And deep fried socks.
Man, I love
Crown King. But I'm admittedly a little tired of it right now; all the chairs there are always absurdly tiny for some reason, seriously, like the whole town is never expecting anyone older than six. And that wears on an adult-sized person in a strange way, a claustrophobic way. An "I can't make another lighthearted 'doll house' comment without hulking out and throwing that tiny, tiny rocker right through the low, low ceiling" way. And plus we spent
way too much time in the car arguing about panthers. We blew right past our monthly panther argument quota, so now we're just sitting here in silence, basically. Waiting for September.
So!
My sister Styro has a heart that emits little tufts of kittycat fur when it beats, and she's in the process of rescuing, spaying, taming, fostering, and adopting out another set of street kittens. She does this out of her own home and her own pocket purely because she's 100% amazing, and the ever impressive internet has--as per usual-- ponied up.
Go help Styro save the kitties. I have it on good authority she's going to name every single kitty Pierce Brosnan.
I drove past
my rental house last week for the first time in about a year. I try my best to stay away from it, frankly, because whenever I get within a hundred yards this giant spinning vortex opens up and sucks fifteen hundred dollars out of my bank account. But the train wreck siren song of the still unresolved bee situation was too much for the masochist in me to resist, so I drove over and peered through the back fence.
And promptly lost my faith in humanity. That much collapsed seating and draped, ripped rayon can only mean one of two things: Either Mary's letting paratroopers land in the backyard-- and she better not be, there's no zoning for that-- or she's hosting a hobo carnival. You know what they serve at the Hobo Carnival, don't you? Giant turkey bones.
