Photobook

Fear not, noble stalkers.  While I've been off the radar I can assure you that things have been going very well indeed.  Here's a little photobook I made for our most recent vacation over the Memorial Day holiday - remembering the sacrifice by celebrating the soil the sacrifice was made for.  

Click here to view this photo book larger

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A holiday story

Well, we all know that I am not a Christian and that I hold to the Pagan faith of my ancestors.

So about this time of year, I get a lot of questions about what it means to live "without a moral compass" and "what do you celebrate at Christmas" and stuff.  I reply kindly, that I DO have a moral compass and that I DO celebrate Christmas as a holiday of inspiration, peace, forgiveness and human warmth.

And then the conversation usually drifts uncomfortably into other topics.  I have, however, recently found myself surrounded by like-minded people who follow the same or similar traditions to what I hold dear.  And as we are all learning and growing together and trying to develop a modern tradition that still upholds the traditions of our ancestors...  we all come together to learn from each other and tell stories and so on.  We do this a lot.  It is Awesome.

Recently I was asked to share a "holiday appropriate" story from my tradition (which is called Asatru but it's not the racist, bigotted version that gets all the press)  and I had to apologize because I don't have a tradition based on fluffy bunnies who save the day and then drink apple juice before bed time.

No, I'm afraid my tradition is built out of hard winters and bad soil and really REALLY hard decisions.

And still, the request persisted.  So I shared the story which I have now posted below.  It's a brief introduction to what a holiday festival might have been like, and meant to the community.  It is also an introduction to the injustice of older ways; a reminder that while traditions are important, some things (like slavery) from the old days are better left buried in the ground forever.

So here's a story of a spirit called "Nisse", which you'll likely think of as a little bearded gentleman in a red pointy cap and a smart blue coat.  That is as close an image to the real thing as Mickey Mouse is to real mice.  Hallmarks are there, but still, you know?  Anyway, I'll tell you the story now:

• So, once upon a time, in a farm you may have heard of just a few valleys over, there was a very prosperous farmer. He had horses and sheep and a great many Baandemen who worked his land for him. His was the farm at the center of a thriving, though small, community and everyone who knew him spoke of his bravery and kindness and fairness in all matters.  

  On this farm lived a young serving girl. It was her duty to keep the fires from dying and rekindle them quickly if they went dark. She was old enough for tasks like milking and spinning, too. Now it came to pass that it was a hard, dark winter. It was much colder than any had remembered and everyone had to work together to keep the livestock fed and safe.

  Everyone knew that their only salvation was their own work, aided, of course, by the nisse of the farmstead who were laboring tirelessly with the animals when the people were away. In the depth of this dark, harsh winter, came the festival of Jul. And during this time everyone gathered at the farmers large home to share in the warmth and revelry of his generously laid tables. His generosity did not stop with the people, either. He made sure to offer, during this period of celebration, extra food and as much spare bedding as he could afford to his livestock. And, as always, he poured a rich, frothy bowl of cream and fatty porridge as a gift for the nisse of his keep.

  When the slave girl saw this decadent bowl sitting on the floor of the barn in the dwindling candle light, her stomach churned with hunger. Her turn at the table wouldn't be for hours, yet, and her ice cold fingers longed to wrap around the steaming cream and butter to feel the warmth. Against her better judgement, she took a step closer to the holy offering made to the hidden folk who sacrificed so much to keep the farm healthy.

  She smelled the melted butter and her mouth simply ached for the smallest bite. She could resist no longer. She dipped her fingers into the porridge and scooped up a cautious mouthful and let it linger on her tongue. As she licked her lips clean, she felt a guilty shadow cover her and she immediately looked about her to see if her crime had been witnessed.

  Seeing no-one, she returned to her chores.

  It wasn't long, however, before she heard the gentle footsteps of unfamiliar boots. Her muscles froze and her candle blew out in an icy gust of wind.

  A tiny voice reached her ears:

  
  

  "Who has eaten my porridge?" the voice said.

