower lip and tongue are seriously annoying.)
fuzzybluemonkeys: (highway)
Is a thing that I've been thinking about?

Like, what if the Second Coming already happened and we're up to the Sixth or maybe even Thirtieth Coming because we just keep killing the poor bastard?

So Jesus it just like completely and totally done, okay? Two thousand years and we're still just as shitty to each other as we've always been except now we live longer, so we have more time in which to be shitty.

So this time around, Jesus is just over it, he can't even work up the energy to be all, How dare you hate people in my name? How dare you kill people in my name?

So he decides to keep a low profile and winds up as an alcoholic (he's not even sure he remembers how to switch off the water into wine thing anymore). And he's basically a crazy homeless dude wandering around muttering to himself, The only sins I'll be dying for are my own, thankyouverymuch.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Bootsie (kitty)
1. Bootsie snuggling is the best way to start the day.

2. Fresh garlic smells (and tastes) the omnomnomiest, and the whole apartment still smells like it this morning.

3. Getting paid for 8 hours of work I don't have to do. (And I get my first full-time paycheck next week!)

4. I sold another book from my online store. (Even if it was to Niki, my cousin-in-law.)

5. Weather is such that I've been able to eat lunch outside quite a bit (a trend that will hopefully continue).
fuzzybluemonkeys: Your silliness is noted. (alpha)
Starting Monday!

Which may take some getting used to after having so much free time. It's actually a full on 8 hours a day/40 hours a week. Even my Princeton job was only 7.25 hours a day/36.25 hours a week, but it probably balances out with that commute being longer and more obnoxious.

Gonna hafta pester the Bootsie extra this weekend.

The upside of course is not having to worry so much about money.

Ironically, I get tuition reimbursement now that I no longer have time to take a class.

Hm.

May. 4th, 2013 01:29 pm
fuzzybluemonkeys: Rufus/Bucket of Sunshine (oh the humanity)
So apparently my postcards are non-machinable and therefore cost an extra 33 cents. But this is definitely a recent development unless people have been getting postage due notices all these years and not telling me. I mean, I did ask when I first started sending them because I thought the thickness might be a problem, but the guy at the Princeton post office said it would be okay, and I have heard tell of people getting them, so it has been okay up until March when mom's birthday card had postage due.
I'm sure it's related to the post office's financial woes (stupid congress), but now I'm wondering what makes them non-machinable. I had a thinner one that I was testing out but it still had my glued on layer bits and that was sort of what she was indicating was the problem, so that would imply that the thickness is not the problem, and I could put one in an envelope and pay letter postage instead of 66 cents. But maybe it's the lack of bendiness (because even the thinner one was made stiff by my gluings) which wouldn't go away with an envelope.
I guess the main reason this is so disappointing is because I have a shoebox full of postcard-sized gray/white board (I don't know why it's called gray/white when the "gray" side is clearly blue), and then all my clothly scraps, and I wanna use them up. I suppose 66 cents isn't too terrible, cost-wise, but 33 cents was so much cheaper and insignificant seeming.

ETA: Okay I found a thing, and it is the rigidity that is the problem, so envelopes are a no go.
fuzzybluemonkeys: fuzzy blue monkey (Default)
I have come to the conclusion that "growing up" is the process of realizing how full of shit adults are when they act like they know what they're doing.

And as an [ostensible] adult, I include myself in the "full of shit" category.

Seriously, I have no idea what I'm doing.

And I grow more and more certain by the day that nobody else does either.
fuzzybluemonkeys: I just read the most wonderful story about a beanstalk and an ogre and (oh really)
that my thought processes at work are fairly often of the "Poor baby, what did they do to you?" variety.

My maternal instincts (such as they are) are only activated by cats and books, is what I'm saying.
fuzzybluemonkeys: winged fuzzy blue monkey (silly)
Because I could keep obsessing over it, or I could just post it as is.




1. Blown Away by Carrie Underwood

2. Pumped Up Kicks by Jayme Dee

3. Long Promised Road by the Beach Boys

4. Where Is My Mind? by the Pixies

5. All Roads Lead Home by Golden State

6. What The World Needs Now by Dionne Warwick

7. The High Road by Broken Bells

8. Lions! by Lights

9. Bright Lights, Big City by Jimmy Reed

10.Straighten Up And Fly Right by Nat King Cole

11. One Girl Revolution by Superchick

12. Fake Is The New Real by Alice Smith

13. Hold On When You Get Love And Let Go When You Give It by Stars

14. Coming Home by Skylar Grey

zip

I recommend listening to it in order (sort by track number) plot-wise, but you can do whatever you want.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Bootsie (kitty)
(In order to distract myself from Bootsie trauma drama.)(He's doing better, but I think we're both still a bit stressed out.)

