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Sylvia Plath x Anne Sexton

Disclaimer: I wrote this because I thought it would be amusing, not because I have any interest in fanfic.

Moral of the story: Don't do things just because you can and you think it would be amusing.

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Cold, like my heart

I wrote this in an love letter email to an ex several years ago. I… don’t know.

KATE stands under a bus shelter, pressed against the frosted glass, trying to escape the wind that's clearly lashing the trees across the street. She pulls out her NINTENDO DS and starts to play Touch Detective, shivering occasionally.

KATE: Dear God, it's cold. How I wish I had some cute, curly-haired girl next to me with whom I could huddle together with and share body heat.

The wind whips her hair into her face, the little bit of her black skirt that peeks out from under her knee-length black pea-coat is blown sideways violently.

RANDOM STRANGER CLUTCHING HIS HAT: Curse this mighty wind! For it is akin to the breath of Thanatos himself!

SECOND RANDOM STRANGER: Aye, it is indeed the first stabs of the bony-skeleton-hand of Father Winter. We are damned to suffer these torments for many a month to come.


KATE looks around incredulously and draws her hood over her head. After a few long minutes of her purposefully ignoring the increasingly hyperbolic conversation around her, she notices the BUS approach and the doors sliding open. The wind sneaks into this opening and blows the driver's hair around. He zips up his FLEECE VEST and beckons to people outside.

BUS DRIVER: C'mon folks, hurry your butts in here. It's colder than Poseidon's pole out there. You know, god of the sea? Lives underwater in Atlantis? Where it's cold?

PASSENGERS: Murmur- murmur - Heroditus murmur murmur - subtropical

BUS DRIVER narrows his eyes: Just get on the damn bus so I can close this door.

KATE is the last one to board.

KATE (to herself): Boy, I'm glad to be out of the cold and on this warm bus. But I really wish I could be naked under the covers with some very cute girl with soft skin whose name starts with an L. But woe is me, will fate ever find me so lucky as to be in that position?

PASSENGERS (in unison): The fates should decree that only the blessed should ever have such good fortune.

KATE nods. The BUS drives off into the grey afternoon.

Gobble, gobble

I've gotten a lot better at this since elementary school

The Spice must flow

Here are pictures of my Halloween Costume! There's a video too on Facebook if'n you're of that persuasion.

I've noticed a trend among gamers my age - they're hanging up their controllers and trading them in for strollers. Even gaming webcomic authors like the Penny Arcade dudes are all aboard the baby train. Every damn gamer is now becoming a parent and it disturbs me.

I think that Babies are the new WoW. I give further evidence for my case below:

Both babies and MMORPGs
- are massive time sinks
- cause you to lose sleep
- make you keep paying forever
- require a lot of drudgery and patience with a low chance of payout
- cause you to get fat
- make you stop caring about your appearance
- destroy your social life
- seem pretty awesome at first until it's far too late to back out
- are big turn offs to prospective suitors
- prove that the endgame is never as good as they make it out to be
- are something people talk about to nausea to everyone within earshot
- are really boring to hear about unless you've got your own
- show how grinding honor is pointless
- will not bring you comfort in your old age, no matter how much you wish it were so
- make you believe you're doing something important and special, when it's really something that everyone can do, given enough time

Areas where MMORPGs are superior:
- only costs $15/month in Support payments
- you can buy advancement from the Chinese
- it is a lot easier to hide a WoW account
- you can turn them off forever without a major prison term

In summary, all you gamers should stop having babies. Please get your vasectomies and go back to raiding BRS or Naxx or whatever the fuck. Thank you and goodnight.

Farmer's Market
Originally uploaded by -sim-
I know I'm a little late to the party, but I've been on a bit of a 'green' sustainability kick lately. You all ought to know by now how I enjoy DIY-type activities, especially those involving reusing/repurposing discarded items, but I've also decided to make more of an effort to support local, sustainable goods and services.

As such, I've been going to the Ballard Sunday Farmers Market a lot lately. If you haven't been, it's a wonderful street market they set up in downtown Ballard where local artisans, farmers, craftspeople and other producers can go to sell their wares. There's always a plethora of lovely organic fruits, veggies, herbs, flowers, meats, and products.

I cam think of no better way to spend a Sunday morning than nibbling wonderful cheese from the Mt. Townsend Creamery, getting amazing kale from the organic farmers, discussing raw milk with dairy farmers who can tell you the names of each cow whose milk has gone into your bottle, and flirting with the cute girls there over a basket of fresh basil.

Beyond being a wonderful community event, it provides several things that most city dwellers never experience: a real connection to your food and its production, and a chance to eat locally and seasonally, like humans have done since the beginning of agriculture.

