It’s quiet. Too quiet.

So an astute observer will have noticed by now that I kind of suck at posting lately. And by lately I mean the last four months.

Partly because being cooped up in an office working at a computer all day with a cubicle wall between me and the perfect blue summer sky is driving me bonkers, and partly because my (now confirmed) overly high dosage of anti-douchey-thyroid pills have been making me restless and hate-y, I’ve been avoiding my blog like a dog avoiding a bath. And not unlike that hypothetical dirty dog, it stinks.

I want to write, yet I can’t stand to.

Not the best state of affairs for a blogger, eh?

So I’m gonna try and get the ball rolling again with a big giant pic dump, because pictures can do the talking for me and also I will latch onto any excuse to use Prisma nearly to death because it is all the addictiveness.

Speaking of pictures and over-filtering them, little ol’ behind-the-times me finally joined Instagram! So yeah, that’s been a thing I did. A couple of you stalkers have already found me on there (hiya! *waves*) which is awesome, and I’m currently doing Rarasaur’s #somethingist challenge as a way to break in my account, buuuuuuut if we’re being honest I’m mainly in it for all the cute accounts people have created for their pets. Nutty gets a little cranky if she goes too long without her Momo’s Face fix. The excessively edited selfies are just a bonus.

I’ve also been suckered into Pokémon GO, but I’m not cranky about that, because anything able to convince me that walking 20+ kilometers in August temperatures on a Saturday afternoon could ever possibly pass for fun gets a hearty thumbs-up from me and my waistline.

My blisters have blisters, but I don’t care. Worth it.

Plus anyone who tells you the augmented reality mode isn’t ridiculously amusing is just a big old meanie poopface Grinch.

My only gripe is no one can explain to me how a Magikarp, a fish that appears to be knocking vigorously at Death’s door, can manage to escape a Pokéball and run away.

Nutty Hubby is a Cancer. Is it frowned upon to trap your star sign’s mascot in a ball?

So it turns out that half marathon walks every weekend are a great way to see a lot of weird shit around your city.

Like random things that resemble faces…

Duuuuude, like, whoaaaaa…

Life’s rough when you have no bottom jaw.

You ever feel like your gimp mask bag is judging you?

…and other things that look like something…else.

What a piece of junk.

If you’re looking for a sign, there are plenty to choose from…

Barkeep! I’ll have an entendre, please. Wait, better make it a double.

I’m gonna go ahead and assume this story has a happy ending.

Canada: where even the park benches are courteous…

…and kind words of comfort are only a lamppost away.

…but I really really really hope this one wasn’t meant for me.


Why is she so calm? WHY IS SHE SO CALM? Is she a robot? Have androids caved to the Botox epidemic?

Let’s move on to something more pleasant before I need to go rock myself in a corner. How about some art?

Materials by SportChek, design by someone whom I can only assume moonlights as one of those ambitiously fancy serial killers from Hannibal.

Ugh, WE GET IT, it rains a lot in Vancouver.

Someone liked this park, so they put a ring on it. In fact they liked it so much they put a second ring on it as a bonus appeasement to the vengeful war goddess Beyoncé.

And who can blame them? Sometimes this city really rocks.

Well, that concludes this How The Nut Spent Her Summer Vacation update. If you would like to help The Nut in her quest to ditch her pesky writer’s block and bury that sucker alive in a shallow grave, post suggestions are welcomed. In the meantime I’m gonna go for a wade through the cesspit that is my drafts folder and see if I can’t fish out something worth polishing. It won’t be fun, but it’s better than a needle to the eye.

According to my data, algae is the least of Rio’s pool problems.

So I’ve been catching the occasional Olympic event here and there, and all I can say is if I’m ever in Rio, I’m avoiding their pools like the plague…which they probably also contain.

You know what’s worse than pee in the pool?

Shouldn’t they be in the #2 spot?

Know what’s possibly even grosser than that?

Ick. Looks like the real winner here was the no-show from Hungary.

Yeah, I think I’ll pass.

Naturally I offer my sincerest apologies for making sport of Ms. Shi and Mr. Makovich, although I think we can all agree that it’s the parents who are really to blame here for not fully researching their choice of baby name and any resulting abbreviations/initial combos in every human language ahead of time just to make sure it would never someday translate as something unfortunate at the Olympic Games. It’s called planning, people.

Sorry also to Mr. Feck, who just so happened to be in the right place at the right time to indulge me in one of my favorite hobbies: pausing footage of male divers so that they look naked. (Oh , and my condolences on those scores.)

