Oy. What a day.

Tomorrow I have officially two weeks until I move. Suddenly all the things I had mentally filed under “Stuff to do before I go,” became “Stuff to do NOW.”

And my rent went up a hundred and seventy bucks for the privilege of living here for the next two weeks. Lovely.

And…well, all kinda weirdness, really. I am badly frazzled at the moment, I fear, and realizing that in the future, I really need to start keeping booze in the house.


Gang, this is an honest plea for help/advice/something.

I photograph like a retarded vampire chipmunk. I got some lovely tips today on photographing better from a friend, but this doesn’t do much good when it’s only me and a cheap camera that I can’t even plug into my damn machine. (“Okay…okay…figure out the time delay…set it…run around the front…crap, I remember that it was chin up and three quarter view of the face but look towards the camera and–shit–was it three quarter view of the hips and torso, or straight on, or–*CLICK*–DAMNIT!”)

I am at a point in my life and self-esteem where a good photo of me might be NICE. I mean, I’m lookin’ pretty damn good at the moment, and at the very least, I would like to immortalize it for posterity, since frankly, I suspect this is the best I’ve ever looked in my entire life.

Yes, it’s vanity. I am okay with that.

Any advice on how the heck to get some good shots? I mean, I don’t want to go blow scads of money being professionally photographed, which really would be vanity, and completely unjustifiable, but it would be nice to have SOMETHING.

So this evening, for a few minutes, assuming that I am not too drunk to work the phone (Hey, I’m still at Trinocon…) I will be on the Operation BSU talkcast again. (Details and linkies all posted about here.)

I will probably talk about artistic burnout, and/or webcomics and/or all those annoying gits who call me some really foul things because I have a subscription-archive webcomic. Or possibly I will just rant drunkenly for fifteen or twenty minutes until someone takes the phone away from me. Really, the options are wide open!

I am at Trinoc-Con!

Sort of!

My fellow webcomics artists, may their pixels never run dry, have offered to wedge me in at their tables. My selection is limited, and I have little change, but I’ll be there–come on by, say hi, etc!

(No, I’m not in California yet. I’m sorry. People keep expressing shock to see me. I’m starting to feel a little guilty…)

Well, I’m never sleeping again…

I was headed out the door for my morning hike ’round the lake when I found Ben staring at my purse (on the floor by the door) like a retriever on point.

“What’s up, big guy?” I asked. “Ninjas in the purse?”

The tip of his tail twitched, but he didn’t look away from the purse.

Puzzled, I leaned in over him and discovered that his eyes were riveted on what looked like a piece of string dangling off the side of the purse.

A…moving…piece of string.

Sort of…wiggly

With legs…?

I grabbed the far end of the purse and shook. A two-inch centipede fell off, rolled, and began booking across the kitchen floor.


Although Ben will confidently bring down a fifth-kyu ninja, he wasn’t gettin’ anywhere NEAR the bug, for which I cannot blame him in the slightest. Ninjas are pushovers compared to centipedes.

Ladies and gentlemen, I submit that the worst part of being single is not emotional insecurity or financial instability, it’s not the lack of readily available sex or the fact that no recipes are made for a single person and you’re left eating quesadillas for five days.

No, the worst part of being single is having to kill your own centipedes.

I grabbed a Birkenstock and hammered it repeatedly. Leggy bastard wouldn’t die. It kept on wiggling for nearly a dozen smacks before it finally gave up and lay limp and splattered across the shoe. Even then, I wasn’t willing to touch it, even through a paper towel, and scraped it off on the rim of the garbage can.


There was a bigass bitey centipede IN THE APARTMENT. I may have to move to a hotel, burn my shoe, and buy a new purse.

I went to the drug store today, wearing one of my favorite shirts, which is black and says in gothic lettering across the chest “Differently Charming.” (From the great crew at Likely Stories, as a matter of fact.)

The elderly clerk eyed this and said “Differently Charming? Is that politically correct for “weird”?”

“Sure!” I said cheerfully.

“Huh.” He eyed me expectantly, apparently waiting for me to do something appropriately strange.

Unfortunately, I have never learned to juggle, I am unable to snap flies out of the air with my tongue froggy-style, and I wasn’t even buying anything interesting. A set-up like that would have been perfect if I had felt the need to purchase, oh, a carton of eggs, a case of studded condoms, a bottle of antifreeze, rock salt and a dozen spatulas, but alas.

My single Dove deodorant stick felt sadly ordinary. I slunk out, feeling tragically mundane. I had failed to live up to my shirt. Obviously I need to learn to juggle, or since that’s unlikely–my hand-eye coordination is tragic–go for some kind of elective tongue surgery instead.