Let me elaborate on both points:

1) By meeting the farmers that grew your produce, you build up a sense of connection and participation in the production the food you eat. It no longer appears whole in the store from the back of a magical truck - it comes from the hard work of the hands you just shook and love of the land from the person you just met. Among all of the farmers I've spoken with, you can really sense their pride and devotion to the food they produce. They actually care if the food they sell you is good, is healthy, and is sustainable. Why shouldn't they? Their livelihood and is connected directly to yours. I never get this sense from any store.

2) Eating locally, seasonally and organically is, in theory, more sustainable and healthier. Not to mention cheaper and tastier too!

Instead of buying out-of-season tomatoes or apples from South America, where they have to be shipped by boat and are grown on big commercial plantations, I think it's so much better to buy it from the bloke with the organic farm just over the mountain, who just picked his apples yesterday to bring to market. They're fresher, riper, tastier, and may be of an heirloom variety you've never tasted before because it's not one of the few commercially viable varieties.

Also, buying fruit and veggies in season always means you're on the winning side of the supply/demand curve. Prices are going to be cheaper for higher quality goods, and the total carbon footprint of your food should be a lot lower than eating imported food out of season.

I know there are arguments that say it may be less carbon-intensive to get food from factory farms and chain stores - economies of scale and all, but I think it's still worthwhile to encourage local producers.

To wit, here's a handy link to help you eat a little more seasonally:

King County's Produce Harvest Schedule. It may seem that this month's kind of sparse, with only rhubarb, potatoes, and asparagus, but I've been compiling my own list of seasonal produce (see below) and so you can also add fava beans, fennel, scallions, lemons and nettles to that list.

Kate's big spreadsheet of local, seasonal produce!

My bobomb and me

My bobomb and me
Originally uploaded by Kateoo
I made a plush bobomb last night because I was bored
When we finally reached the airport, however, my enthusiasm began to dry up in a series of atrociously long and confused check-in and security lines. Initially, since we were flying Air Canada, we thought that the lines would be short, but as a member of the Star Alliance, Air Canada and several other international carriers are all lumped under the United banner and served by a collective pool of check-in counters. Unfortunately, this means that all the people flying to Lisbon, Toronto, Prague, Morocco or wherever had to wade hip-deep into the sea of cheerleaders going to Detroit and the families dragging their unwilling children to visit yet more relatives in Fresno they don't really care about.

What should have been a quick, "Hey, we're here, give us our tickets," turned into a tense, nail-biting wait, as the minutes ticked closer and closer to the close of the check-in. Eventually we did reach the beginning of the queue with scant minutes to go and I found, much to my chagrin, that there was a 'Carry-on-only' e-ticket check in line to the side that was standing unused. All the other passengers around me collectively cringed for the hour lost to us by the negligence of unhelpful United employees.

Canadians know how to do plane flights right. Gabe and I had seats to ourself in some smallish non-Boeing plane bound for Toronto. Unlike Continental or Delta, there was plenty of leg-room, nice seat-back touch-screen entertainment systems, and friendly staff. Oh, and plenty of screaming babies. Horrible horrible babies that would tear off their shirts and diapers and rub their filthy bodies on the seats while strolling up and down the aisles unchecked. I normally would be against discrimination of any sort, but goddamn, families with small children should be sealed in a soundproof, air-tight room in the back of the plane and/or sleep-gassed before takeoff. Or, alternately, charged a premium to fly, just as fat people are.

Toronto Airport
Originally uploaded by Kateoo
The last night had been a mad frenzy of activity. I'd packed, planned, and prepared for weeks for this trip - I'd been programming interesting destinations into my new GPS unit, scanning my documents and emailing them to myself, exchanging money, getting directions to the hostels and a thousand other tasks - but, as always, you don't realize just how much left there is to do until the last minute.

Gabe, on the other hand, had been in a school-work-induced fugue for the previous two weeks and had done nothing more than buy a suitcase. His last exam ended at 9:30 the night before, and that left him only one sleepless night to prepare.

In the morning, we rose at the appointed hour and made our final checks before setting out. It was a cold morning, but I'd brought my scarf and hat. Everything I'd been reading and the people I'd asked all had one thing to say: Pack Light. I'd trimmed down my luggage to one rolling duffel and a shoulder bag but I was still worried that the winter clothes I brought would end up being extra bulky baggage to carry through Europe. I would eventually see just how unfounded fear was.

We left the house in a leisurely fashion, as the bus stop was only a block away. Only when we were within earshot of the bus stop did we notice something wrong - the sound of an airbrake being disengaged and the twanging of the overhead power cables. We ran to the end of the block to see the bus pulling away down the road. Maybe we could have caught it, but we were lugging our bags. We ended up missing the first bus and standing there in the cold, dark morning as its red lights faded into the distance.

When Gabe and I decided to just walk down to the Bus Tunnel station where we could catch our connection to the airport, I got my first taste of 'the Journey' that morning: my bags were feeling pretty light, my shoes were comfortable, and the morning wasn't so cold after all. By the time we'd made it to the airport, the excitement of adventure had begun to stir in my blood.