So I saw this article bragging about sweatshirts that last ten years, which is not a bad thing per se, but color me supremely unimpressed.
Only ten years? I've got a ten-year-old sweatshirt. It's a bit pilly on the inside, but the only sewing I've done on it was to attach a NASA patch.
I've also got a sweatshirt that may or may not be older than I am (I hit 30 at the end of the month), but it is really old nonetheless and I've sewn up holes and at this point it's on the verge of disintegration, but like, 20 years ago it was not. 10 years ago it was still in pretty good shape if a little thin from repeated washing. The point is, this was my dad's sweatshirt, and then I think for a while it was my sister's sweatshirt, but then I stole it from her (sorry)(okay, not really because me and that sweatshirt were MEANT TO BE)(Me/Sweatshirt OTP), and it has been mine for lo these many (way more than ten) years. (I once tried to track down the company that made it from the faded/hard to read tag.)(No joy.)(Seriously, though, most comfortable sweatshirt in the history of sweatshirts.)(When it does finally fall to bits, I will be very sad.)
fuzzybluemonkeys: Smith & Jones (Mickey & Martha) (partners)
No matter who's playing them, no matter how you interpret their relationship, Holmes and Watson are inseparable because of physics.

"If components in binary star systems are close enough they can gravitationally distort their mutual outer stellar atmospheres. In some cases, these close binary systems can exchange mass, which may bring their evolution to stages that single stars cannot attain."[source]

fuzzybluemonkeys: Meg living in captivity. (one girl revolution)
You know, those douchebags who rhapsodize about how perfectly a banana fits in their hand? And be like, "Explain to me how the female reproductive organs were intelligently designed. Because unless your Intelligent Designer is a sadist, that shit makes no sense."

Hell, I can't figure out how it makes evolutionary sense either. Curl-up-in-a-ball-to-die pain is not really conducive to running away from predators.

And the uterine cramping is made extra annoying to me by the fact that at least with my intestines, I can (and did) poop my guts out and feel a little better for it. But the uterus owies do not have any sort of abatement method (other than the aforementioned curling up in a ball to die). At least I've got the 90-day birth control, so that this only happens once every three months instead of once a month, but still. OW.

Plans for today:
-stay in pajamas
-wallow in self-pity
-cuddle the Bootsie lots
fuzzybluemonkeys: (highway)
I saw a bumper sticker today that was the shape of Montana and said, "Get Lost (in Montana)." And all I could think was that the New Jersey version of that would be, "Get Lost (no, really, we don't want you here)."

Anyway, apparently the MT Office of Tourism gives them away, so I signed up to get one.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Bootsie (kitty)
Hey. Hey! You're not allowed to sleep all day: that's my job!

Also you are in my spot. You need a permit* for that during daylight hours.

....

Well, I guess I could just curl up here next to you. But be aware that you are in direct violation of [yawns] rules... and... stuff.

Mm. Sleepy naptime.





*ha ha purr-mit
fuzzybluemonkeys: winged fuzzy blue monkey (silly)
Iron Man/Tony Stark: TiK ToK* by Ke$ha
Now the party don't start 'til I walk in


Pepper Potts: I'm Not Your Hero by Tegan & Sara
I'm not their hero
But that doesn't mean that I wasn't brave
I never walked the party line
Doesn't mean that I was never afraid
I'm not your hero
But that doesn't mean we're not one and the same


Thor Odinson: If I Had A Hammer by Peter, Paul & Mary
I'd hammer out danger
I'd hammer out a warning
I'd hammer out love between my brothers and my sisters
All over this land


Loki Laufeyson: Die, Motherfucker, Die** by Get Set Go
Die, mother fucker die
I want to see you cry
And then I'll watch you die
I want to hurt you, torture and desert you
Take a hot poker and stick it where the Sun don't shine
Then watch you die


Maria Hill: Maria by Jim Bryant
Maria!
I've just met a girl named Maria,
And suddenly that name
Will never be the same
To me.


