This hurts.

It really hurts me to say this, but I'm withdrawing completely from San Juan College. Between having to work full time as the sole provider in my household and the demands placed by the vet tech distance learning program, as well as the high cost of driving to clinicals twice a week, not to mention the overwhelmingly painful physical and emotional costs of working at the clinic, I can't do it anymore.

It was all going fine until I started clinicals. Which made me really think - is this dream something I can do? I thought it was. I was wrong. Physically, I don't think I'll ever be able to go into a 9-5 (or 7-7 in this case) job and perform like everyone else. I get so tired that I end up sleeping the next two days away just to recover - by which time I have to be back at the clinic anyway.

One of the things I'll miss dearly is the English department. I think I got more excited over those classes than anything else, despite my love for animals and everything else. The creative writing class inspired me. I don't care that I've spent over the past year writing to pay the bills - sometimes it takes a great, dedicated teacher and a group of students willing to challenge you and speak to you that makes all the difference.

That's why I'm enrolling in Southern New Hampshire University's online BA program for Creative Writing and English Language studies. I know there are plenty of people ready to line up and tell me that you can't make money writing - well, they're damn wrong. I also know a good deal of people who will tell me that a degree in creative writing is like tossing your money in a sinkhole. That's fine and dandy. I know I can write, and I know I can write well. But I also hear so many people - regular Joes and educators alike - stressing the need for a degree. Any degree. In anything. That little piece of paper means so much more, sometimes it seems, than the knowledge itself. Which is wrong. But at least I'll have the security of knowing I've got a piece of paper worth a whole hell of a lot in a field that I'm good at and in a field I know I love. Maybe not as much as I love saving little fuzzy creatures, but one that I love well enough and has been with me almost my entire life.

I'm going to miss the classes and the people in them. I'll miss yapping around on the SJC message boards and hearing Dr. Wright's playful banter in his lectures. I'll really miss my dreams - coming to terms with the fact that what you WANT to do and would LOVE to do aren't always the same things as what you're physically ABLE to do just sucks. I really hate it. Secretly, I think I'll miss the English classes most of all.

But I won't miss the heartwrenching feeling of having to choose between the gas money to get to clinicals and food. I won't miss the painful choice of working or cleaning kennels. I won't miss having to split my focus on two things and feeling discouraged because I can't manage to do complex mathematics in my head. I won't miss the physical fatigue and the exhaustion to the point of wanting to die, on a real and literal level.

I'll miss a lot of it. I really will, but I think, or at least I hope, I'm making the right choice.

Honors 211 Project Idea

So I've had this idea simmering around in my head for a while. It's an idea for a coffee table-style book I hope to pitch to the right publisher, or in the event of no such suitable publishing house, self-publish.

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I did not grow up in the area I currently live in. I've been here give-or-take four years. And I know it just well enough to know that I hate it.

But love it or hate it, I'm here. And because I'm here, I'm influenced by it. And regardless of my opinions, it's a very naturally beautiful area. We've got some of the oldest old growth forests in the nation. The ONLY national forest in Ohio is right in my backyard, less than minutes from my doorstep. Nature is around me.

And so is the decay of man. Everywhere I turn, signs that man has created well-placed IV lines into the earth...not for the purpose of saving the natural beauty, but for the succinct and precise art of killing her.

Everywhere signs that man has tried to triumph over nature. And everywhere signs of failure. I've been writing a series of poems on the subject for...oh, give-or-take four years now.

But what I want to do, my "vision" if you will, is a series of meaningful and poignant photographs from around the region paired with suitably appropriate well-taken photographs.

I think the capstone assignment for English is a perfect test run for this idea. Something that, if I find I'm actually somewhat decent with photography, I think I would take even farther. Right? I mean, once you get going with a good piece of art or literature, you can't just let it languish. It needs care and attention to live. It's not like a mushroom - stick it away in a damp, dark, moldy corner and it will die.

And this is one idea that's been bouncing off the tin-can walls of my addled brain for a while now. This is not to say that school work is any less valid than commercializing my work - god knows I'm sick of writing to pay the bills. Buuuut....if I have the opportunity to present this multimedia project in a critical but supportive environment, why shouldn't I take that opportunity as a dry run or test subject for a larger project of the same scope, probably incorporating those images and words?

Now, to add "learn photography" to my never ending list of "things to do when i get copious amounts of free time." Riiiiiiight.