  And the girl's skin crawled with fear. "Who has eaten my porridge?" the voice repeated, filling with jealous fury. And the girl closed her eyes, and turned around and whispered "I did, brother nisse." And she opened her eyes and saw that all of the candles in the room were burning brightly and the porridge bowl was upturned and the nisse stood upon it making a fearsome growl. "Then you shall be my prize this winter night, for you have eaten my only right, and from now until the dawn's first light you'll dance with me and you will not fight."

  And the girl's body began do move of its own accord, very much against her will, and the barn was ablaze with candle lights and laughter from a hundred throats she could not see. And she was embraced by the nisse and forced to dance with him, relentlessly, for hours and hours until dawn's first light finally broke over them.

  The next morning, a drunken stable-man found the girl's half-naked body in a heap just outside the barn. Her skirts were ripped as if they had been flown in the wind for a hundred years and her hair was pulled and tangled with filth from the barn. Her feet were bloody and a great deal of the flesh of her legs was missing.

  And everyone on the farm knew exactly what had happened.

  
  

  The End!  

  Sleep Tight Kids!  

Brain. Melted.

I'm telling you, the autumness of the east coast is just mind blowing!  The weather out here?  Fuggetaboutit.
The sunlight and sweatery-snuggled breezes?  Fuh-gettaboutit.
The food?  Holy shit you guys, the food....

Yup.  My brain is a fall colored puddle of happy.

Allow me to share:

Happy Monday

Ghosts Ride The Train Too

She was magnificent.

She was tall in a way that most people aren't.  She had that long-boned grace that you get from wearing breezy linen dresses in the sun and eating figs and strong tea on a beach at sunrise.  She had very short hair, cropped close to her scalp.  She had huge, captivating eyes and a smile that said "you're beautiful".

She asked with a nod if she could sit next to me.  She smelled like vanilla and coffee and fresh baked bread.
She carried nothing, no purse or bag.  She had a single pocket on her billowing white shirt in which she stowed her well-used metro pass.

Her knuckles clicked with delicate gold rings and there were multiple golden hoops dangling languidly down the curves of her ears.

She was ageless and she was all of time put together in a a breath.

Her hair was a silvery bronze and the lines in her face betrayed more experience than withering age.  She might have told me that she was a thousand years old, and I'd have accepted it as the truth without a second thought.

We sat together on the train, wordlessly full of our own thoughts.  She spoke to nobody.  Nobody tried to speak to her.

When her stop was nigh (the one right before mine), she caught my eyes with hers and grinned excitedly.  She patted my hands, which were resting on my lap.

Her touch was warm and gentle and kitten-y soft.  Thrills of peace shot straight up my arm.  She was going someplace special.  She shared that with me.  She stood, moved effortlessly out of the train, and then strode confidently onto the platform on her way to something perfectly amazing.

Pure sunlight filled me and made my cheeks hurt and my eyes ache and I'd have sobbed like an infant with heartache if I hadn't been surrounded by so many other people.

Had anyone else noticed her?

Had anyone else even seen her?

Turtle NOM

Forgive the shaky quality.
This is a badass turtle, the size of a watermelon.  He's chomping away in 90 degree Virginia wetlands heat - which of course includes impossible humidity.

Happy Monday

Fire Safety Video

Many of you are probably (even if barely) aware that Colorado is kindof all ablaze again this year.

For me, it is really hard to watch the coverage because I'm so far from home and a lot of the talking heads are helpless to say much  more then "yup, it's still on fire out here."

When a good piece of information comes along though, I'm encouraged and eager to share it.  Not simply because my brother is in the business of helping make people safe from fires, and not simply because I am heartbroken at the thought of ANYONE losing a home full of treasures and memories.  Those are big parts of it, though.  Damn this bleeding heart, this empathy-addled heart of mine. (not really)

So anyway, yes.  My big brother is the man who educates the folks who live in the mountains about how to keep their homes safer in the event of a wild fire.  There are no guarantees, of course, but there are ways to make it better for you and your home when living in nature's equivalent of a pile of matches in the sun at a fireworks factory.  For instance, fire loves fuel right?  Fuel is trees and dry grass right?  AND fuel is that lovely little juniper bush nestled sweetly next to your front door.  Of your log cabin.  With the un-rained-on kentucky bluegrass out front.  Fire looks at that little scene and goes "oh yummy, kentucky fuelfuel for dinner, juniper-gas-can-cake for desert, and a big fat pine-y-fuel-orgy cabin thereafter!"

