If I had ten thousand extra hours, I would learn how to paint just so you could see how beautiful you are.

dead meowfive.

the fucking cat brought me a FUCKING dead mouse. on my bed. now I have to burn all of my blankets.

i lack the foresight for under-ripe avocados. here's to remembering them and having awesome tacos in two days.

so here i am. eternally stuck.
dancing on peanut butter.

People always ask, this is the best answer I can give.

Last fall, I started to write an essay about the Firebird on my leg.

I had a lot of words on the subject; too many, in fact - any instance of the question "So, what does [it] mean to you?" is sure to be met with an inundation from me. That's just how I work. I pour a significant amount of energy into finding and assigning meaning to the inconsequential, so when something actually is significant (in this case, a permanent piece of breathtaking art on the only right leg I will ever have), it probably represents years of careful consideration. So I am going to put it concisely, and you can assign meaning yourself, if you wish. Or, you can take it as a beautiful picture, which is no farther from the truth.


Legend says that a single feather from a Firebird glows with such brilliance that it alone can light up an entire castle.