Letters mingle souls.
I feel like a medic when I transport my Scrabble board to someone’s home. My board folds into its own carrying case and features angled built-in casters that allow it to rotate as if on a pivot. It has a non-slip grid, which is essential for those who tend to bump into tables. The only thing it’s missing is a purple Crown Royal bag.
But I’m no medic: I want to hurt my opponents. In the calmest way possible.
Here’s where all 100 tiles ended up on Thursday night:
That’s right:
Wait…
Continue reading “Letters mingle souls.”Days well spent.
It is with immense satisfaction that I share Snorkelling Cat in its final form:
The frame turned out exactly as envisioned. As far as cross stitch projects go, this one is on the simple side. The handmade frame elevates the finished piece as a whole. It now hangs before the room known as the pain/crafting nook.
I started my day with toast. I love toast. But an hour post-toast, I found myself in the saddle with my shoebox-mounted laptop in front of me and a pool of sweat below. It was the last race of Zwift Racing League: City Showdown, and the final time I’d race with the RIOT ladies this year. This week, we raced in a world that serves as New York City, but with a futuristic touch. A part of the course takes you over the city on glass pathways. Or maybe it’s plexiglass. I don’t know what the material is meant to be, but the point is:
Continue reading “Days well spent.”There’s poop on my fridge.
20+ years ago, the internet gave birth to the “Jeff Goldblum is watching you poop” meme. This was the inspiration behind this week’s fridge statement, which evolves as the roomie or I swap out a word or two as we putter around in the kitchen.
“Jeff Bridges is helping you poop.”
The Fort Collins Pube Fair.
111 pages deep into 1Q84, and Murakami describes a woman’s pubic hair for the second time.
“Pubic hair like a poorly tended soccer field.”
Then, another 71 pages later, Murakami can’t hold in the urge to shoehorn in another uncomfortable simile about pubes.
“Her pubic hair grew like a patch of grass that had been trampled by a passing army.”
I’m currently on page 275, anxiously awaiting to see how much more abstract Murakami can get in his descriptions of women’s pubic hair. Between those 93 pube-free pages, there have been swells of chests and tight sweaters. Nothing as bad as Simmons’ “Her nipples, he could not help noticing…” line.
Continue reading “The Fort Collins Pube Fair.”
squaremeat.com 