Tag: somber inner Bollywood dancer

Cell Phone Cameras Continue to Document Thin Shreds of Reality

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This weekend was pretty crunked out, and no, I do not use that term loosey-goosely. It was extremely cranked up, pumped to the max, as far as weekends go, whoa whoa.

First, Halloween occurred but I had to double-time it with the dress rehearsal for the Saturday Bolly dance-stravaganza. However, costumes still happened, natch.

I was the Internet phenomenon, Spaghetti Cat! Well, technically, I was the cat and boyfie was the spaghetti (I cooked real noodles!). Low-maintenance is our mantra. Photo shoot ensued.

Original Spaghetti Cat:

First take, Spaghetti Cat:

Second take, Spaghetti Cat:

Third take, Spaghetti Cat Contemplates Noodles/Life:

Paparazzi Shot #1, Spaghetti Bat(?):

Paparazzi Shot #2, Spaghetti Cat—Up Claws and Purrrr-sonal:

Paparazzi Shot #3, Boyfie Bewitches While Maintaining Privacy:

Paparazzi Shot #4, Boyfie Is Mysterious Stranger:

Then, all of Saturday, dance show happened! It was insane, off the chain, in the membrane! Thank you so much to everyone who came out to see it! I currently only have one photo documenting a final dazzle pose, but use your imagination and/or patience to fill in the rest.


Then I detoxed on Sunday by watching The Omen, a scary movie, in which, well, for lack of a better way to put it, shit goes down. I am unclear exactly how much watching this movie actually realigned my chakras, if at all.

In retrospect, I am pretty mad that Julia Stiles got on the tippy-top of a stool to hydrate roses when she was clearly going to fall several feet after her demon child ran into her with his Razor-esque kick scooter (totally not meant for indoor purposes, btdubs, even if you are the Antichrist). She did go to Columbia after all! She’s no dummy.

If you have a nanny, especially a creepy Mia Farrow nanny, you can also afford a no-nonsense maid, a la Mr. Belvedere or Geoffrey from Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. He can water those pesky flowers and prevent inconvenient hospital bills! Yeah, I’m sorry too that I’m trying to transpose logic over a movie about the son of a jackal and his reign of kinder-terror.

In conclusion, yesterday, while perusing a book vending institution, I found the following: Sock Monkey in a Box!!! You’re welcome.

Move It and Lose It

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Today is moving day! I know, I can’t stand the magic either.

(I was at work an hour early. Someone’s going to have to pay. And I only accept a form of currency known as snarkasm.)

Changing offices should be considered a milestone in everybody’s careers.

Actually, I haven’t even been in my current office that long (and yes, I too am shocked that I have an office). I only just got it a few months ago (before that my address was Anonymous Hall Cube, Cubesville, USA).

And now, it’s time to scuttle (not unlike a crab) onward lifewise to a more enlightened place, both mentally and physically…across the hall!!!

Because windows and natural light are overrated. So is personal space for that matter. Don’t need it, don’t want it, don’t like it. At least not in that way. No, I’m lying. I’m a huge fan of personal space. From zero to polygraph in 60 seconds.

So in the moving process, which is going straightforwardly enough, I’m mainly dealing with this unforeseen piece of goodness:

The most objective form of love diagnosis available on the market today…presenting THE HEARTBOARD (heart-shaped dartboard)!!!
Here is a close-up:

I don’t know where it came from, but it was here when I moved in here. So it must come with me. It’s not going in the trash, that’s a given. No, not the recycling either. Cheap joke, hippies! And at a time like this no less! I hope you remember we’re in the middle of a climate crisis.

I can’t stay on the same subject because I am suffering from the confident delirium that can only be achieved by a good night’s lack of sleep.

This is weird. I went for a walk this morning (caused by a fire drill test, which meant that no one had to leave the building except for people who have trouble doing work with high-pitched siren ambient noise), and the entire street evoked the odor of new car smell. Not altogether unpleasant at all, but how and why?!

Oh, and for the grand finale, I just found out about this site where you can make people mixtapes. I’m thinking earth should officially consider a name change to heaven (the club). DJs spinning eight tracks all night by hand (because that’s how you manually fast-forward and rewind tapes, son! Act like you know.)

Here’s one I made (p to the s: It’s schizophrenic-sounding)!


Make sure your creepy-looking, somber inner Bollywood tiny dancer spirit has a good weekend…I know mine will!