Coulson Lives!: Back in Black by AC/DC
Forget the hearse cause I'll never die
I got nine lives, cat's eyes
Using every one of them and runnin' wild


Black Widow/Natasha Romanoff: Fall Away by The Fray
You fall away from your past
But it's following you


Nick Fury: He's The Wizard and Wonderful from The Wiz and Wicked, respectively***
Okay, bear with me here. Nick Fury is the ultimate Man Behind the Curtain. And he is totally 100% at ease with moral ambiguities and his will lie his ass off and manipulate people if that's what it takes. But he is not in it for money or glory or power. He is in it to get. shit. done. (Just take your dilemma, child/And lay it on the Wizard)

Hawkeye/Clint Barton: Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) by Nancy Sinatra
Bang bang, I shot you down
Bang bang, you hit the ground
Bang bang, that awful sound
Bang bang, I used to shoot you down.


Captain America/Steve Rogers: Bleed Red by Ronnie Dunn****
Sometimes we're strong, sometimes we're weak
Sometimes we're hurt and it cuts deep
We live this life breath to breath
We're all the same, we all bleed red


The Hulk/Bruce Banner: Lions!***** by Lights
Lions make you brave,
Giants give you faith,
Death is a charade.
You don't have to feel safe to feel unafraid.



sendspace link


*Another Oz reference?

**I am consistent in my Loki song choices, okay?

***The Wizard of Oz/Avengers Fusion of Doom!: Iron Man is the Tin Man, obviously. Coulson and Hill work for the Wizard of Fury in the Emerald City Helicarrier. Captain America is the Scarecrow, and the Hulk is the Cowardly Lion. Thor is Glinda (take a moment to picture Chris Hemsworth in that poofy pink dress and funny hat, I'll wait). Loki is the Wicked Witch of the West. Hawkeye, Dr. Selvig, et al. are the flying monkeys (who were forced to work for the witch due to her having an enchanted Golden Cap). Black Widow is Dorothy, since she's the most badass character of the story.

****I always wanna call him Robin Dunne, but that's the actor guy from Sanctuary.

*****I'm gonna wind up doing an Oz mix, aren't I?
fuzzybluemonkeys: Your silliness is noted. (alpha)
1. This morning there was bad singing going on outside and Bootsie looked at me with this absolutely horrified WTFIsThat face. My thoughts exactly, Mr. Boots. My thoughts exactly. (If only I could make such hysterically cute faces about it.)

2. My car continues to run, and the battery seems to be doing okay despite the cold.

3. 5-pound bag of potatoes for 69 cents. [insert 20 pounds of crazy in a 5 pound bag Leverage reference here]

4. Got my deposit back on the old apartment (which I did not break into despite it being where we used to live)

5. I actually have off for MLK Day tomorrow. Suck on that, Princeton.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Meg living in captivity. (one girl revolution)
As I'm sure yesterday's attempt made abundantly clear.

Childhood has left its scars upon her. The skinned knees heal over and fade away, but the thin line of a stitched up gash remains. (That's how she learned that spinning around in stocking feet on a slippery hardwood floor is not advisable lest loose nail meet bright young chin.) If she wore a bathing suit, you would see the little circles of pale white flesh marking former beauty marks (That's how she learned that beauty causes cancer.) Her acne scars are probably the most noticeable, red pock marks on her face if you care to look close enough.
But she is unconcerned by the scars you can see. There are other wounds that leave no outward marks. She knows them by their hardened tissue and jagged edges. She knows the tiny cuts of disrespect and unkindness, and the deep stabbing wound in the back of what was called love but felt more like hate. Yet even the most diligent of coroners would not find these in a study of her corpse.
She knows the indignities that have piled up in her heart like grains of sand. Irritants that, with time, she has learned to nacre over until pearls spill out of her day by day. (She keeps them in jars and on window sills; she hides them in her pockets and weaves them in her hair.)
She knows the deeper gashes that have joined together into a dull roar of pain that ebbs and flows with the tides of emotion. Sometimes it is quiet, and she questions if her memories of great crashing waves of ocean were there at all. Sometimes she cannot help but remember, and the salty water of old tears smashes into her rocky shores again and again until it seems the whole world must drown.
(That's how she learned that some wounds never truly go away.)
She knows all these scars. They are familiar, if not comforting. What terrifies her is what she has lost to erosion. She worries that there are things that have been destroyed so utterly by her anger (not to mention by her anger) that they will never be returned. Not as a message in a bottle, nor as debris from a shipwreck to be harvested from the beach. She longs for the pieces of herself that are gone forever. Worn away so smoothly by years of anger that they leave no scars.
She knows the scars of childhood. She keeps them as pearls and sand and tattoos of invisible ink.
But she's not quite sure if she truly knows what she has lost.