Things we, as homeowners do, can interrupt that little thought process.  Cutting wild trees on your property that TOUCH or reach over your home, for instance.  Sure, it's not romantic and woodsy like that... but then neither is a pile of black ash and three years' of insurance haggling.  Using stones to mulch-in path around your house like a moat can interrupt the fire as it gobbles up the dry dry grass.  Xeriscaping ALONE can do wonders.

You know what?  I could talk for days about this.  It's my brother's JOB (he actually gets paid) to do this and his work will never ever EVER be done.

And a picture is worth a thousand words.

So how about I throw a few thousand pictures at you in the form of this little video - which is as informative as it is excellently produced - to help us all learn about what the firemen (and women) go through to save one single house.  One house, by the way, that already has excellent mitigation and fire-safety plans in place on the property.  Five minutes of your time, ladies and gentlemen.  Please take this time as your "Smokey Bear" awareness moment for today.

And if you're in Colorado, keep a weather-eye on the horizon, kids. Stay safe out there!

Saving a Home in a Forest Fire

Real Dragons

Since this is my second spring-to-summer transition in this neck of the woods, I feel it's appropriate to tell you of one of my favorite things that happens on the back deck of my apartment.  It's the ladybug season.  Not the actual ladybugs, mind you, but their larvae.

Last year, I thought it was a fluke.  This year, I was torn between treating my plants for their hideous aphid infestations and just letting it ride in favor of another ladybug onslaught.

I chose the onslaught.  Sure, the plants are pekish and weak looking, none of the daisies is quite as pretty as they could have been... but there must be about eight jillion little ladybug larvae out there just tooling around and gobbling up everything aphid-like that they bump into.

Needless to say, they get fat fast and double in size by the hour.

There's a lot to be said for ladybug babies.  They're horrifying.  They look like creatures that both Star Wars AND Dr. Who would have rejected for being "too scary looking".  But yet they still have that spacey-wacey, timey-wimey look to them that just forces me to look more closely.  They look impossible.  Big hairy caterpillar abdomens being dragged around by weency little spidery legs which are all crammed into the first 2% of body length.  And they're the bug-world answer to the dyson vaccuum cleaner when it comes to eating aphids.  NOM NOM NOM they go as they speed up and down every little leaf and cranny they come to.  GOBBLE OBBLE OBBLE they go, as they pant in the sunshine and careen ever forward toward the next little green meal.  I imagine the aphids screaming in terror as they're seized, chomped, chewed and swallowed in a matter of picoseconds.

My littlest minions.

And then they stop moving entirely.  They blot their little butts onto a particularly comfortable leaf and they get all stony and blotchy and inescapably booger-looking.  And then the next day, they're gone.  They pupate (or whatever) in the morning and fly away, fly away home before I'm awake in the morning.

The whole process takes about, oh, four days I think.  But it's fantastic to watch and oh, so satisfying when you've got a cough-syrup-addled imagination like I do today.

So here's to my league of terrible dragons out there on the deck.  Couldn't be less than fifty of them out there, all of them together weighing less than a kernel of corn.  Go, my little dragons.  Seek out your prey and devour them by the handful as you scour my plants clean of their entire presence.  Then spread your little red wings and fly away, to adventures and romances I couldn't possibly imagine.

Well aint this cute: Manhattan

A short video from our latest trip to Manhattan.

Fits

Yes.  Another entry about clothes.

So on monday, before I became a plaguerat, I went to the second hand store in the area with my Supergal and we decided to see if we could find some fetching new tops for me.  She was also on the lookout for neat stuff for her, so it was a well-primed day to find neat stuff for both of us.

