A spot of bother.

The awesome thing about waking up this morning is that my face was one big rash.

Alright; which one of you came and smeared poison ivy on my face last night?

There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.

Dear internet,

I quit my job recently. I wasn't planning on it. I left work on a Friday and, by Monday, I'd decided to take a new, slightly-altered -- or maybe just detoured -- path. I'm going to do something completely different in a completely different place. I'm going to be a better, more-fulfilled person, and I'm excited about that. I'm excited to come back, too, to find the ways in which I've changed.

Cheers,

E

2,900 burial plots available.

I have at least that many plots available in my yard -- when you consider that the majority of the deceased are potato bugs. My home has become some sort of mecca for potato bugs that know they're going to die; the idyllic, preeminent choice for eldery pill bugs (which are apparently crustacean) or perhaps the pill millipede. (It's amazing what the internet can teach you.)

Last night, when I got home from work, I swept up about a dozen of these little guys, all curled up and dried out. (Gross.) This morning, as I left for work, I saw at least three more that will be waiting, I'm sure along with some friends, to be swept up and interred somewhere. Does putting them in the garbage count as interment?

I've tried several kinds of spray to keep bugs out, but for some reason, these guys don't seem to be bothered or deterred. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love bugs and clutter -- both. What better than clutter created of bugs? I have no idea.