My apartment manager Bill came to my door tonight to tell me that Nick, my two-doors-down neighbor, had passed away from a stroke on Monday night.

Death is not something I wish on anyone, of course, but the man was eighty years old and had had a full life... and he creeped the shit out of me. The last time I saw Nick, he was yelling into my apartment and saying, "The Jeep! The Jeep! They're gonna give you a ticket! He's sitting right out -- the Jeep!" So I moved my car and I didn't get a ticket. That was perhaps the first time I was grateful to Nick.

The kind of fortuitous... but sad, but kind of fortuitous... but still I-feel-bad-kind-of sad thing about this event is that I've inherited a parking spot... and since I fly out of town on Saturday, it's going to save me at least seventy dollars in parking costs. Bill is going to move my car there once Nick's family takes his (boat of a) vehicle away.

Rest in peace, Nick. Ya creepy bastard.


(Sidenote: This is perhaps the highest icon-to-post relevance I have ever observed.)

H₂Om. You can actually buy this water in Los Angeles. I am rather ashamed to admit that I did, in fact, buy this water in Los Angeles, but only because I had no idea what it was until after the deed was done. It should have tipped me off when I asked the woman at Taste of the Goddess what the difference was between "Love" water and "Perfect Health" water, and she simply replied, "Whichever you feel."

I'm... what?

I felt Perfect Health, I guess, because I left that pink-labeled Love water behind. I would like to just relay the contents of this green and blue label here, so I can throw this bottle away and get on with my life.

The tiny and potentially sarcastic italics are mine.


( I'll show you Intention. Bend over. )


K. And then all over the label (which is a shitty label on a shitty, generic little bottle, by the by), there is subtle, "floating" text printed in light green. There are, in reality, about three to four words and they're just printed over and over in different fonts -- "gesundheit," "salute," "sante," and one Cyrillic-looking thing.

So, yeah. Other than the small golden cloud that has sprouted beneath my feet to carry me hither and thither across lush fields of green at the mere thought of moving, and my new third eye... oh, yes, and that I now subsist solely on air and happy thoughts... I don't really feel the DIFFERENCE, you know? Marketing, man... don't give into the hype.

(But duuuuuuude, I can feel the Gesundheit Vibrations! They're totally Intentional, man.)

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. His name is Nick and he lives two doors down. Yes, he paces outside our door and peeks in our window. And yes, if he sees us inside, he waves frantically to get our attention. He calls us "honey" and "beautiful" and doesn't remember our name. Yes, he has dirty teeth, and he doesn't speak clearly or remember anything. I'm sure he means well, what with the candy and the cookies and the bathmat and the plush toilet cover and the dish towels and everything else he's given us, but there comes a point when "overzealous elderly gent" becomes "fucking creepy old man." No, you are not allowed to use that word. And no, Virginia, you are not allowed to accept any more gifts from Nick. Especially canned chicken soup.

Penguin and Dorkle and the Girl Underneath

On a dark and quiet winter night, many moons ago, the Little Penguin, Dorklepork, and some of their friends were sitting at the kitchen table and playing cards. Poddy was playing music. Everyone was having fun.

( Read more... )

( Rain running. )

( Homework. )

( Oh, Rugby, you so fine, you so fine you blow my mind. )


And finally...


( Orgasm in the company bathroom. )