Yep. That's right.

So I like Tumblr because it's so much easier to view and share little tidbits of interweb greatness. But I miss the personalization of my Blogger. So I'm going to work on some healthy median between the two. Any way it ends up going down . . . the Bitch is Back!!!

I hear it's supposed to be a hot one tomorrow . . .

Time to bust out with the bathing suits and sandals!!!

This shit is crazy. Love it though. Those little buggers are adorable.

Add one more thing on list of must-do's with the girls during our roommate reunion (two years is too long, too long) in NYC.

Now this is a door I'd love everyone to walk through (and yes chalkboard paint it the best . . . in the world). And on that note, everyone check out rockstar diaries, I love Naomi's lists of things that make people happy . . . lists that don't stress me out. ♥

And this "cat" has the right idea for the summer . . . deal with it FU Penguin, deal. He's just a little cooler AND cuter than you.

Their shows made me so happy when I was little. I bet they still would.

Puppets X Bloggers = Smiles

Thank you Ms. Wonderland and Mr. Cooper for making my day. (psssst, Charity is my . . . er . . . close friend)

Ms. Wonderland I am slowly trying to help you conquer your fear of puppets with this video from Interpol, the marionette scene from Escape to Witch Mountain, and other various puppets with senses of humor.

Someday when you've conquered your fear we can enjoy a Thunderbirds marathon. Okay those marionettes kind of scare me but . . . still loved them. I wonder what that series goes for nowadays. And the Murder She Wrote DVD full-series collection cost $60, not $10. So bite me. Rawr. :)

Happy Easter

You don't have to rise from the dead to be relevant.

It may just be that I live with my family that I'm constantly being reminded (whether I want to be or not) that I'm important. I'm needed. I'm loved. Sometimes Descartes' cogito ergo sum (I think therefore I am) model for existentialists, really doesn't ring true (it doesn't for most existentialists either). At what point do some of the people in my life become lines in text messages or just faces on a screen? I suppose if anyone is reduced to anything, I prefer their voice on a telephone (I always prefer to go blind than deaf). Regardless I'm beginning to see the ugly truth I've never wanted to see before. It has a habit of sneaking up on me, typically at work, when I'm in the middle of some mundane task and I've allowed my mind to wander freely, some appeasement I suppose for keeping my body in one place. Why it always goes for the gut first . . . I'll never know. While I'm still reeling from that blow, it wraps its hands around my throat and chokes me. I feel the tears coming to my eyes but I always stop them. I always stop them when it's the truth that's causing them. I will not give truth the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Truth figures that out, and while it loosens its grip, it travels down to the chambers of my heart where it resides and every beat is a reminder that I am here.
One part of the truth I've learned is while a proverbial shout-out, a message in a bottle sort of deal in a blog, in a sea of lives, the net cast is quite large and really who is special that responds? Lots I suppose. I just don't know ya. But a hand that reaches out in the night, across a bed, a hand that rests on your back . . . it may not be as serendipitous as the first, but it can feel as surreal. It can be just as charming. And it certainly should be reassuring that despite everything . . . you are relevant.