My Internal Reporter's Questions and Answers

Do you know who you are - you, who whispers so silently among the trees?
Do you know where you go - where, in the light of day no footfalls can conquer?
Do you know how you work - the ins, the outs, the inbetweens?

I don't know you anymore, the faded echo of a broken dream
I don't know where you have gone, except to say you're never here.
I don't know how you work - you've changed the rules on me, it seems.

How did we get so far from here, our mouldered slice of the American Dream?
What did we do to earn out share, a piling heap of misery?
When did I cease to know you anymore?
Who did I become, when I failed to know myself?

I don't have all the answers - I don't know how far we've come.
I don't know where we are anymore - I didn't care to look.
I don't know how time crept upon me, obscuring my line of sight,
I don't know what I was thinking, when I let my mind take flight.

Where are all the answers? I truly want to know.
How do I find the source of these pains, the ones I can't even show?

Don't ask me. I'm just a girl with some questions.
But if you'll oblige, I'm dying to know.
Let me get a pen....

Have you ever wondered what it feels like to just not care any more? Wondered what it would feel like if just for a moment you could let go of it all - your school, your work, your family, your friends, your pets, your obligations, your responsibilities and your restrictions - if you could let go of it all and do something entirely unthinkable that would send everything up in a cloud of ash and smoke?

I do.

Did you ever wonder what it's like to have something, some big giant glowing sign that tells everyone else to back off? That you're trying your hardest? That you feel like a drowning man trying to grasp air, breaking the surface for a mere fraction of a second before being pulled down again? Did you ever wonder what it was like if you didn't have to maintain decorum and just tell people what you really thought? How you really felt?

I do.

And did it ever occur to you what you might look like if you finally let what was on the inside show through to the outside? Did you ever want to express all the pain, hurt, rage and uncomfortable, angry truths that are boiling inside because it wouldn't be okay, wouldn't be polite to let them out?

I sometimes think of it. And I'm pretty sure I'd look just the same as I look now - worn out, tired, scarred. Scared. Miserable. Feeling lost, hopeless, alone and without a friend in the world. Because the people I thought were friends really aren't....the people I thought I could trust really aren't trustworthy. It's something I've been learning over and over again for the past four...five...six...seven...eight years now. Because just when you're certain there are people you can rely on, depend on, count on, trust and confide in.....it all goes to shit.

And you're left standing alone. Labeled. Put into a nice neat little box and forgotten about because you aren't worth their time unless there's something wrong.

Maybe my problem is I've been valuing the people in my life who are worthless and not paying enough attention to those people who, time and again, have proven that they're with me for the long haul. Maybe I need to open my eyes a little more and figure that out.

Maybe I just need to wave a big fuck you to everyone and jump off the face of the planet for a while.

How can I trust myself to figure out who I can trust if I can't even figure out the simplest things any more?

How can I trust you if I can't trust myself? How can I trust myself if I am continually let down time and again by those I put my trust in, making me question why I trust in my own judgment ever?

Why does it feel like a big, cyclical, circular logic puzzle that I'll never figure out. The same phrase bandied about by angsty teenagers time and again, scribbled in the back of notebooks and posted on bedroom mirrors - people are shit and the only person you can trust is yourself. So why am I trying to pull other people out of the mire? Why am I trying so hard to keep ahold of the things that are hurting me?

Seriously, why?

I'm Not.

If you were to peel back the layers of who I am,
you would not want to know me.
Flay flesh from muscle,
rend muscle from bone,
tear through the viscera
and what would you find?
Like a dog's stomach on X-ray
a misshapen mass of
errata that should not exist.
Bits of brick and mortar
stone and sand
the crushed shells of those
who tried to get inside.
A writhing, dark mass
of depression that just won't
be calmed by antacids.
A small light spot on the X-ray film,
is it a mistake, a problem with the film?
Or is it hope? Clawing forth from the gaping maw?
Who is to say
That you ever really knew me at all?
There's only one way to find out.
Grab a scalpel and go.

It Was Only Because I Loved You

You:
You are the Arthur to my Morgana. You are the promises broken and the skies turned gray, heavy with clouds. My tears burst forth, oozing a thick, pendulous sadness that lingers in the air around me. What am I to say to you? What left is there to say, but to recall better times of bitter memories with a sorrow so sweet it tastes like cherry cordial on my lips?

