at a word: gluey

I am writing this from the floor of my kitchen, where I am supervising my 10pm batch of muffins. This disturbing portrait characterizes how today I was as a machine of productivity. I put on some hooker lipstick and stomped everything on my list to death. Tomorrow: more--harder--faster!



Filled up that birdfeeder with stupid fancy seed.


I toured the winter devastation of my garden. It was sad to see things I'd cared a lot about and tended dutifully in the warmer months either dead or dying, in the case of these beloved rare black pansies, just knocked over by that bitchy cat that sometimes comes up and tries to start drama with B-money through the window.



Some things were still good. Yarrow; Knightswounds. Very perennial. Very handsome.




Some things were better than good. This little parsley sprouted off an herb basket I had hanging up in my townhouse my last year of college. I don't know how it happened, considering parsley isn't one of those herbs to come back in this climate, and it'd been a dead basket of dirt for about three years. Hey, lesser miracles.


All this was done with severe battlewounds from trying to help Josh change his flat Saturday... hungover, and in a skirt. It doesn't look like much, but I got it caught in the jack and split that mofo open. Also aforementioned hooker lipstick. Who is a badass? Who is a badass? (It'sme.)