The version I submitted (didn't win, but I don't suppose that was the point anyway):

Childhood has left its scars upon her. The skinned knees heal over and fade away, but the thin line of a stitched-up gash remains. (That's how she learned that dancing is dangerous.) If she wore a bathing suit, you would see the little circles of pale, white flesh left as evidence of former beauty marks. (That's how she learned that beauty causes cancer.) Her acne scars are probably the most noticeable, red pockmarks on her face if you care to look close enough.

But she is unconcerned by the scars you can see. There are other wounds that leave no outward marks. She knows them by her hardened heart and jagged edges. She knows the tiny cuts of disrespect and unkindness, and the deep stabbing wound in the back of what was called love but felt more like hate. (Yet even the most diligent of coroners would not find them in a study of her corpse.)

She knows the indignities that have piled up in her heart like grains of sand. Irritants that, with time, she has learned to nacre over until pearls spill out of her, day by day. (She keeps them in jars and on window sills; she hides them in her pockets and weaves them in her hair.)

She knows each invisible pinprick of the tattoo needle; stains that have joined together into a dull roar of pain that ebbs and flows with the tides of emotion. Sometimes it is quiet, and she questions her memories of great crashing waves of ocean. Sometimes she cannot help but remember, and the salty water of old tears smash into her rocky shores again and again until it seems the whole world must drown. (That is how she learned to swim.)

She knows all these scars. They are familiar, if not comforting. What terrifies her is what she has lost to erosion. She worries that there are things that have been destroyed so utterly by her anger (not to mention by Her anger) that they will never be returned. Not as a message in a bottle, nor as debris from a shipwreck to be harvested from the beach. She longs for the pieces of herself that are gone forever. The bits that were worn away so smoothly by years of resentment that there is nothing left of them.

She knows the scars of childhood. She keeps them as unseen mementos. She keeps them as pearls and tattoos of invisible ink. (But she's not quite sure if she truly knows what she has lost.)
fuzzybluemonkeys: winged fuzzy blue monkey (silly)
So, the Missoula Public Library has a writing contest with cash prizes that I would like to attempt to enter, but I need to get back into the writing swing of things, so prepare yourself for random writings between now and Feb. 22nd. Or don't prepare yourself, since random is how I roll.

I’m not sure where to start. The beginning would be obvious; the end less so. The middle gets us fancy in media res points but might be confusing. It’s all so confusing. That’s the problem. How did I get from there to here? First things first: I was a spider, of sorts. Second things second: I’m not one anymore. I’m not used to being part of the story. I weave (wove) the threads. Fate and destiny are all well and good, but if the threads tangle, if the stitch slips… this isn’t the sort of weaving where you can pick apart your mistakes and start over. What’s done cannot be undone by man or nature fair. Certainly not by me. What’s done cannot be undone, so take heed, take care. It was a knot that got me into trouble. They pop up from time to time to time to time (time doesn’t mean much after the first millennium), and I weave them in, make them part of the design. The tapestry of the universe isn’t meant for perfection. Life is not pretty, not in the human sense. There is no artfully picked color scheme, no beautifully depicted pattern. Life is messy: snarls and holes and broken threads all over the place. But at the end of the day (week, month, year, decade, century), it all winds up fitting together. Not in a pretty way, but in a practical way. The way that only the past can be pieced together to form a whole. The future is an entirely different matter. I never thought about mine. Never really had a future, beyond the weavings. That was my past and present, why not my future, as well? What else was (is) there? I suppose you could say I’ve served my time (there goes that meaningless word again). My sentence is complete, and I am out on parole. The problem is that I don’t remember what I was before I was a Weaver. I have woven. I am weaving. I will weave. I don’t remember choices. The threads make choices, not I, not I. The threads entangle and drift apart, the threads opt to be alone on solitary islands. The thread, the thread, when yours runs out, you’re dead. I am a thread now. Not a spider dancing on top of gossamer lives. I am being danced upon by another spider, the next, new Weaver. My replacement tucks me into the tapestry, and waits to see what I will do next.
fuzzybluemonkeys: Your silliness is noted. (archie!)
I still haven't figured out where I'm going to do my recycling (it's looking like I'll just have to take it to work with me), so I was struck with the idea that I could figure out how much fruit juice I drink in a month based on the empty bottles.

4.61 gallons

Which works out to about 19 fluid ounces a day.

I'm not sure if that's good or bad, to be honest. It's all 100% fruit juice, no sugar added type stuff, so in theory it should be good for me.

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