Yesterday we ate cherries and spit them off of the porch. I drew this small birb in honor of cherries and have put it on a postcard in my shop for reasons. chECK IT.
Today I took my dog to the lake where he tried to catch a very apathetic Loon.
He did not succeed, and spent the remainder of his time trying to catch frogs near the shore.
He didn't catch any frogs either.
He did, however, sniff every plant he could find on the walk back and was very pleased with himself indeed.
Some days must be reserved for being very happy, but there is nothing wrong with having sad days every once in a while. I suppose sad days make you appreciate the happy ones.
As an authority on the subject, I can wholeheartedly say that this is completely accurate and useful, and will definitely 100% make all your problems go away.
I can always tell when I am truly stressed out because I dream exclusively about theater. Now, because it is not yet possible to tap into my dreams as a way to figure out how high strung I am on any given day, I am going to divulge a little secret. Another way to tell how I am feeling is by simply looking at my doodles.
I doodle a lot...Essentially whenever I am holding something capable of making marks on something else, I will doodle. When I am feeling happy or content my doodles are of playful little characters and flowers and birbs and things like that. However, when I am upset or stressed out, I draw butts.
Butts. I like to draw butts. There is something incredibly cathartic about drawing butts and the legs attached to them. Perhaps it gives me the same rush that fills the tiny minds of junior high children as they gleefully draw penises on everything they can get their hands on. I honestly don't really understand it, but it gives me a sense of inner peace, so I will probably continue to do so indefinitely.
My billboard at school was periodically covered in sticky notes depicting all sorts of butts. I do not discriminate in my butt doodling. All butts are fair game.
Today I am upset, as I very often am, about the injustices in the world... so naturally I have drawn butts.
I am not sorry.
I have not posted in a few days because life is busy, and when life is busy I forget to do things like eat and post things on the internet. I am sort of sorry about this, so here is a birb parade.
I put it on a mug too so click on the image to see that if you're feeling it.
A few years ago, my older sister adopted a rabbit.
She is tiny and terribly cute, but has absolutely no regard for the rules of the household.
You see, Philomena the rabbit likes to poop everywhere except her litterbox.
I am not sure why she does it, but I am beginning to think it is a deliberate decision to be obstinate.
A way to fight the man.
She poops in her house, on her floor, in her bed, around the perimeter of her playpen, and everywhere else she can.
...Except for her litterbox.
The litterbox always stays impeccably clean.
I do not understand what force drives her to relieve herself in every possible place except the one spot she is supposed to utilize as her bathroom. If Rabbits poop to mark their territory, does this mean that she has rejected her litterbox as the one thing in the entire house she does not wish to own? Does she she it as disagreeable? A symbol of the iron fisted tyrant who does not let her chew up electrical cords?
Perhaps she simply prefers to poop everywhere else as some sort of game, and enjoys the thought of the humans having to pick up the tiny poops she leaves under their beds.
I actually admire her in a way. She, a very small rabbit, openly and unabashedly refuses to comply with what is expected of her, and doesn't give one single heck if anyone likes it or not.
It is quite punk rock if you think about it.
Fight the man, Philomena. Fight the man.
I have just witnessed first hand the intensely corrupting nature of the common garden hose.
However, before I delve into the harrowing tale I would like to give some background information:
At the beginning of the hour, the swarms of children in my front yard were each presented with a water gun, as it was the first warm day we have had in a week or so, and my mother wanted to give them something to do. (If left to their own devices they take great pleasure in things like digging trenches in the backyard, and erecting makeshift camps out of tarps and pointy sticks, before going at each other with the ferocity of honey badgers fighting over the last bee hive in the world. In short, someone generally gets hurt.)
Now, anyone who has ever witnessed or taken part in a water fight knows that the rules, if any are set to begin with, go out the window rather quickly, and this fight was no exception.
It started out as a lighthearted and playful game, but quickly descended into a backstabbing, hose-misusing, screaming fest...And it is all the fault of the evil temptress that is the garden hose.
You see, initially the child in possession of the hose was entrusted with the duty of filling up the water guns as they were emptied, and took obvious pride in carrying out their duty with an official and altruistic air. Unfortunately that was not to last. As time wore on, I watched the hose-bearer transform from a dutiful referee, to a power hungry monster, drunk on their own pride and ammunition, as they realized that they held in their tiny hands the greatest weapon of all.
They discovered that in their grasp they possessed an endless supply of water and soaking abilities with a 25 foot span, capable of drenching even the quickest and oldest of children in one deft motion.
It was the perfect storm.
Children scattered. Water guns were dropped, knees were scraped, one child even slipped indoors in a frenzied attempt to escape the all powerful garden hose.
It was too much.
The remaining warriors regrouped, and in an act of desperation decided to call upon the eternal power of the "Time Out".
Hands raised in a T formation, one of the older children boldly stepped forward in an attempt to curb the runaway train that was the hose-bearer. He stopped. There is no documented evidence of the cry of Time Out ever failing.
Harsh words were exchanged. The hose-bearer dropped the hose, slunk away to sulk and recover from the frenzy he had experienced, and a new hose-bearer was elected.
Democracy ruled the front yard once again.
That is, for the next approximately two and a half minutes.
Beware the garden hose, my friends.