Housekeeping.
Not a whole lot going on over here.
My writing job has been postponed again, this time until May. It's a good thing I was born without an innate sense of logic or I might just give up on this gig. In the meantime, I've been sock zombie-ing my fingers to the bone.
Art Detour is this weekend and I'll be there with bells on, selling zombies, trying to convince my paper-thin crystalline ego that I'm still capable of paying for my own basic survival. When I'm not sewing sock arms on sock torsos, I'm doing website work for Randy. So he can continue to
actually pay for my own basic survival. Please don't tell my delicate subconscious.
I was at the store earlier, and I strolled down the pet supply aisle in pursuit of dog treats for The Jake. Ultimately I turned my nose up at everything, though, because I've been reading a lot lately about how most dog foods are ridiculously unhealthy, and I didn't want to inadvertently give Jake something that might not be good for him.
So then I come home, right, and when Jake runs to the door to meet me, I see that all four paws are now dyed florescent green-- evidently I should have locked him in the house before the guy came to spray our entire yard with weed poison. If he's still alive tomorrow, I think I'll swing back by the Safeway and pick him up some Beggin' Strips.