Howling to the moon in anguish, I am an elm tree on the exterior - smooth bark and twisting trunk, holding steady at the root, trying to keep it together because I'm just as much of a danger to you as you are to me. Inside, rotting away, picked at little by little by these termite-like thoughts. I am not as strong and steady and rooted as I may seem: A caress just as well as a kick could knock me to the ground.

And how can I say this to you? My lion, my pride? How can I play these words off my tongue so as not to offend, so as not to cause you any more agony than I already have? How do I say these words that I have said not once, not twice, but so many times before? How can I make these wishes true, how can I make a spark come alive, when you want nothing more to do with me than a living body to warm your bed on the cold nights when my soul howls like the coyotes, a plaintive plainsong that echoes through the corridors of my very being, rattling me? How can I say this all to you when your eyes lay elsewhere?

Not once, but many times, I have felt your hands upon me. Not once, but a thousand times have you whispered words in my ears that could make a courtesan blush and a priest bow in humility. Not once, but forever, you promised I would have a spot in your heart - yes, a spot, my love. Something to be scrubbed at time and time again, a blemish on an otherwise perfect life - a spot that won't come out no matter what bedamned way you try.

And maybe I did myself in - maybe I fell too hard, too fast. Can you blame me? You're so full of yourself sometimes, your life so full of promise as you look onward past me, toward her, toward your new life, that you fail to see what you leave behind: and listen close, I will admit this only once - you leave behind the saddened little girl who is frustrated, hurt, angry and confused because she is being denied something that worked so well, when she tried to behave so good.

In moving on, you leave me behind - clutching the tattered strings of a tapestry quickly unweaving around me, the threads pulling and bursting as you walk and run faster, and farther, away from the life we could have had -- had only one of us been brave, had only one of us spoken up. But which of us did that burden fall to? I cannot say, I cannot lay fault. I won't.

My eyes well up as I write this....you're always so near and it stings and pricks at me, my blood buzzing in my ears like a hive of angry bees. You don't even know what we could have been, because you wouldn't even try.

And now I must let go - I know I do. I guess, somewhere, somehow, I always knew I would. I always knew, in the back of my heart, in the back of my head, that you would find any reason that I would be unsuitable for you. Wrong age, wrong weight, wrong religion, wrong touch, wrong love, wrong feeling, wrong everything and anything. It could have been anything and you would have found a reason -- because I am not the one you wanted and I never was.

I'm just sorry I ever allowed myself to admit that I wanted you in my life in a way you would never understand, with a maddening desire you only felt the most barbed, poisoned tip of. I'm sorry that I let myself open to you, feinted when I should have parried, and never ever struck back. I opened parts of myself to you that no one 'fore or since or again will have...the more esoteric pieces of my being and more of the physical ones as well. I offered you the world, but the world I offered wasn't well enough - and I can understand that, I suppose.

I remember those words you whispered in my ear, those tearful moments of confessions, of words not wanting to be spoken but pouring out anyway. Deer crowding the highway, you confessed. And so did I. And those words I can't take back haunt me, because if I could, I would steal them and horde them away, a dragon with a treasure in the most cliched manner. But I am left empty - in heart, in body. My soul aches. It all aches.

My heart is sliced to pieces now, ribbons to sway in the chilled wind that forces its way through my veins, ribbons floating on air where I used to harbor so much warmth and love. I'm sorry for the hurt I caused......it was only because I loved you.

Do I really need a title?

Bare skin laid out
with a cold inhale
taut muscle ensconced
within yielding flesh.
Will I ever see you again?
I don't know.
Sigh once more
and enjoy this moment
to echo against the mirrors of your mind
again and again
driving you mad
until I must,
simply must,
feel you again
My Love.

On Self Doubt

Print: Luis Royo "Medusa's Gaze" from "Subversive Beauty"

"It's all right for a woman to be, above all, human. I am a woman first of all." - Anais Nin

I am beautiful, but I have cried countless years away
with my face pressed into a pillow, screaming and screaming away
because I can't understand
why the world doesn't recognize it.

I am beautiful. I have curves.
They zig and zag,
they twist and turn.
Twist those hips, mama,
and watch the boys go running.....
….in the opposite direction.

I am a plastic princess made of polyvinylacrylate,
with seams running down the backs of my legs,
and underwear molded permanently in place.
Unless I'm not going anywhere.
And I never am.

