Photo challenges.

NOT an expert photographer, obviously. I know nothing about taking pictures. I just like to and I thought this little challenge being done on a forum was fun.

1.) Something green:
2.) Something green (again):
3.) Something old:
4.) Glove:

Go me.

I never thought it would happen.

I have a puppy.

Not a large dog that would be good for obedience and potential shutzhund training. But a 1.15 pound Pomeranian puppy by the name of Puff.

There's this commercial out there for Petfinder that says something along the lines of a dog adopting you. It totally happens.

She's a good puppy. She's well on her way to being potty trained and is good about chewing only her toys. She sleeps through pretty much the whole night, only crying if she's hungry. And she's cute. Puff is pretty good company all in all.

And she likes the cats. Bonus points for her.

Who knows.

You're so mechanical;
I'm the smoke curling in your hair,
withering and disappearing when all I want to do is stay.

What I wouldn't give to be the spiderwebs on your skin;
you'll never know,
I swallow the words before I say them,
taking them like pills,
they sit in my chest threatening to break my ribs.

You're all black.
You're all white.
You're the extremes and I'm the haze clinging to the edges.
I move like the surf, advancing and retreating,
you'll never know,
I long to live in the tidepools.

I'm your cigarette's ash,
darting with a blow.
I hold onto your shirt, your shoes;
I grow, and grow,
the black spots on your lungs that you haven't seen.
This is the only way I can be you.

So you breathe me in without knowing.
The salt you taste is the sweat of my skin.

Raptor Boots.

They make round-house kicking even more dangerous.

The concept is simple. You have a boot with supports. Then you attach a sharp metal raptor shaped claw to it. Following that, you go kick ass or hold your friends hostage for boxed wine. Or money, depending on what floats your boat.

The release is slightly above the big toe. You gotta stretch to get it. It'll take practice. Fortunately for me, I have very flexible toes. The rest of you poor saps will have to learn.

Someday I'll really make them. I'm not sure how I'm going to make the claw release. Probably some sort of mini-hydraulic system of sorts since I lost my ability of telekinesis years ago. It'll be trial and error. Maybe I'll someday patent them. Sell them to the military...make millions...Oh wait. That only works if your Tony Stark.

Adam thinks they are a terrible idea. I think I'm a fucking genius.

ETA:
Click to make bigger. Why the wavery lines? I can't draw with my finger pad thing. I also don't bring my tablet everywhere with me, unlike Lyndale Ave. people.

How many scarves could one Minneapolis-ian wear?

Let's start off with some basic facts about myself:

1.) I am no fashionista. I rock my dad's old Navy coats, glasses decked out in fake gems, and like to pair way too big jeans with expensive jewelry.
2.) I drink enough Red Jak within a month that I could probably keep the whole company afloat if it ever threatened to go under.
3.) I spend way too much time on DeviantArt
4.) I'm ghetto poor.
5.) I lack any understanding of hip language. On the plus side, I'm not afraid to whip out a verbal LULZ.
6.) I listen to Avenged Sevenfold's Beast and the Harlot way too much. I play it on Guitar Hero II too much to be healthy.
7.) I smoke way more than I should.
8.) I spend my time reading LICD and trying to perfect my future Raptor Boots.
9) I'm a terrible writer. But I'm like the little engine that could. I JUST KEEP GOING.
10.) Also, I abuse the caps lock button.
11.) I'm too mean to die. Its a fact.
12.) I enjoy NCIS.
13.) I have a secret love for boxed wine.
15.) This is also a fact: If I could, I would spend $1200 on a pair of Louboutin boots.

To sum it up, I am the last person who should judge anyone.

Yet I have to ask: How many scarves does one person find necessary?

Its a phenomenon of sorts. Hit Lyndale Ave. and you hit the "artsy" part of the grand old state Minnesota. And by artsy, I mean everyone lives in charming duplexes. Everyone also carries a sketchbook or tablet with them, wears black framed glasses, berets that even Jamie Hyneman wouldn't touch, full length black peacoats, and the best...

At least three scarves. Most also walk into the street with a vacant/pensive expression on their faces. It must be some sort of requirement to live in a place such as that.