It is, as she has taught me, a numbers game.  Fortunately for me she's a powerhouse at fashion judgements and she all too often looked at something I had pulled out for the ol' thumbs up/thumbs down treatment and, shaking her head announced simply "no".  I have no such fashion programming, so basically I'm wired to dress like a fourth grade teacher from like the twenties.  Or a librarian from the sixties.  And not the young, sexy librarian you just thought of, either.  I'm still on the "if it fits, wear it" bus.  She's trying to put me on the "you must have a waistline in there somewhere" train.  She wants me on the train that forbids frumptasticness and encourages me to reach for that ever evasive golden ring of exposing my collarbone from time to time.

Egad she's a good sport for helping me.

But anyway, it's a numbers game.  The more you try on, the more likely you are to find a win.  AND the more likely  you are to find some hilariously bad fits too.  We went through several tops that would have been awesome had they not made me look like a tent, or like a woman in her fourteenth month of pregnancy,  or like an anthropomorphous sausage trying to sneak into a baptist church.  Those sausagey ones are the best, because they're all office-casual at first and then I try 'em on and then it's all "oh nuts I can't breathe" or "hey, where did that crease come from?" or "backfat is still sexy right?"  ...

WE get lots of laughs out of the bad fits.  Seriously, a few of those darling little tops were one big yawn away from changing that shop from a family friendly establishment to something you'd watch on HBO.  Buttons flying across the room, blinding little children, boobs sticking out all over the place....  nasty.

And we got lots of good fits too.  This, my friends, is ALWAYS a relief.  When I put it on I'm always unsure of how the public will react.  I mean, egad.  It fits?  but... does it look okay?  Because I seriously have zero idea.  Then I open the door and Supergal makes that "oh my lord she did it!" face and I can tell that this is something I'll have no problem wearing in front of my peers.  and we all go *phew*.  Sometimes even the stock-people throw in a surprised thumbs up....  and that's always nice.  like YAY!  I CAN be TAUGHT!

So we found two great new cowl neck tops and two sexy little dresses that I can wear to dinners and things. And like, 'out'.  For when we go 'out'.

Next on my list of things to do is to really get mean and nasty about losing some weight.  NOT a ton, mind you. Just about ten pounds.  The stuff that a body can lose easily when said body starts giving a damn about what's going into that body.   Ten pounds.  That means walkies on the ol' treadmill and weekends out in the park.  I'm no runner, and "working out" is about as horrifying to me as an anal probe....  but if I have to do one to avoid the other (which I try to tell myself sometimes) then so shall it be.

Wish me luck.

As soon as I rid myself of this nasty cold, so that I can breathe again without going into cardiac arrest, I'll be on the mend and strutting around like I own the place.

Seriously though, wish me luck?

Just some pictures from around town.

We've been hosting some visiting friends recently and WOW has that been a fantastic series of micro-mini vacations!  We really love walking around town, here AND in DC, and just seeing the sights with our visitors alongside.  These days the air is oppressively hot and thick with humidity, and it's brutally uncomfortable to spend long periods outside.  But the insides of all of our favorite museums and restaurants are all brilliantly cooled and well stocked with seating and life-giving water!

So, with that in mind, I'd like to share with you some pictures of what we've been up to recently.

Washington Monument: undergoing earthquake repairs!

Getting rained on at the Capitol.
This is what tropical storm Andrea looked like here in DC.
Lotta rain.  Not much else.

This is what the inside of the dome looks like!  

Cleo, the guardian of history.

Library of Congress.
Every inch of this great room was decorated to the nines!

Toad-spotting on Teddy Roosevelt Island.  I wuv you mister toad!

Outreach

Crisis situations are hard.  Fires, floods, evacuations, panic, paperwork...  it just never ends.

One thing that also never ends, my friends, is the dedication of the professionals who have promised to come and help us at a moment's notice when things start going all to hell.

We all think of our heroic firemen and policemen on Nine-Eleven, as we should.  We honor the noble dead for their sacrifice and we hug our children a little tighter to help them cope with the bitter, brittle future before them.

