Headlessness.

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Running around like Mike, so no time for a proper entry today, but props to Jackie for pointing me to a 2005 story (CBC Digital Archives yeeeAAAAAAH) about crack use in Toronto, including comments from then-councillor Rob Ford, and for introducing the term ‘schadenforde’.

 

Post-hipster hipstering.

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Have spent today knitting, raking leaves, and making potato-leek .
soup, which is part of this dimly lit, very late lunch (which includes Weebro’s first successful attempt at homemade bread).

(I was doing beer (and everything else) in Mason jars decades before Hintonburg got rid of its crack dens, yo.)

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P.S. Man, my dining room table is filthy.

P.P.S. Mmm, carbs.

Lyricism.

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There once was a girl from Ottawa
Who was really much too fucking tired to come up with a good rhyme,
So she went to bed pretty early
Contentedly full of Greek food and leftover Hallowe’en candy.

Scares.

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Euchre Night was BACK and blowing my budget last night. So YAY. It was delightful to play again. I got hugged by a friendly old drunk man, who had earlier admonished Kirk for not paying attention. Continue reading

Equine health.

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I went running this morning. Why’d I do that? A potentially vain attempt at keeping one step ahead of SAD through moving/being outside. I have to be prepared for when biking season ends and hiding inside, hating everything begins. Continue reading

Genius.

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Had a profoundly daft day, which culminated in going to a Loblaws (for non-essentials, no less) that’s a drunken stumble from a university on Student Discount Day. It was a maelstrom of lost sheep with vocal fry and carts full of frozen pizza, coconut water, and low-fat yogurt.

But I did see a gentlemen put a hot roasted chicken in his backpack, then shove all his other groceries on top of it before toddling off on his merry way, so that made dealing with the chaos totally worth it.

Human petri dishes.

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Woke up wheezy with a sore throat, but chalked it up to seasonal allergies and decided to do a bit of a run anyway, just to shake the muscle cobwebs out. Turns out the running app I use sometimes has a ‘fitness assessment’ thing which is very sophisticated.

By which I mean it asks to run 3K and times you doing it. Continue reading

Fiction.

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I went to bed before 10 last night and it was bliss. Woke up naturally at 6:30. The only bit of my dreams that I remember was hearing an Alan Thicke cover of a Cure song (I can’t remember which).

NaNoWriMo is coming up in a few days and, as usual, I am half-contemplating it, but am mighty sure that I will chicken out. Even if it doesn’t matter that the 50000 words can be pure drivel (and likely would be), I would still cringe. I still can’t edit my own work (as is clear from basically every error-filled post here) and I’m too scared to show my work to other people (which’ll make this weekend’s writing group meeting AWFULLY fun).

Also, and I’m not super proud of this, out of jealousy, like a 14-year-old with An Opinion, I have made fun of this thing in the past. Forcing people to write? RIDICULOUS! If I want to write a novel, I will do it in my own time! DOWN WITH THE MAN, MAAAAAAN.

Except I haven’t written a novel, not even a shit one. And probably won’t without some kind of kick in the arse.

So, What’s the harm? Aside from losing my mind a tiny bit because 1600+ words a day is very intimidating. I have a tiny inkling of a plot idea. Is that enough to go on?

What say y’all?