woof
I spent the whole weekend cleaning out our new house and we still have so far to go. The crazy lady we purchased the house from decided that the best thing to do when she moved would be to leave every-fucking-thing where it was. (Except for nice stuff, like the furniture. Nooo, she took that with her and left all her half-used bottles of face moisturizer, strands of condoms, creepy angel children wall fixtures, and broken computer monitors. And she left her garage floor-to-ceiling full of flea market finds and crazy knick-knacks and life-size manger scenes.)
However, she did leave behind a gorgeous vintage-Victorian inspired wedding dress and a black velvet and red satin poofy 80s dress that are mine all miiiiine. She also had some pretty swanky, brand-name makeup that I pawed through. (The woman had Givenchy face powder! Givenchy! And I certainly did not know Christian Dior made pencil sharpeners.) But still. It's weird knowing an old lady had sex in my house. I can't help but wonder if some of the hooks in the walls were not for hanging her "God Loves You" inscribed butterflies, but for hanging her bondage restraints and ball gags.
Anyway, I've been living in... interesting times. Even though I love my current job (and I just got a raise!) I've applied for a job at what I have affectionately termed the "Ghettobrary," a library located on the questionable side of the city. Being that the city in question is Orlando, natives will know that when I say "questionable" I mean "Holy fucking flowers for Algernon, this place is scary!" But it pays more, and moving to Orlando and our new house will get me out of my rinky-dink hometown, bless its little heart.
I am quietly dreading the return of classes at the end of August, even though I should be excited about my last semester as an undergrad. Thinking ahead to grad school tends to dull the enthusiasm. And I definitely haven't looked much at my thesis this summer, which means I will have to finish it next semester while I take my two remaining exit courses.
Whiiiiiiiine.
On the writing front, I'm plunking away at Greg the Vampire and I hope to have something up by the end of the week. Hope is the thing with feathers, after all. But things with feathers sometimes shit on the newspaper.
(God, I'm being crass tonight.)
I want to curl up with my mug of chai and listen to my terrible Bollywood music and read stories about hot gay monsters, but since I seem to be the only one writing about hot gay monsters (niche market?) this is not to be. Sigh.
However, she did leave behind a gorgeous vintage-Victorian inspired wedding dress and a black velvet and red satin poofy 80s dress that are mine all miiiiine. She also had some pretty swanky, brand-name makeup that I pawed through. (The woman had Givenchy face powder! Givenchy! And I certainly did not know Christian Dior made pencil sharpeners.) But still. It's weird knowing an old lady had sex in my house. I can't help but wonder if some of the hooks in the walls were not for hanging her "God Loves You" inscribed butterflies, but for hanging her bondage restraints and ball gags.
Anyway, I've been living in... interesting times. Even though I love my current job (and I just got a raise!) I've applied for a job at what I have affectionately termed the "Ghettobrary," a library located on the questionable side of the city. Being that the city in question is Orlando, natives will know that when I say "questionable" I mean "Holy fucking flowers for Algernon, this place is scary!" But it pays more, and moving to Orlando and our new house will get me out of my rinky-dink hometown, bless its little heart.
I am quietly dreading the return of classes at the end of August, even though I should be excited about my last semester as an undergrad. Thinking ahead to grad school tends to dull the enthusiasm. And I definitely haven't looked much at my thesis this summer, which means I will have to finish it next semester while I take my two remaining exit courses.
Whiiiiiiiine.
On the writing front, I'm plunking away at Greg the Vampire and I hope to have something up by the end of the week. Hope is the thing with feathers, after all. But things with feathers sometimes shit on the newspaper.
(God, I'm being crass tonight.)
I want to curl up with my mug of chai and listen to my terrible Bollywood music and read stories about hot gay monsters, but since I seem to be the only one writing about hot gay monsters (niche market?) this is not to be. Sigh.