Nothing screams unemployed bike mechanic more than this:
With Halloween approaching, I thought a touch of gore would be apt. I wanted to look as if I’d just gotten through disembowelling a large wild animal in search of the tastiest hunk of offal. Normal Halloween fantasies, you know?
They turned out devastatingly beautiful. Aesthetically pleasing yet mildly unsettling. Also, spellbinding, hopefully, as zooming out would reveal an obvious struggle to get the hang of long nails. Long pointy nails. I have spent an unusual length of time clawing the floor, trying to pick up bits of thread. I have traded dexterity for aesthetics.
I gave myself a month’s head start on my Halloween costume, only to get sidetracked by another project:
I have turned a $48 thermal cycling jersey into a $500 one by embroidering the gremlin from Treehouse of Horror IV on it. That’s also only if I value my labour at minimum wage.
I felt strongly about getting that gremlin on there in time for Halloween.
I probably rode too quickly for anyone to notice how stylish and on-theme I looked today. I have reactivated my Zwift membership to get a workout in no matter the weather, so that was the plan. At 4pm, while I was still clawing to finish my Halloween costume, I noticed the unusually pleasant-looking weather. If I ride outside, I wouldn’t have to convert the Crafting Nook I was working in into a Pain Nook. I left a mess of jute and thread on the floor, as well as the largest hot glue gun I’ve ever seen, and headed out.
Halloween is tomorrow, and the costume isn’t finished. While I’m confident it’ll be done in time for Alexa’s party, I’d like to wear it while running errands, like buying weed and ribs of celery. It’s the kind of costume that would render me completely unrecognizable. In a way, I desperately want to be seen without actually being seen.
I am having a philosophical crisis the night before Halloween.
More troubling was Gator’s recent question:
“Have you ever tried kombucha, and did you like it?”
It’s 2025. Alberta really is behind the times.
I explained how the anti-kombucha camp argues that it’s like drinking vinegar.
And that’s what I like about it. I don’t put ketchup on my fries, or even mayonnaise (“But that’s the condiment of your people!” declared the roomie.): I drown them in vinegar. White or malt: it does not matter. In fact, I see fries as a vessel for vinegar.
Picture me before a plate of mushy fries, red-eyed from the vinegar fumes. Then, with my beautiful claw, I awkwardly grasp for a fry, miss, and further macerate the fries in the soup of vinegar. At some point, whatever’s left on my plate has turned into warm, mashed-potato kombucha. And I devour it all anyway because I like vinegar that much.
“Do you drink it for the health benefits or because you like it?” Gator pressed further.
What health benefits?
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