Dearest cats.
Mar 8, 2008 Pets & Animals
Demure, originally uploaded by MellyJellyBeans.
I am writing to you today to perchance, help stave off those uncomfortable moments that arise from time to time in a relationship such as ours.
There are a few things we need to discover and touch base with, if you would–if we’re to continue living in the same space as one another.
- Please stop eating my long blond hair. I don’t know what is in my hair that is delicious but I would very much like it if you’d stop chowing down on it as if it were smothered in bacon fat rolled up in a burrito of mouse. You see, it is all well and good for you when you eat it–you are not the one who must chase you around the house with toilet paper in hand because your poop has now transformed into some twisted poop-candy-stringed necklace flailing out of your backside.
- My bathroom mat is high Walmart fashion. It’s a mat that matches the rest of my bathroom and I am rather fond of the celestial theme. However, it has come to my attention that perhaps you do not enjoy it as much as I. The long line of once-eaten dry food, spread out artistically from one end of the mat to the other seems to be a clear indication to me of your feelings toward our bathroom mat. Not only have you shared your opinion with us once, but three times within a week. I’m sorry that you do not enjoy the trailer trash decor, but since you don’t seem to be pulling in any money to help redecorate could you refrain from horking your dinner across it?
- Poop is not the new black, pink or new cat-toy. If you could refrain from throwing it out of your litter box at warp speeds, that would be fantastic.
- Lastly, the cockatiel is not a sweet candy wrapped in a hard outer shell of cage for you to bat at, at three am in the morning.
You may however, continue without restraint: licking noses and fingers, purring loudly, prrrrt’ing like a momma cat to kittens any time we pass, running at four hundred miles an hour from one end of the house to the other, dragging a sock around as if it was your kitten and MEERRROOOWWWING loud enough to be heard in the next state, chasing lizards, bugs, cockroaches and spiders. And last, but never least, you may continue being that soft, black blur out of the corner of my eye everywhere I go, bringing me comfort in bastet-like poise and the ticking quiet of contented cat purrs.
Getting Reacquainted
Mar 8, 2008 Computers and Internet
It’s been a really long time since I’ve written with any sort of regularity on the internet. I used to post once or twice a week to my own blog pretty regularly for me. Back in the day I had my own Geocities domain and a blogger account. I role-played online. I wrote bad poetry and posted it up for the universe. I chatted constantly in AOL political and atheist chat rooms. I helped Mel write the back story for a play by post role-play board she ran. At one point I even ran a Yahoo! Group for free-thinkers called “Does It or Doesn’t It Exist?” I was in a web ring! Really! I was just Mr Webernets between 1996 and 2000. Hell, I even voted for Browne. I had serious ‘net street cred.
And suddenly… without warning… life intruded, as life tends to do… and the internet and I, well, we drifted apart. The magic was gone. Sure, we saw one another on a daily basis, but it was pretty much just passing glances.
And then, two things happened. First and foremost was mah wimmenz. She’s been the only one of us actually using the internet to actually talk to other humans, and it’s pretty much just her urging that’s gotten me back online. But there’s one more impetus and one she introduced me to: Stumble Upon. Stumble has brought the magic back to the internet! The great random trip through the dysfunctional world of the internet with all it’s freaks, nut-jobs and geeks has somehow finally reinvigorated the urge to, perish the thought *communicate* with my fellow internet people.
Now, then is that awkward bit where you end up sharing friends with someone you used to date and maybe… just maybe, you could hook up again. You’re just not sure what to say.
So, um… hey there, internet. Um, so… How’ve you been?
Are those shoes, or the ravages of dividing by zero?
Mar 8, 2008 Geekery
I have always been seven steps behind what all the hip happenin’ youngsters are up to fashion, footwear, and internet wise. To those who know me, it wouldn’t be very surprising for them to hear that I have just now caught up to a (passing? Almost gone?) shoe phase called—crocs.
Yes, Crocs. Those shoes which I have read about on the internet several scathing reports on how visually offensive they are and how most sporting a pair are middle-aged married women with cankles, or balding fifty year old men in Hawaiian shirts. I finally have a pair of those shoes, and let me tell you something, ladies and gents: they weren’t lying when they said they were ugly.
Maybe ugly isn’t the right word? There’s the age old classic of fugly, which I could call them but that’s not right for these shoes, either. They’re a cross between functional and down right awful. If you’re a fashion nut job lover who enjoys his or her shoes, you won’t be wearing these with that slinky black number or silk tie suit.
Crocs, in fact, conjure images of little old ladies in gardens or massive mumu wearing mommas in front of their trailers.
And I, collector of all things cute and pink own a pair.
I’ll tell you why I do, because I know you’ve been waiting for this like I wait for cheesecake: they are the most comfortable pair of shoes I have ever worn in my entire life.
I have worn top of the line expensive sneakers with hefty insoles, I have worn giant fuzzy slippers made for making love to your feet and none of them compare to the footgasm that are a pair of crocs. I can’t tell you the damn science behind it, or why, because I’m busy over here pirouetting to AC/DC in these fuckers.
Seriously, if you’re getting as old as I am and your feet are starting to go? Get a pair of crocs. They’re ugly, they might make your feet smell but you’ll be too busy floating on a cushion of fuck-yeah on your feet to care and, god damn it, I’m getting old enough where I can get away with ugly shoes.
Not getting a single dime for this, they really are sex for your feet.
