On Jokes Not Understood.

I said, "Where's Epona when you need her?" And then started humming "Epona's Song."

Mel and Sue looked at me like I was insane.



(Pretend that Death Mountain is Queen's Laundry Geyser and you'll have a pretty accurate portrayal of the field Mel, Sue and I got lost in. Also, instead of Poe, pretend the bison materialize out of nowhere.)

That was my trip to Yellowstone.

More when I get pictures from our adventure, I imagine.

Chain of Blame.

Writing is how I justify not working.

Blogging is how I justify not writing.

Tweeting is how I justify not blogging.

I get very little done these days.

Inspiration Beard.

Sometimes (like today), I get really down about not being able to grow a beard. Ok, honestly now: I'm never really down about not being able to grow a beard. I lied. But I do want to write a book compiled of short stories: one story for each of these men.

From Matt Rainwater's "Beardfolio" via NOTCOT.

Wait... What?

"We would go off and listen to music together. We connected."

Does that mean they slept together? Because if so, I may never listen to She & Him again.

[P.S. Ok, now I feel like a crazy, stalker-ish type fan. So I want to make it clear that I'm kidding. And also, this song is in my head right now:



But, to be fair, that's been in my head for a couple of days.]

To the Morbidly Obese Lady Who Lectured Me at Work Today:

Where the fuck do you get off preaching to me about how I've defiled the sanctity of 'my temple' by getting tattoos? I'm sure that the giraffe on my upper arm is far less 'offensive in the sight of god' than the fact that the fat curtain that is your upper arm is playing a never-ending game of 'hide the elbow.' The temporary pain I suffered through to get my tattoos pales in comparison to the damage the 300 extra pounds you're carrying around is having on your joints and organs, to say nothing of how much it's going to hurt when you have to go in for your third triple bypass.

And don't insult my intelligence by telling me you have a fucking thyroid problem. You don't have a thyroid problem. You ordered over 3 pounds of food for lunch, not including the three sides of sour cream you want to go with it. You're a fucking fat-ass with an eating disorder, not someone with a legitimate medical problem. God also hates liars, you know.

Here's your Macho Diet Coke. Enjoy your fucking lunch.

-Dallas