Now honestly. When you leave your house, wouldn't you think, "My goodness, its about fifty degrees out. The snow is melting and the birds are singing. Perhaps four different colored brand-new-but-attempting-to-be-vintage scarves would be a bit redundant"? I would. In fact, I don't even wear one scarve unless I feel that it could be the day a vampire jumps me or I'm worried that not protecting my something-or-another artery (look, people anatomy escapes me...I won't apologize for it) will result in my blood turning to sludge. Why on earth would you need three, four, or dare I say, FIVE scarves? Eventually you stop looking bohemie. Eventually you just start looking like the poor kid from A Christmas Story. Also, when everyone on the block dresses exactly the same everyone looks the same. And pensive expressions don't work. It more closely resembles constipation rather than "I'm a potentially tortured artist, but you don't know so you'd better ask what I'm working so furiously on via my fashionably beaten up artbook".

There. I said it. A person CAN wear too many scarves. I will never live along Lyndale Avenue. I am not ready to give up my mostly buttonless coat, my banged up ghetto cruiser of a Toyota, and I certainly will not stop dancing as I drive to the tune of the Foo Fighter's cover of "Darling Nikki". All those things do not seem to mesh with the expected citizens of Lyndale Ave.

November.

I found out that someone I loved not so long ago committed suicide.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Blue Maui will always remind me of the taste of your lips,
of the days we took long draws of Jack together,
when the thunder came and you covered my face
your kisses raining
one drop at a time.

You played guitar for me.
Slouched on the edge of the bed, you hit the strings,
and apologized for the rough tunes.
I sat in silence;
I never told it you it was beautiful.

I never told you enough.
You asked, and you asked, despite the seasons' change,
and I held my tongue, clinging to what I had found.
You wanted another chance;
I kept my heart in a steel trap.

One day, you said, our daughters would play in the sand.
I could see little toes hiding in the water,
mingling tones of blond and auburn.
Like everything else you said,
I never had the spine to tell you it was nothing more than a dream.

(He asks me if I'm okay.
I ask you how I could tell him
that one time we were everything.)

There were too many chances lost.
I meander now like Alice in a maze,
trying to find one clear vision to cleave to.
But they're muddled,
your hollow cigarettes,
I broke through your door,
wrapping your hair around my finger,
you said again and again,
could we have it back?

One morning we laid face to face.
You traced my hips with your fingers,
stained from nicotine,
and you told me you could feel my bones.

This time around you gave the answer to me
and it echoes with an empty 'no'.
I think of all the times I could have said,
everything you wanted to hear,
and everything I tried to bury;
the taste is bitter,
blue Maui on your lips.

Zombies.

I've come to terms with the fact that I have an unhealthy fear of zombies. The other day Kim and John were considering a house that was on a hilltop, overlooking a cemetery. I immediately saw several of its merits. It's on an incline. Everyone knows that in the case of potential zombie infection, you want to have the high ground. Secondly, hello, its next to a cemetery. Right off the bat I thought, hey, you'll never have to worry about any loud parties. Then a little bell dinged in my mind and I realized it had far more worth than that...should the dead rise to feast upon our unsuspecting brains, we would be the first to see and report the issue.

And that's when I realized how sad I actually was. Worse, it doesn't stop there. I find myself meandering in Wal-Mart trying to figure out whether or not it would be a good base in case zombies came out. There's all the supplies, yeah, but it'd be a bitch to zombie-proof.

Then there was the time in Plaza where Adam and I got in a loud, obnoxious argument over zombie invasion. His plan is to get into Wal-Mart and put a cart in front of the automatic opening doors. His rationale was that the cart in front of the doors is the universal sign of the doors being out of order and that this fact is so deeply ingrained in our minds that even undeath couldn't diminish the knowledge. I proceeded to get angry at him for not taking the issue seriously. Then we discussed stacking carts in front of the doors as a barrier. Basically the conversation ended on the note that if we were dealing with your run of the mill zombies, it would be a good tactic, but if we were dealing with 28 Weeks Later type zombies we'd be royally fucked.

Following that was my nightmare about the KOA being overran by zombies. After that, my dream about Steve the Emo Zombie, a fantastic character that showed up in my dreams for a while trying to earn my affections. It never went any where. I can't bring myself to trust an undead man with a hungering for human flesh. Pretty sure my dream zombie just wanted me for my brains.

Thus, I have realized I have a very unhealthy paranoia. Pile that on top of my complicated plans for escaping alien invasion and avoiding raptors should the events of Jurassic Park occur widespread within the U.S., and you have what you might consider a prime slice of white girl. Sometimes I'm surprised by the fact I can function decently as a human being.