Stabby stabby

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I had my first librarical injury. While volunteering in the conservation library, I managed to stab myself in the thumb (behind the nail, not on the pad) with a pair of small pointy scissors. I absolutely cannot believe how much I bled. Seriously.

That got me thinking about the last time I gushed blood from my hand. It was, I think, almost exactly five years ago that I cut off the end of a finger with a giant paper cutter. (Mom, do you remember?)

So yeah. I should be good on the book-injury front for a while. I hope I’m immune to paper cuts now. Oh, and I managed to not bleed on the book I was fixing.

Knit a tit.

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tit bit

That’s right. I said it. From the Knitty.com fall surprise, I learned about Tit Bits, a website that provides both knitted fake boobies and support (get it – support!) for breast cancer survivors. Knitty has a free pattern for making your own tit, and although I don’t have anyone in my life who needs a new breast, I thinkI might make one anyway, just in case.

(Much like making a penguin jumper, just in case there’s another oil spill near Antartica.)

Pebbles’ Mom’s Energy Bar recipe

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energy bar recipe

Better than any Clif Bar or can of beans, this souped up Rice Crispies bar has been my savior (as a cranky hypoglycemic). Made with love, these things can fuel you through a day of hiking (lovely with a few slices of yard-o’-beef and some Tang).

Made with spite, they’ll tear you apart from the inside. Kidding.

Added to list of “Jobs to Have”

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I’ve been researching how to uglify my bike – I have a shiny red, white, and blue (gag) mountain bike, and I don’t want it to get stolen. Chambana isn’t an urban letch, but college towns=stolen bikes.

Although I’ve decided that uglifying might take more than a little duct tape (I’m considering knitting a bike cozy), I ran across a really fun, engaging article/blog post about deciding to be a bike courier. The author used to be a coder, so there’s an element of ‘damn the man’, but in a cube-hater way. Office Space is mentioned.

I’ve been riding more than I have in years, so maybe that’s why I’m so charmed by this little piece of writing. I could see being a bike courier for a while.

Even if you hate being outside, it’s an interesting peek into the life of, as the author states, “two wheels and a meat motor.”

Link

Dead Kevin is no fun.

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After finally getting the story about how we all managed not to hear about Kevin’s accident, and learning that I wasn’t the only one out of the loop, I still feel weird about not knowing that he was long gone.

Leave it to Kevin to be a pain in the ass. I swear. It’s one thing to be whiny and fat, quite another to up and die on us. Now what am I going to do with that burned copy of The Weakerthan’s Reconstruction Site that has “I hate you! [heart]” sharpied on it? I kept forgetting to mail it, and now Kevin will never hear the sweet sweet sounds of this album. Don’t wait to mail stuff! It will only end in tragedy!

I hate Kevin

The perpetual gag was that we all hated each other, illustrated in this photo taken at our AmeriCorps*NCCC graduation. I was also standing on a lower step so he didn’t feel so short. There was nothing I could do about the fat, squinty, or baldness.

Fuck off, Dead Kevin. I hate you, and miss you like hell.

Kevin Brunelle is dead.

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I’ve just had the weirdest hour. My friend Kevin is dead. I found this out via a third-wave forward through the AmeriCorps crew.

Not only that, but he died in JUNE.

WTF? This explains why I couldn’t get ahold of him to dish about Noah. Huh.

I’m wrecked, but I can’t talk to my shared friends about it, because
1. It’s been three months. Obviously the communication lines are down.
2. Noah and Dan are closest friends I had, and they either don’t know about it, or don’t have my contact info (ahem, ex boyfriend, ahem), because I heard about it THREE MONTHS LATE.
3. AmeriCorps is like the Army in that I have these buddies spread across the world, and I don’t talk to them that often, so I can’t just get a hug.

I need to find a picture of Kevin, and do this up right, so you know who I’m talking about.

Squinty
Thank you, Disc Golf Atlanta. I can’t believe how cheesy this picture is. Squinty was way more rad than that.

I can’t sleep anymore.

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When I close my eyes, various types of abstract organization and concepts spin counterclockwise. I’m not kidding. I realized it’s a problem when last night’s dream was a more normal dream, about a hurricane that had stopped right over my house (all dreams take place on the farm). It was dark and forboding, but absolutely frozen in time. It was a Midwest hurricane of organization.

And this “normal” dream came after watching the awful awful movie Party Monster. I woke up with a sore throat and an aching nose. Did I do massive amounts of drugs in my sleep?

This is what it takes to get my paper done.

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501 journal tools

The reading responses for my intro class are so dry, writing appropriate drivel involves a glass of wine and fuzzy sock*. Tactile and drunk, that’s how I’ll write it. Yes. Good.

*Abbie gave me these socks. They are as soft as they look, AND they were on sale. That’s why she’s neat.

Everything looks like scritchy

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My YA book club is going to take on graphic novels for an upcoming meeting. This + a trip to Chicago = going to Quimby’s. I didn’t find any actual graphic novels to purchase, but I did get my fill of bag o’ mag and Fillerbunny.

And Lenore, the Little Dead Girl
Lenore

For the past few days, I’ve been walking around Champaign and thinking everyone looks like they’re in a comic. I don’t know if it’s the inundation of graphicality, or just residual three-day hangover, but it’s kind of neat.

So, does anyone have a graphic novel to suggest? Hm? You know me. What do I like?