The dive may have scored low, but the bod is a solid YUM out of 10.

What’s been everyone else’s favorite part of the games?

You are getting sleepy, very sleepy…PSYCH!

Something has kicked my insomnia into tryhard mode. I can’t pinpoint the exact culprit(s) for 100% certain, but if and when I do, they will die a slow and horrible death.


I do have a theory that my new and improved super dose of thyroid medication may be at least partially responsible, though, in which case it’s technically already dying a slow and horrible death via ingestion and there’s really nothing more I can do to punish it beyond hurling verbal abuse into the bottle.

(Which I also may or may not do already.)

I can’t remember the last time I was this tired. For the past few weeks I’ve found myself nodding off in all sorts of inappropriate places in broad daylight thanks to my brain’s near complete inability to rest at night when it’s damn well supposed to.

As I type this my eyes are watering slightly from having to stay open under our harsh office lighting. There’s a murky doom fog rolling around in my brain that even the most aggressively strong cup of coffee can’t seem to chase away. I am only staying vertical by the power of miracles or unicorn dust or fairy jizz or whatever other arcane variable it is that keeps us humans going when by rights we should be keeling over.

And yet tonight, I guarantee I will be the widest-awakest person on the planet.

Snapchat filters and Dreamscope: because what else are you supposed to do at 4:30am on a work day?

I envy my husband, who can conk out practically on command.
I envy cats and their ability to squeeze in about 26.5 hours of dozing per day.
I envy the residents of Kalachi, Kazakhstan, whose mysterious sleeping sickness has been making weird news headlines since 2014.

That’s right, I’m mad jelly of a small village suffering from motherfucking mass carbon monoxide poisoning, that’s how much I’m craving a session of shut-eye that takes place during the honest-to-goodness wee hours of darkitude. That’s what this has come to. I would willingly breathe in goddamn poison if it meant that for once in my life I could sleep the immovable slumber of a cursed Disney princess.

You know what? Screw it. Where’s the nearest abandoned uranium mine? I’ll hike right down into the deepest darkest bowels of that fucker and set up a tent, if that’s what it takes.

And if any other members of the Dark Eye Circle club wanna join me, I say the more the merrier. Heck, we could go all out, set up an exclusive summer retreat for insomniacs. Camp WannaGetSomeShutEye. All the CO and s’mores your exhausted little heart can handle.

I love this idea. Ima go pack.

It’s the first day of summer. Feliz Navidad!

Today is the summer solstice. The longest goddamn day of the year.

Maybe I’d be more inclined to enjoy that if I were lying in the sun on a pristine beach somewhere with a mai tai in one hand and a piña colada in the other – and two or three or ten more on the way, ideally served to me by Robert Downey Jr. – but I’m not. I’m stuck in a dreary grey office with dreary grey clouds outside the window and it’s Monday and therefore everything is terrible.

So fuck summer. Let’s have Christmas instead.

I’m serious. Let’s do this.

In fact, I’ve already found us a tree. Oh yeah, I’m just that good. Can you believe this gem has been sitting in the alley since January and nobody’s snapped it up? I think it’ll do splendidly, assuming you don’t mind your greenery not quite so green, and just a tad bit extra flammable.

It’s not dead, it’s rustic.

Table decor won’t be a problem either, because what should I discover on a street corner the other day but this adorable pair of North Pole regulars! (Okay, so they kind of look like they’re not on speaking terms right now, but I’m sure we can sort that out; I mean, it’s the most wonderful time of the year, right?)

Just add couples therapy.

Hm. You know what? I don’t think one snowman is enough. June is always suffering from a deplorable lack of snowmen.



Also maybe you can help me out here; I can’t tell if the green blob in the lower right corner of that last photo is just a random ball of yarn or an attempt to craft a Grinch. Thoughts?

You know what? My pareidolia says it’s the Grinch, so let’s just go with that. There should always be a Grinch. Otherwise who will carve the roast beast?

Last but not least, we’ll need some kind of cheerful red and green banner proclaiming “Merry Christmas” in at least one language.

…wait, whaddaya mean no one has Christmas banners in stock? What the hell, retailers? You have the jingle balls to play carols in your stores before October’s even punched in for work, but there’s not a single goddamn mylar Happy Birthday Jesus banner to be found in June?

You disgust me. Priorities, people. Gawd.

Oh well, guess we’ll just have to improvise.

Red and green are so 2015. This year, make a real statement with fuchsia and chartreuse!


