Brick the Spider, and other ways to spend your weekend.

The NATIONAL HOLIDAY OF EXPLOSIVES is approaching, and I have not actually invested in any explosives yet. There's something quite wrong with this, mostly because now that I've said it, I'm going to get roped into going into TOWN and sitting with nine billion people in very close proximity to me while not being the one that gets to light stuff on fire.

Obviously, no one wins in this situation, except my fingers.

I'm a big fan of holidays, with the exception of the days that come before them, and the days that come after, mostly because travel is usually involved, and I work in retail, which means that everyone needs a present for every occasion, including Independence Day, Dia de los Muertos, No Pants Day, International Talk Like a Pirate Day, and things that aren't holidays BUT SHOULD BE, mostly my birthday and any day I manage to get up in the morning and Do Things.

Last year at this fireworks spectacular, I got kicked by forty-seven children, had liquid of an indeterminate nature dumped on my shoes, and had to endure awkward conversation with crazy old people who sat all around me, one of whom I am pretty sure was trying to lick my ear. Needless to say, I am going to raid the grocery store for explosives, and then raid the liquor store for beer, and we are going to have a grand old time without being licked by old people, or having to go into the creepy shed under my deck, where there are giant red spiders that I have to beat back with a brick.

Just envision me, with a brick, hurling it into the shed and hoping I hit something, leaping back with a squeal, scuttling forward to make sure I've killed things and to grab the brick again, and there you have Brick the Spider. It's the best game ever.

CRUISE CONTROL FOR COOL.

So, I am one of those people who is easily amused by anything in capslock. You could probably be like "THE PRESIDENT HAS BEEN ASSASSINATED," and I would be laughing my ass off and then probably be like, "...wait, what."

Except "assassinated" is still a fucking hilarious word, so I'd still be laughing even through national crisis, but I'm a terrible person, so you probably shouldn't take me too seriously when it comes to things like life-altering events.

Anyway, the point of this is that I hate cleaning, and probably the number one way to make me not take it seriously is to write in caps on a post-it note: "UNLOAD" and then stick it to the dishwasher. Mostly I will look at the note perplexedly because I have encountered it before my coffee, and likely I will forget about it until I wander into the kitchen four hours later. It doesn't help when these things are written on post-its shaped like lime-green apples.

Cleaning and I have a love-hate relationship. I love the end effect, mostly that I can see my floor and have mugs to drink out of, but at the same time, there is actual work and effort involved, both of which I am firmly against. Every time (once a month, which I suppose is a good track record!) I manage to get into a super-cleaning ADULT MODE ACTIVATE session, arm myself with seventeen trash bags and a can of Pledge, and get to gettin'.

This lasts for approximately a day and a half, after which I realize that the laundry basket is two feet too far away from where I dispose of my pants (re: the floor), and that the dishwasher doesn't start itself, but the computer is there, and so is the internet, and WHO KNOWS WHAT WILL HAPPEN IN THE FIVE MINUTES IT WILL TAKE TO LOAD DISHES AND CLEAN THEM.

So, in the interest of making sure I miss nothing on the internet, I end up writing a blog post about cleaning. But it's 11PM and no one worth their salt ever cleans after eight, at the latest, so I can comfortably say I can put off until tomorrow what I had planned on doing today.

And by "tomorrow," I very clearly mean, "next week."

I'm pretty sure my Surviving Until Age 24 award should probably be revoked. Until they come to pry it from my cold, dead fingers, I'll be reading a webcomic archive or something.

GOOD MORNING INTERNET.

Things that are AWESOME right now:

-A Warehouse 13 marathon, which I fail at watching when the episodes are new, and so have to wait for marathons to catch up.
-Coffee.
-Microwaveable meatballs that I tormented my cat with in moving the plate so that he kept jumping up and down off the couch hoping to sink his teeth into one or seven.

Also, I had a dream about a unicorn, which probably had something to do with reading Allie's blog, Hyperbole and a Half, from the time I got home at 3 yesterday til I went to bed. Unicorns are pretty badass, I must confess.

I am almost afraid to link to Hyperbole on here, haha, because she is HILARIOUS and I am only moderately funny, since I talk about shit like microwaveable meatballs on here, and she writes posts titled "Things That Make You Feel Like an Idiot Almost Immediately, the number one of which is "holding other people's babies."

That is actually one of the things I am most terrified about! THEIR SELF-DESTRUCT BUTTON IS RIGHT ON TOP OF THEIR HEAD, WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO VOLUNTARILY FOIST SOMETHING LIKE THAT ONTO A TOTAL STRANGER.

