Talking to other authors…

There is a secret world for internet columnists, one that I have recently been exposed to. In the interest of full disclosure I will be recording it here for public record.
Me:
Sticker
Me: Facebook has some weird stickers
Bryan: That is a dude who’s into bestiality and BDSM, and his flag belongs to no nation.
Me: Hey now, maybe it’s not bestiality, maybe his dog is just very dapper.
Bryan: The dog is flesh-colored. That’s upsetting.
Me: It’s a Chihuahau. They’re like the hairless cats of dogs, except they have hair. And are not cats.
Bryan: Chihuahuas don’t abide hats like that. I know this for a fact.
Bryan: Thanks, Uncle Milford, and your rat-dog from hell.
Me: I thought you were going to bed.
Bryan: I can’t. Today was an angry day.
Me: Ah. Well maybe you will calm down with some cat videos.
Me: Or you could watch 19 Kids and Counting. Michelle’s voice is very soothing.
Me: Quiet like a mouse.
Bryan: Ah. I’m doing it the old-fashioned way like the Amish.
Bryan: Waiting until my phone dies.
Me: And then angrily staring into the dark. Gotcha.
Bryan: YES! How did you ever!
Me: Then I will keep bothering you (and everyone else) until your phone dies.
Me: I’m a good friend like that.

Disembodied Baby Limbs or My Time On Amazon

Baby hands. And baby feet. That you can mount on your wall. Because I don’t know why.

I’ll wander through Amazon now and again, and it always reminds me of how odd the world really is and how little we acknowledge it. In this case I was looking for a Father’s Day gift for David in the jewelry section when this wonderful bit of wall tackle popped up.

I get wanting a physical reminder of how small your child was, because you can never get those tiny fingers back once they grow up. I understand inkstamp handprints and bronzed baby shoes and all of that. But making a cast of them from almost the elbow down (remember, a baby’s arm isn’t all that long) and then mounting that cast on the wall so that it looks like you have a ghost baby emerging from the espresso stained wood fixture?

I mean, first of all, how do you even get a baby to stay still long enough to make a cast? Making a cast takes like 20 minutes and a lot of patience, something which babies are not world famous for.

Anyway, here is the link in case you have a need for that sort of thing. And hey, if you do end up buying and making floating baby hands, drop me a line and let me know. I’ll make sure to never come to your house.

Oh blog, I have been neglecting you…

And during the time I’ve been neglecting you, what adventures I have had!

I played with the cat.

I took a needle to my ears.

I played with the cat.

I made a bunch of stuff from scratch including calzones the size of my head.

I played with the cat.

And then I made a video where I talk about makeup and tattoos.

To be clear, I’m not starting any regular thing. I just got bored and when I get bored I stop doing whatever I’m supposed to be doing (this blog) and do something I have no business doing (editing videos). However, this serves as an excellent opportunity for nepotism and shameless plugs, because although I seem to have a very specific fear of looking directly at the camera, my brother Haydn is considerably less awkward and considerably more awesome.

Fair warning, there is some swearing, but he’s a 20 year old guy so, y’know, managing expectations. Wear some headphones or something.

Spiders are fucking stupid.

This is not a subject that will ever be broached again because it makes me itchy just thinking about it, but I feel like I made some personal progress as a human being today and I want to share.

So I’m sitting in the bathroom scooping cat litter because Phantom has a functioning digestive system that I am now solely responsible for when I notice a spider crawling across the floor in front of me. It’s an ugly thing, exactly the kind they choose for horror movies to creep across the windowpane during a suspenseful shot, and its making its way for the water heater closet. Spiders move surprisingly fast, you always expect them to creep but I don’t think I’ve seen a spider actually creep in my whole life. They skitter, very quickly, and ulllllgh, is it gross.

So anyway, he’s moving towards the closet and instead of screaming like I usually do I freeze and just watch him and I guess at this point he notices me and he stops and freezes. Not out of fear though. He freezes and watches me, waiting for me to stop looking at him. I’m pretty sure from this encounter that the spider community thinks that humans are like t-rexes and our vision is based on movement. After a certain point I announce out loud, “I can see you, you know.”

He sticks to his plan, and remains as motionless as he can. Maybe he thinks I’ll mistake him for a tiny statue of a spider, that I keep those sorts of things around my house? So I speak again.

“I saw you the whole time, you idiot.”

Now, spiders don’t understand English, and I don’t understand spider. This is a bridge of communication that will never be built. But while looking at this little idiot and his absolute dedication to his tactic I felt an immense amount of pity. So much so that I rolled my eyes, skirted around him out of the room, and went to go get my new in-house pest control. 85% of the reason to own a cat is so they’ll eat the animals you don’t like in your house. As I was leaving the bathroom I saw the spider start moving again as soon as I had left his field of vision, cocky and self assured that his genius had saved him once again. I got the cat, dropped him in the bathroom by the spider, and let nature take its course.

I’ve never much been swayed by that “they’re as afraid of you as you are of them” crap, but it is incredibly reassuring to know that spiders are not on this earth because of their cunning. I’m really quite amazed they’ve survived this long.

Going through old notebooks makes me feel like I have memory loss, or maybe split personality.

I’m going through my closets in preparation for a garage sale I’m hoping to have, and part of that is going through my significant collection of spiral bound notebooks. I’ll buy one or be gifted one and I’ll use maybe four pages, and then into the milk crate it goes. Some were supposed to be diaries, some hold the first chapter of a novel never to be finished, some hold notes for sermons because I’m totally going to start doing that. But it’s rarely full enough to where I can’t rip those pages out and have a pretty much complete notebook, so I’ve been sitting there with a recycling bin next to me doing just that in the hopes of lightening the load. And that’s when I ran across this.

What was I talking about? What am I referencing? I don’t own any guns, nor do I want to. Why is it in stereotypical crazy person scrawl?

And it gets worse as I get closer to the bottom and further back in time. I don’t remember any of these, so we’ll chalk it up to clone Cyra.

By the handwriting and humor it looks like I wrote this when I was 8, but I pulled this out of my high school folder.

I think this is the best picture of me that’s ever been drawn.

Just me hanging out with Batman. You know. As you do.

I think throwing these notebooks away will be good for me. I can go back to convincing myself I was a cool teenager who was totally well adjusted and repressing the memories of how dorky I actually was.