I am an ice queen melting from the inside out.
Can't you tell by the saddened expression
and the moisture falling down my face?
It hurts.

I am recognized for many things:
My heart, my brain, my knowledge
The speed at which my fingers fly across the keys
and the words that tumble onto the page.

But I'm never one of the girls.
I'm always that weird little
Braniac Freak who's just one of the guys.

I'm not beautiful to you.
I'm a co-conspirator, a helper, a henchman, a minion.
Sometimes I'm an evil genius.
But I'm never one of your
beautiful people.

My beauty is not delicate.
I am not small. I am not timid.
My beauty is fierce, roaring into the room
with fangs and claws and a whirl of
monochromatic cacophonous shrieks.

I am not Monroe. I am not Bardot.
I am not Garbo and I am not Lake.
I am the love child of Clara Bow
and Anais Nin with a side of
Manson thrown in for spite.
I am a Luis Royo painting come to life.
I am scary. I am angry. I am bittersweet.
I am fierce. I am beautiful.

I suck at updating this everyday. To be fair, I have been writing. Just nothing creative. So much of my day is spent writing. My stuff is on Livestrong, eHow, Answerbag, The Daily Puppy, Garden Guides..

Click on the links to see just a few examples. Google my pen name for more. I write all day, everyday. And I get paid to do it. And I'm cool with that.

I don't often write under my own name when it comes to my job, because one wrong edit and the information could be deadly. I'm aiming for a career in animal health. I don't want a mis-type to come back to bite me in the ass. Hence the pen name.

Sometimes I do write under my own name. This article on the difference between polygamy, bigamy and polyamory is one example of that. When I write under my own name, they're usually editorial pieces. Or local interest stories, like the one about the photography studio and gallery I call my "safe haven." I'll even throw up a piece on the local Humane Society every now and then. I also write for the local Humane Society's blog.

My writing is all over the internet. It's just kind of scattered. The subject matter is scattered too. I have a few other gigs that I'm not comfortable relaying. I write every day - just not for pleasure. And that's the problem.

I've started contemplating entering the Hollis Summers Poetry Prize contest from Ohio University. They're local, and I've got about 3/4 of the poetry needed to enter. I just wish they would be a little more specific on how they would like the poetry manuscripts formatted. One per page? What about the tiny ones? What about this? That? Everything else? I need to write some more. Edit a lot. Pretend I have a will of iron. I don't submit my creative works for publication - I have enough anxiety as it is. Just ask the 23 dusty manuscripts on my bookshelf how they feel.

So yes, I am writing every day (HINT HINT, to my instructor, Denise! I really am! I promise!). Just not what you would expect.

Please bare with me while I work on this "updating more" thing.

Kittens, Kittens, everywhere

There once was a Humane Society worker who lived in a shoe,
she had so many kittens, she didn't know what to do.
She gave them some toys, she petted their heads,
She changed all their litterboxes,
glad they weren't dead.

She rescued these kittens,
with patience and love,
She never met a pet she was intolerant of.

The kittens all grew,
And found their new lives,
With husbands and children and boys and their wives.

Saved from their fate,
They remembered her well,
The humane society worker
Who was stressed all to hell.

That crazy cat lady who lives in a shoe
Still isn't sure she has room for you.
Give it a day, and more kittens will come,
Give it an hour, and she will succumb.

Surrounded by kittens,
From me and from you,
Surrounded by animals,
What is she to do?

Give her a dollar, a moment of time,
Give her an hour, she'll teach you to be kind.
One message she has, so you'll have no regrets:
Please, for the love of god, SPAY AND NEUTER YOUR PETS!

So...Where Do You Live?

"So...Where Do You Live?"

My apartment is the penthouse suite of a fortress in a post-apocalyptic wonderland. All around me, buildings crumble and vines seek to claim what little territory was once theirs – it's true, the earth takes back her own. Brick and mortar and steel and tin all combine in a cacophonous amalgam that reminds me of a cancer on the land – a boil left to fester years ago, now infected and diseased.

Walking out of my neighborhood is easy – two blocks to the front, keep your head down and your gaze averted. Retrieving supplies is simple if you have a vehicle – few of us do. We would make it, if we could work together. Though we share close quarters in our block, we regard each other as strangers. And strangers are a threat, treated with wariness and suspicion.