Conversations that lead to this situation (not actually verbatim):

Me: Aww, what a cute baby.
Them: I know! Here, you can hold him/her/indeterminate gender, if you want!
Me: ...oh, no, that's--
Them: HOLD THE BABY OR I WILL REPORT YOU TO MANAGEMENT.
Me: OHGODOKAY. (holds baby for about three seconds.) TAKE IT BACK I AM GOING TO DROP IT.

I mean, I have a two year old cousin, who is the most adorable baby ever, and I am absolutely terrified to pick him up, much less carry him for any length of time, because I can carry heavy objects for long periods that are INANIMATE, but I have this fear that my legs will stop functioning as soon as I pick up a child.

This is why I am not allowed to procreate, seriously. Also, because babies scream and wail and HATE ME ON PRINCIPLE, judging by every single child that comes into Barnes and Noble and glimpses me. I always have to double check that I didn't decide to dress up like a clown that day or something, because I am pretty sure I am not that terrifying in person.

I'm also really not sure how this post went from coffee to unicorns to children, but hey, I'll take what I can get.

FASHION SHOW!

God, it's obvious how busy I've been by my extreme lack of updating really anything outside of Six Pixels (but that's because I can throw ten comics into the delayed upload, and it'll do it for me. I did almost forget to put in today's yesterday, but I did! And now I just have to scribble one out for tomorrow, and I'll be fine).

The show, "The Last Encomniasts," is FRIDAY, 7PM, HOLLOWAY HALL. Doors open at six. If you have a student ID, up through Thursday you can purchase tickets at the information desk in the University Center for $5. (ANY STUDENT ID WORKS). At the door, tickets are 7$ with student ID, and 10$ without. The show runs approximately 2 hours.

I have two papers I have to crap out between now and Friday, four complete from scratch outfits to make and parts of others to do basically by tomorrow. I AM NOT SLEEPING OH GOD.

COMIC: Six Pixels goes live

I have finally caved and done what I've been thinking about doing for a long while: an entirely inappropriate, MSPainty (but not; it's done in ImageForge, which is like...MSPaint Pro) daily webcomic with an actual archive. You should go here, and tell your friends. And rate it. Yes.

SIX PIXELS: A CHEERFUL COMIC

GENERAL: NaNoWriMo, life

As I am fairly certain that this semester is out to kill me, it's time for one of those NaNoWriMo posts. As I am currently sitting at 15150-ish, and am at least a day and a half ahead of schedule, I shouldn't be fretting about my word count. The problem I'm facing now is that I know once I scribble in "the end" on the last page (whatever that may be number-wise), this novel becomes real, and becomes something that I'm actually seriously going to have to go through, edit, and submit to publishers.

The thought is slightly terrifying-- a novel done, and prepared for editing, with graduation right on the heels, and then moving (oh, god, when did I become an adult?) immediately afterward.

The house is adorable, though. Very vintage--built in the 1950s, and looks the part on the outside. As the rental agency hasn't gotten back in touch with us, though, we're waiting with bated breath to see if we can even get hold of her. It's right within the price range, and while I'll be in Salisbury for the forseeable future, in August, I'll be moving again. Twice, in the same year, neither moves involving any of my immediate family.

Scaaaaaaaary. I'll need to put in "semi-serious" job hunting time within this month and the next, and there will also be the business of becoming a legal driver (ahaha, it's about damn time). Growing up is filled with complexity, anxiety, and it's really fucking expensive. Who decided that our economy should work like this?

In the immediate future, though (re: two weeks), is the fashion show. I am taking a breather from sewing yet another vinyl corset. This show is turning into very Gothic-steampunk fetishy without me even having to try. I'm so excited that Ashlee wants me to assemble a line next semester as well, as that's more media exposure. The beautiful thing about a club entirely comprised of models and people interested in the fashion industry? They'll basically wear anything to walk the runway.

Graduation is about a month and a half away, and I don't know how I feel about it. Silly real world. I'm going to go hide under a rock until you go away.

A LETTER: of shoes and ships and sealing wax

And old people. Oh, old people.

Seriously? I don't know what is just so gosh-darn difficult about picking up a tray, silverware and a plate. You shouldn't need people to hold your hand when it's all laid out in line for you. Look! We can do it, and we're so much younger and obviously less self-reliant than you are.

Seriously? I want a piece of chicken. I want rice. I want to be able to get a beverage and get out into the bistro seating area without you standing there for fifteen minutes discussing the appearance of the chicken. My entire meal acquisition and consumption takes less time than you do fishing a plate out from underneath the counter.

We don't care. The commons is not your restaurant. Get thee to Old Country Buffet if you must, or Golden Corral. There is a Bob Evans that you likely drove past on your way to get to the university.

Some of us have classes to get to. Some of us would just rather not have to stand in line while you deliberate the consistency of the tequila-lime chicken until you simply keel over dead.

I, for one, don't want a dead body in my food. The commons staff might get ideas and try their hand at meat pies.