fancybidet:

lachrimaestro

The binding on those ukes is so needlessly sharp!  Take some fine abrasive paper and sand it into a nice comfortable radius!

I sanded it back when I first got it but for some reason it’s bothering me again so I’ll have another go at it! (I think now that it’s hotter and I’m wearing short sleeves my arm is like “yes, my old foe the ukulele”.)

You could make one of these out of some 6 or 9mm plastic or wood, stuck in place with double sided tape. I made one for a fellow who was starting to suffer from serious nerve  impingement and it helped immensely.

The wind is pushing things around. I hear the trees groaning.

I haven’t been sleeping very well lately. I’m tired of constantly being things I’m not, and not being the things I am. I figure there are about seventeen different, authentic, versions of me.  I’m not sure which one I’m supposed to be living as. How do you know if you’re not, somehow… the incorrect you?

Washing dishes. Obsverving bubbles.

Think of your average teaspoon and the life it leads.  I must have washed this thing 3000 times so far, (all by hand).  Every cleaning removes the tiniest amount of metal. Little molecules of steel disappearing day by day.

How long does a spoon last?

-I’m tearing up drawings left and right tonight.

-Why has “Ol’ Maple” never caught on as a patriotic term for the Canadian flag?

-It bothers me when people in horror movies fire off shotgun rounds in an enclosed space and subsequently talk at normal volume.

-I’m going to make apple crisp tomorrow, (king of all desserts). It’s bittersweet. I mean, yes it has a perfect balance of sweet and tart, but there’s a sinister tinge to it as well.  The very first time I realized there was something seriously wrong with my mother happened when I came over one gloriously autumnal Sunday and found her making a bowl of apple crisp topping, oblivious to the fact that she’d just finished making a bowl of the same stuff minutes earlier.  

I looked at that bowl of brown sugar and cinnamon and cursed at it internally.  “Fuck you, superfluous bowl of apple crisp topping.”  The idea that something so wonderfully good, a cup and a half of baking ingredients could herald doom seemed unnecessarily cruel. 

A portrait of @gelflinggrrrl‘s new snake-child.

The ball python (Python regius) is the smallest of the African pythons, being less than 6 feet in length at maturity.  They constrict their snacks and their name comes from the habit of rolling themselves up into a compact little ball when stressed or threatened.