Oh, shoot, almost forgot the turkey.


No need for any stuffing; he’s already full of it.

A very merry Monday, joyeux June, and feliz Solstice to you all. Now where’s my fucking drink, Robert?

[insert funny here]

When I was fifteen and suffocating in the depths of suicidal depression, my parents took me to see a psychiatrist. He was a balding, unattractive man in his fifties, and he insisted on beginning every sentence with my name as if I had somehow forgotten it upon stepping into his office.

In less than five minutes it became clear to me that no matter what this man’s training, no matter how many degrees and years of experience he had under his belt, he was painfully incapable of relating to a teenage girl. The insultingly obvious tactics he drew on to try and gain my trust, to convince me he could be a valued confidant, would have been almost comical had I been in any kind of state to remember how to laugh.

As things were, the most I was able to achieve was a sort of wry malevolence.

I couldn’t help myself. I started to toy with him. I pretended to let my guard down slowly, began answering his leading questions exactly how I knew he wanted me to, and watched him smile and nod to himself in satisfaction, thinking we were making progress.

But we weren’t. I found him smug and condescending, his drab neutral-toned office and its dim lighting oppressive, and the session useful only in that it taught me that a) my acting classes were paying off, and b) my path to mental health did not travel through a stuffy room with a small bald man in it. If this is what it takes to be sane, I thought, I’d rather be crazy.

The shrink was surprised and not terribly pleased when I informed him I wouldn’t be coming back. “I strongly believe that would be a mistake. I think we still have important work to do,” he told me sombrely. “You’re obviously in a great deal of emotional pain and confusion, and you need help sorting out those feelings.”

“Yes,” I replied. “But not from you.”

I don’t regret my decision to leave that office and never return, nor do I regret turning down my mother’s offer to try and find another counsellor I might like better. In keeping with my childhood motto of “NO, I DO IT!”, I figured there was no one on this earth who would ever be better acquainted with my own mind better than me, so dammit, I had to be the one to get in there and fix it.

Of course, while I’d like to think I’ve done a fairly decent job of taking back the place and reminding the staff who’s boss in the years since, I soon realized there’s no “fixing” depression. Depression haunts you like a vengeful spirit whose unfinished business is merely to persist in being an asshole. It bides its time in the back corners of your mind emitting a malignant susurrus of lies and manipulations, turning up the volume ever so gradually, ever so imperceptibly, until the white noise of its deception drowns out all else.

Sometimes you manage to catch it before things get to that point, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you know damn well what it’s up to, but your usual tactics for sneaking the volume control back out of its greedy paws fail, and you fall flat on your ass anyway.

I’m not flat on my ass at the moment, but I have been sort of paused in mid-fall; trying to decide whether to make a last minute mad scramble to regain my footing or just say fuck it and brace for impact.

I’ll be honest, I still don’t know which way things are going to go.

But I just wanted to pop in and say hi anyway, even if all I have to write about is why I haven’t felt like writing about anything lately.

So hi!

Anyway, what’s new with all of you?

I have your boobs.

I feel it necessary to inform you all that I just nearly sprained my neck in my haste to go back and reread a Facebook comment that I was 99% positive said, “I have your boobs.”

Well well. This day just got a couple of cup sizes more interesting, now didn’t it?

Me being me, by the halfway point of my double-take I was already doing what I do best: logic-ing up my own explanation for what could possibly have been meant by the statement without any regard whatsoever for context or common sense.

Four little words, so many potential interpretations. See if you can spot the correct one below.

(a) Commenter is holding the OP’s boobs for ransom but lacked any magazines or newspapers with which to construct a proper non-social-media ransom note, because really who has magazines or newspapers lying around the house these days when you can just access them all online?

(b) Commenter borrowed the OP’s boobs for the weekend and wants to return them but OP hasn’t been answering her texts, so commenter resorted to contacting her publicly on Facebook instead.

(c) Commenter is OP’s daughter. She’s always thought her mom had an awesome rack, is super stoked that genetics favored her with a matching set, and figured it was high time she let the world know it.

(d) OP was announcing an author Q&A and what the commenter actually said was, “I have your books,” and I’m just an idiot.

If you were around for my A to Z Challenge post where I mentioned my habit of cutting corners when I read and the hilariously baffling literary misunderstandings that ensue, then you’ll know the correct answer is (d).

You’d also think I’d be wise to my own shenanigans by now and jump to the conclusion of (d) myself in the first place, but you there you would be wrong.

So very wrong.