Necessary functions are made infinitely harder by the security measures we've managed to amass. Walking out – that's the easy part. It's getting back in that's the problem. Walking the dog – the preferred personal security system of the masses – is a tedious chore. You can get out – but can you get back in? It's always a concern that one of our own will be hurt trying to perform a simple, everyday task, struck down by those who take it upon themselves to guard our world.

Upon reentry, you're faced with darkness. The darkness isn't so overwhelming when you're leaving the block. It isn't so apparent as you put the decay behind you. As you walk into the foreboding mile, it overwhelms you – consumes you. Years ago there were streetlights. They're still there – at least, a few of them are. Of the few that remain, only a handful still give light. I think the electric system feeds on despair – the lights always shine brighter in a moment of fear.

Out of the darkness comes the plaintive cry of a kitten or a newborn child – all too many of both litter the streets, barely finding shelter. Out of the darkness comes a band of vigilantes – wielding sharp words and even sharper glass bottles. Are you one of us? Their stares ask the question. One wrong gesture, one wrong movement, one wrong look and, even if you ARE a resident of the block, you might be mistaken for Other. And that means trouble.

The screams don't bother me so much any more – they did when I first moved onto the Block. All night, I could hear the screams. A woman, a child. And dogs, a symphony of howls and cries. Human or animal, the cries are still the same dull groaning of needs unmet: shelter, food, water, safety, love.

Tip-tap your shoes on the bricks, once pulled and molded from the river that still runs through town. Listen to the noises echo, and for a second, you feel the wonder of a child. The world becomes hazy around the edges, and sometimes I think it might not be so bad. Then I open my eyes a little wider.

The bricks are crumbling. The ground itself is sinking. The forest moves in, striking when and where it can. The gaping maws of broken windows turn toward the world. The beckoning sigh of an abandoned shed wafts through the night, settling a little deeper into the resignation that it, too, will soon be gone. Above it all speaks the groaning of the foundations of buildings that should have been condemned long ago – if only there were someone to decree such.

One false step and you will break your neck. I say this out of concern – it's happened to me all too many times. My neck is intact, but I'm worse for wear. There is a constant, drenching dampness in the air, accompanied by the smell of mildew. It might have been the river – but the river is too far off to smell. It's the ground, trying to swallow our Block whole. And I can't blame it. If I were Mother Nature, I'd want to erase my world, too.

The current of fear in the air is palpable. You can reach out and grasp it. The stench of rot hooks you by the nostrils and refuses to let go. Roaches skitter and screech, searching for anything living they can grasp. They, too, have needs. I suspect the needs of the cockroaches are better met than the needs of the residents here in our peaceful little Block. Still, the roaches scatter when you approach them. They're better at this survival game than we are.

It's worse at night. During the day, the sunlight shines on our little slice of the world. It provides illumination, but doesn't diminish the darkness. Even at noon, the despair blocks out the light, giving every house, every person, a forlorn, worn look. Rough edges become rougher. Deep furrows become deeper. And still, the fear and hatred toil on, effortlessly throughout the day and night.

I don't live in a developing country. I don't live on another planet. I don't come from the future and there was no apocalypse. During the day, I live right down the road from a quaint little midwestern Public Square – not so changed from the past that you might expect a square dance or cattle auction to take place at any moment. Or a hanging. Tourists come, but not as much as they once did. We were a disposable city – once the coal dried up, the people stayed. Stayed to suffer.

I don't live in Israel. I don't live in Afghanistan. The armed militants aren't carrying bombs. I don't have to dodge bullets (usually) in fear of my life. This isn't an inner city – it's not the harsh world painted for the streets of New York, London or Tokyo. I live in Ohio. And this is poverty.

Do You Think I Should Try It On?

"Do you think I should try it on?" It's one of the questions I overhear the most. Why? I'm a thrift store junkie. I will comb the thrift stores all day, in search of that perfect score - that amazing dress, that awesome toy from my childhood, the perfect piece of furniture. And books. So many books, left to their own devices to dance among the shelves of discarded media and literature.

If you have to ask, the answer is yes. If you aren't sure - you should try it on. One of the first things I learned about thrift store shopping is that a bargain isn't a bargain if you'll never wear the item or use it. It's a waste. And thrifting is all about cutting out waste. So if you have to ask, you should definitely try it on.

Oh yes, I've learned this the hard way. There's the red satin ballgown that fits like a dream - everywhere except the ribcage. I can lose weight, I can tuck and suck and hide a million bodily imperfections - but I am not a snake, and I cannot change the size of my ribcage. Lesson learned. It's still sitting in my bathroom, waiting for me to alter it or turn it into something new. I just don't have the heart to wrestle it into something new - it's too pretty. So it sits, unused.