Someone else needs our love now, too.  First responders are handling these crisis points in our lives with grace and agility and they go back to their lives and the next day they get up and do it all over again.

Imagine giving your all to survive the destruction of your home.  Now imagine giving your all to save complete strangers from their burning home, and then from their sinking vehicle, and then from the massive ice-based pileup on the highway, and then from the mudslide, and then from the grass-fire, and then... and then... and then...

These professionals are excellent at what they do.  And they do it for us.  And they need our help.  We cannot forget them in their own time(s) of need.

Please review the link below and, if you're not in the Denver area, reach out to your own local station for similar programs to help our heroes stay strong.  Let's help them remember how strong they are by providing them with the resources to fall completely apart and allowing them the time to stitch themselves back together again.  And let's let them know that we, too, feel just like they do.  We've been there.  We love them.  We need them and they need us.

And here's where we can begin to help:

https://beanstalkfoundation.org/challenge/cjsf-firefighters



We need to do more than say "thank you" now.

They need us.  Let's be there for them before it's too late.

Hey Mom

To all the moms I know out there, keep up the good work. When you're doing the dirty work, the wet work, the hard work and the gross work... when you're doing the tearful work, the ouchie work, the bruisey work and the fractured work... and even when you're doing the tickley work, the giggley work, the goofball work and the euphorically proud work... it's all very good work. Thank you.

To my mother in law, I adore you. We don't agree on everything, and still I adore you. We're both on very different paths, and I cannot help but adore you. We are both strong, independent women, with silly senses of humor and tremendous inner power... and that is such a big part of why I adore you. We have a lot in common, and oh, I do adore you. You'll always be his mom. And because of that, I'll always, always adore you.

To my own mom, thank you.
You are my friend.
You are my confidant.
You are my captain.
You are my tourguide.
You are my teacher.
You are the star by which I navigate and the rudder with which I steer.
You fill my sky with a million colors and you fill my head with a trillion notes.
You're my mom. And I'm your bizarre little daughter.
Ain't we a pair!
Thanks mom.

You need to read this:

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2013/05/depression-part-two.html

She's...  well, she's just grand.
Read her.  Love her.  JOIN US!

And seriously, the stuff she says about depression?

Spot.  On.

Okay, Sandy, whaddya got?

Kitty is doing very well.  She had a very rough night and then roughly three hours before the vet opened for business...  she perked up and her "pain" went away as did her grumptacular new lease on life and now...  well... by the gods she's a whole new cat.  I can still "palpate" (that's the right word, right?) some kind of mass in her tummy, but it seems lower down in her digestive system than it was before; moving away from her ribs and toward her patootie.

Poor patootie.  Today or tomorrow, that patootie is going to get a workout - as with all things, this too appears that it shall pass. 

And Sandy the Hurricane that now answers to "Frankenstorm"...  well she's on her way Virginia-ward too.  We're all ready for her though and we're feeling safe and prepared and as solid as can be.  Everything we CAN control, we have a handle on.  If power goes out, well, we can read and there are flashlights.  There's lots of water stored up now, food in the pantry for days, gas in the car, firewood galore.  We're as ready as we can be.

Now it's up to the gods, frankly, and while it appears that they might have a little fun at our collective public-service expense, I'm going to boldly state with naive confidence that this big storm (which shall be a doozy) will not be the end of us.

Pictures and updates as events warrant; and of course as power grids permit. 

My zipcode is 22304 if you'd like to read along with us on the weather channel.  I'm sure your internet access will be far more reliable than mine over the next few days. 

Kitty is healthy and perky again, however, so come what may I have everything in this very apartment that I could ever dream to ask for.  And then some. 

See you on the other side!

Speak not the name

Oh gawd my kitty is sick.  She's very sick, actually, and is in the "take her to the vet 'cause she can't keep anything down" bucket.  More accurately, she's in the "take her to the vet again 'cause now she's barfing stinky brown liquid and even though her bloodwork came back normal the pain in her gullet is not subsiding and she hasn't pooped in two days (though she didn't seem constipated) and GODS I just can. not. conceive of things going badly for her right now." bucket.

