... I was busy cleaning out my room. Oh, the glamor of it all.

Because when it comes time to toss something, I am often possessed by the ghost of my great-grandmother Nana, who was temporarily homeless with four children to care for, all on her own, during the Great Depression. Afterward, she kept everything--even rubber bands, old magazines, and stray cats. (I wouldn't be surprised to find out she laundered and reused dental floss or condoms. She washed plastic, disposable fast food straws, you guys. FROM MCDONALD'S.)

As a result, I own everything on Planet Earth. Oh, you might think you have belongings, but go look for it. It's in my room! My room is a junk city where goblins store everything they've stolen from mankind. Or it was, until I actually started liquidation.

So I am quite proud to present the first success: a pile of clothing I am getting rid of!

It contains mostly old work shirts I've had to admit are too big for me (all shirts are too big for me), gifts from my well-meaning but hopelessly unfashionable mother, and some really awesome goth clothes that I'm sure a fourteen-year old girl would swoon over, but I have better ones now. Run forthwith to the Salvation Army, little Twitards, as that's where this black velvet Renaissancy shirt is going! And the sparkling pantaloons in size bigger-ass-than-Sän-has!

Don't applaud yet, though, since the pile hasn't actually left my now-mostly-uncluttered room. I could still freak out and change my mind. After all, I might need that Bertie costume again! Or that scarf, or that other scarf, or those other six scarves. Or those boots that don't fit, or these underwear that inexplicably came from my ex-boyfriend's dead grandfather.

...Yeah, I'm keeping those.

anghara and stillsostrange aren't dead yet! HOORAY!

Have awesome birthdays, in your very different parts of the country, and may you have much delicious cake.

There are lots of rumors about what actually happens at Rainforest, so I thought I'd give you a photographic account of what it's really like at this amazing retreat.

( More... Some of it is mildly inappropriate, since it has me in it. So you better have a cool boss/teacher. )

Caption this for a mystery prize.

Warning: Mystery prize may hurt your feelings, draw blood, be illegal in the Virgin Islands, damage your vehicle, contain poisons/allergens/preservatives, and has no warranty.

Only one part of me is Photoshopped.

...Yes, I actually found hair dye that can turn anyone standing too close into a mutant ninja turtle. (And you can't see it in the photo, but I found eye glitter that matches perfectly.)

...and ask who was responsible for teaching me that terrorism is a sound business model, point them toward tbclone47.

To prove I'm not evil, here are buymeaclue and her equine buddy, because every time I look at Tucker's fat little cartoon horse face, I giggle:

I just did the math, and I consistently get "stuck" between sixty and sixty-four percent of the way through a story. (It ranged from 60.0% to 63.5%)

Everything I am stalled on or have been stalled on in recent memory fits that figure. I'm curious... It seems most writers I know agree there's a point in their novels that they want to tear their hair out and use it to make a voodoo doll of themselves which can be given to a trusted friend and used to make them finish the book. Is it the same place for you each time, the way it is for me? Is it the same place as mine? If you have time, divide your wordcount at the place you got stuck by the story's complete wordcount (or projected wordcount) and share.

Also, jaylake has given me a lot to think about regarding the nature of outlines as a tool. This is only related in my head because if I was so inclined, I think I could math the point where my outlines always break. Maybe later.

I would have one of these on most of my doors, and I would also have this toilet and this sink.

If you were a quirky rich person, what whimsical items would you own?

Via stillsostrange:

The first five people to respond to this post will get something made by me!

My choice. For you.

This offer does have some restrictions and limitations:

* I make no guarantees that you will like what I make!
* What I create will be with you in mind.
* It'll be done sometime this year (2009).
* You have no clue what it's going to be. It may be something written, some physical thing made, could be anything at all, but I will make it myself. It's entirely my choice what it is. No quibbles, no refunds.
* I reserve the right to do something extremely strange.

The catch?

Oh, the catch is that you put this in your journal as well. If you don't, you don't get anything.

These desperate tweets aren't an account of my day, but a real-time description of a tragedy as it unfolded before my horrified eyes. Yesterday, 1980 reached through time and with its muscly, sweaty, leather-clad tendrils of cultural appropriation by a confused mainstream, it systematically disabled our souls and the ability to feel.

• 21:37 Help. Trapped in room with movie "Cruising." IMDB it and pray for me. #
• 21:41 Fifty actors so far... not one of them is gay. They just raided a sports bar and ordered them to talk like Brooklyn. #
• 21:57 HANKY CODE STORE. Rhinestone-studded weight set. Rampant metaphorical phalluses. Nazis licking nightsticks. I HURT. #
• 22:00 Gay: ur doin it rawng. #
• 22:08 No! Al Pacino, don't dance! You'll give yourself away! #
• 22:29 This movie just convinced me to get interrogated in NYC. You know, for the muscly black dudes and jockstraps. #
• 22:32 If this was yaoi, Pacino would be the hairiest damn uke I've ever seen. #
• 22:37 Is there a Guinness record for biggest hanky code?! Pacino could dry a wet dog with that thing. #
• 23:24 Christian youth camps should screen this film. I don't think I can touch myself (or other guys) for a week. Cured! #
• 23:28 And for refreshments? We're eating wieners. (I wish I was kidding.) #
• 23:29 M. Night Shyamalan should remake this tripe. With furries. #