"Do you think it's safe to use?" Well, that's a loaded question. It depends on what the item is. Some stores take the time to test the items they sell - a locally owned thrift store called Re-Use industries does this all the time. If I buy a hair straightener from 1983 from Re-Use, I know the cord won't catch fire. And they let customers plug in items in-store. Other stores aren't so safety-minded. I bought a toaster from the Salvation Army several years ago in preparation for my trek to college. I plugged it in, and it promptly took to flames. Lesson learned.

"Why would you buy THAT used?" The "that" could refer to anything - silverware, underwear, socks, shoes, washcloths. Anything of a personal nature that comes into contact with a vital part of your body. I have my limits. I won't buy panties at the thrift store. I don't care if I can bleach and wash or even autoclave those suckers. I won't do it. Bras, on the other hand, I don't have a problem buying second hand if they look new and are in good shape and appear fairly clean. Socks I won't buy to wear, but I'll use for craft projects. A girl can never have too many sock monkeys laying around.

Non-porous items - plastic, metal, glass utensils and cooking items aren't a problem for me. Mainly because I don't know where they've been or what they've been subjected to. Someone could have shit in that teapot, for all I know. But I don't know - and a good dose of hot water and bleach takes care of it for me.

If I know what the food preparation item has been through, I won't snag it used. I don't just thrift, I also engage in an art known as "Dumpster Diving." I dig through trash. People throw away too many useful, functional items. My landlord asked me to clear out the apartment below mine when the tenants ditched town - they were heroin addicts and all manner of shady. I kept welding gloves on the entire time and had a magnet to pick up the needles so I wouldn't get stabbed. I scored a lot of awesome furniture from their place. I also picked up an antique teapot. That teapot was grimy when I got it. It's been cleaned, but I still haven't used it. It's a waste - but I can't bring myself to get rid of it. Maybe soon, but not today.

And when I do decide to get rid of these thrift store and dumpster diving failures, I know exactly where they'll go. They'll go to a grassroots effort known as Freecycle. Freecycle allows people to give away items - for free. Someone always needs something. why not save it from a landfill?

I post this mostly because I live in an area surrounded by college students. We have two colleges - the local technical college that's a lot more blue-collar and Ohio University, where the rich kids come to party and play. Dormitory move-outs just happened this past week. The towns in this area are TEEMING with new, almost new, brand new, perfect items that were just discarded. Thrown out. Pushed away. I didn't dumpster dive this year on campus, because the police were arresting people for....stealing trash.

I did scour the thrift stores. And here is what I snagged:

Books. Lots of books. So many books it makes my head hurt. My computer has a catalog of all the books I own, my entire library. It has tripled in size since the students moved out.

Pajamas. Brand new pajamas. With tags on them. That makes me sad, but oh-so-very happy. I get the comfort of Victoria's Secret without the price-tag. Well, I have the price tag. I just didn't pay the price. That's the real secret.

Board games. We play a lot of board games. It makes things interesting, since we don't have cable and don't watch television, except online, if we really have something we want to see.

Craft supplies. It amazes me what I can find to fuel my crafting habit.

An old steamer trunk. We had to crack the lock open in-store, because there was no key. I bought it for my husband, since he wanted one like mine. His is old, battered and beat up. Just the way steamer trunks should be.

The score of the day, though, had to be the pet carriers. I work with my local humane society. We do a lot of trap/neuter/release. There are NEVER enough cat carriers to go around. And I found about 10 of them for $1 each. I'm going to have to sterilize them - I don't know the status of the cats who rode in them previously. But I'm okay with that. Because it means I can help more of the kitties in this county. I'm about to embark on a TNR for 37 cats...37! It's going to take a lot of traps, a lot of time, a lot of patience and a LOT of carriers.

Do you need to try it on? Yes. Do you need to buy it? No. But it sure is fun.

Photo Update Of the Week

This....this is the woman behind the madness. Quicksilver, otherwise known as mercury, evaporates into a fine red gas. So do I, sometimes.



Though I'm sure the red hair isn't what you're staring at. I'm likely to chop your arm off for that, you know.

But it isn't all bad.... Then again, all work and no play makes me a very unhappy kitten.....