She'll need an exray tomorrow to find out if it's blockage or pancreatitis.
Maybe she'll need a few thousand dollars in surgery.  Maybe not.  Maybe just a few days of hydration and anti-vomit meds and a careful all-day-eyeball from the vet.  Maybe she'll finally supervom this uber-hairball-del-diablo over the course of the night and will stop pretending she can hide behind the dust bunnies under my bedroom chair.

Gods.  I can. not. deal.

Not with this.

So subject change.

Wasn't that abrupt?  Yes.  Very nice.

For my own medical purposes, the headache thing went away and the rest of the day was good as has been every day that followed thereafter.  Just once last June, and now this one - little ophthalmic migraine (use either of those words in scrabble and you're in golden-town!).  So that's a total of twice it's happened, and everyone I talk to says they're perfectly normal and benign until they're not and then you die.  So that's comforting anyway. 

Back to normal on that front.  You know?  and all my other medical stuff too - she said "GO!" and she meant it.  She was right.  I knew it.  I went.  I did the followup.  Everything's fine.  So two more checkups there and I'm officially free and bereft of the "probably not a pile of tumors but we don't know what it actually was, either". And that's comforting too.  In its own sadistic little way.  Two more checkups of "myeh" and I'm back to the "myeh" bucket and out of the "hunh, wtf" bucket.  I'll never be back in the "whatevs" bucket, but let's face it: I gave that bucket up years ago.  :)

Finally on the docket of things to address: Sandy.  She's this big fat hurricane thingy that just spanked the crap out of Cuba and all the local news stations can say (through their gritted teeth, below their knitted brows, and over their icy white knuckles) is that we're likely all going to die in a blast of salty icewater mixed with dragons and the kinds of horrors that would keep Edgar Allen Poe up at night.  And then there will be some flooding apparently. 

So what they're saying is "get out and see the trees in their autumn splendor now".  Because, clearly, after next week, we're boned. 

Well Sandy, if you're gonna' come hang out with me up here in Virginia, you should know I'm tight with the Thunder god of my ancestors and he'll be right put out if you spoil too much of things around here.  Things are plenty tense as it is and I do NOT intend to go to any more veterinary appointments while you're having your way with what's left of the local architecture.  No Ma'am.  You're welcome for a visit, to be sure.  Just mind your manners.  I gots to vote, too.  You know? 

I have a bunch of pals out here now, too.  And they'd sure be grateful if you left their roofs un-smashed and their basements un-swamped and their electricity...  well...  on.  Best not to be greedy, I know. 

Now if you'll all excuse me, I have to go worry about my cat some more.  My precious princess fluff-pants of joy, composed of butter and ribbons and rainbows.  Please don't leave me yet, sweet kitty.  We still need you.

hunh, we meet again...

So it's not like I've been taking SPECTACULAR care of myself over the last week.
So I'm guessing that my lack of panic this time goes largely to that.

Because do you remember this?
Well, it's doing it again.

So that's once in June of 2011
and now once in October of 2012

I'll write more about it later though, when I can see properly and after I get home from my half day of work.  SIdenotes for now include: no brain pain, just feeling "fluffy" and the "swoop" is in both eyes at the same time.  NOT just one.  They match.

And oh look...  I think... yep. There.  It just went away.  NSAIDS must have kicked in. 
20 minutes today.  Okay. 

I can do this. 

I'll write more about it later though.  Like I kinda just said.

Recipe to try on your worst enemy

Ryebread.
Sugar free seedless blackberry jam.
that is all.

It is gross.
I had to share.  And now to find a recipe that I can use the rest of this beshitted jam in.  Perhaps to add sugar in to save it.  Gods help me.

Oh, and also?

A favorite local sign I see on my way to the doctor's office. 
Makes me grin every damned time. 
Because, lo, I am a child.

And there it is, kids.  In living color.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is a Speed Hump.
Not at all what you pervs were thinking, was it!

Captain Plaguerat

Like it?  It's a little name I just thought up. 

(NOTE:  The person I'm about to discuss in great detail was to my eyes very clearly oblivious to the disgusting noises being made and also otherwise kindof creepy in a way that made me wonder if there was a proper sickness going on or perhaps a really creepy attention-grabbing kind of situation. I'm not talking about someone on oxygen here, or anyone otherwise similarly impaired.  The people I jab at here, are people who not only should know better, but who are fully capable of writing similarly insulted/revolted pieces about me.  And fear not, kids, I know my uppances will come.  They always do.  My aggressive statements might be misconstrued, however, and while I hope they're not, I also hope that if I offend you, you might reach out to me so we can talk about it.)

I don't know why I always seem to write these kinds of things on the weekends, except that subway-companion-analysis is a far less funny game when you've still got half a workweek ahead of you. 

But today's theme, gentle readers and foaming minions alike, is my new friend: Captain Plaguerat.

He comes in many forms, though usually you can recognize him by his 19th month of pregnancy-belly, covered only under the straining fibers of a thin, blue, buttondown shirt.  It creates a nice camelly-foot kind of effect.  And he harumpfs into the seat on the subway, both butt-places magnificently occupied by his singular posterior.  His feet and knees appear to have had a row, a fierce argument (if you will) and have not spoken to each other in ages as neither leg is pointing even vaguely in the same direction.  His tattery briefcase rests helplessly at his feet and at this point the handkerchief comes out.

If you're lucky.

Sometimes Captain Plaguerat comes without his signature hanky and just has a puffy beard or a withered sportcoat to absorb his pestilence.

And then we're off to the races.  There's no getting away now.  We're crammed in like those feeder goldfish at the petstore with waaaaaaaay less energy or motivation to... you know... survive.  The train lurches forward and you hear it.  *kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

and you're like "oh, that's nice. He's sick as hell and his workplace finally sent him home. at the end of the day.  at rush hour.  Super.  Juuuuuust super."

And you're filled with the kind of delight you get from trying to sort out exactly when it will be safe to breathe so long as you time it properly and are faced the right way.

So you put in your earbuds and turn up the System Of A Down and you just hope for the best.

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Mutherfucker.

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Really?  Seriously?  It's been like, eight seconds!

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Okay dude, honestly, are you just going to sit there and play with it?  *and this is where I start gagging uncontrollably*

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Stop one.  We've made it.  Eight to go.  Maybe Captain Plaguerat will get off at a popular stop like everyone else?  No?  Really?  30 more minutes of this maple-syrup-smoker's-lung?  Every 3 to 17 seconds?  Super. 

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Super fantastic.

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

He's got pink cheeks like a santa might.  But he's got a bleak-looking potato finger for a nose and some serious hair-care-for-men issues. 

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Must.  Not.  Turn.  Around.

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Must. Not.  GLARRRE.

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

OH GEEZ GAWD!  ZOMBIFY ALREADY FOR CHRISTS' SAKES (nb: there were more than one, right?) (no, I know, I'm just being an ass now)

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Now I'm starting to feel... what's the word my friend used recently?  Oh right "HOMICIDAL"...  but without the stabby-stab because gack who wants THAT mess on their hands, right?  Am I right folks?

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

AAAAAND it's my stop.  So I get off the train and gag a little fresh air into my wilting lungs and I start to count the days until I get sick. 

Lucky for me, Captain Plaguerat probably doesn't have something contagious... he's just gross.
He's just one of those unhappy people of the world born to a life of horrible greasy skinflakes, assboils, toenails that look like fritos, and a cough that would retch a hyena.

He's not there to spread contagion, I tell myself, but he's more of a mystical creature.  Perhaps the gods sent him to absorb the evils of the world that they may manifest in his tissues and be kept away from the rest of us.  It's what I tell myself, you see.  And just as soon as I can get the skin on my neck to stop crawling and my ears to stop replaying that horrible horrible sound...  I can start to believe it.

But by the gods, if I get sick next week... 
Well let's just not go there, shall we?  Yes.  Let's not.