Oh, eu.

Nutty Hubby: Someone just wheeled their newborn through the office. I may have misheard, but I think the kid’s name is Unix.

Me: Boy or girl? If it’s a girl it could plausibly be Eunice.

Nutty Hubby: Nah, I’m not that nice.

Me: Eudouche.

Nutty Hubby: Touché.

 

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Take your theme and shove it.

So I was happily reading away over at Not A Punk Rocker‘s blog a couple months back, when something terrible happened. She wrote about the Blogging from A to Z Challenge. And if you know me even a little, you’ll know what inevitably happened next.

Goddammit, Sheena.

“CHALLENGE ACCEPTED” was out of my mouth before I knew what was happening. I think I may have had a slight out of body experience then, because although I don’t remember typing anything, suddenly I was over at A to Z headquarters and my blog link had somehow appeared on there with a number next to it and just like that I had committed to twenty-six days of blogging in one month and HOLY SHIT WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

*cue minor meltdown*

But once I managed to crowbar myself out of the little anxiety ball I had instinctively curled into, I took it in stride and began plotting all the alphabetical spam you suckers will have to endure from me during the month of April. Hell yeah, I thought to myself as I proudly surveyed my topic schedule, I am organized as FUCK.

Fast forward to now. When everyone and their Deadpool (goddammit, Sheena) is excitedly talking about “theme reveal day” for the challenge, and I’m like WAIT WAIT WAIT we’re supposed to try and keep 26 posts to one fucking theme?

Oh no sir, no way in Hell’s great torture furnace was that going to work for this nut. Do I not state on my very own About page that this is a no-theme zone?

Then I went back over to A to Z HQ and read their mission statement dealie more closely, and thank sweet Jeebus, the whole theme thing is totally optional and apparently only undertaken as an extra challenge by people who inexplicably like making life harder on themselves.

So never fear, come April 1st this A to Z zaniness is just going to be more of the same old random crap you’ve come to know and kind-of -maybe-love-a-little-but-not-in-a-romantic-way-because-that-would-be-weird.

There’s just going to be a lot more of it.

And if you have a problem with that, just remember that my birthday is in April and that unfollowing me on my birthday will make me sad.

Don’t be a monster. Suck it up for the birthday girl.

That sounded wrong.

I’ll show myself out.

No good fortune goes unpunished.

Nutty Hubby: Apparently not only is today the equinox, but there was a total solar eclipse. The catch? It was only viewable from Europe.

Me: Whatever. One day we’ll be rich enough for me to chase interesting natural phenomena. You hear that, eclipses? One lottery win for us and then NO ESCAPE FOR YOU.

Nutty Hubby: Thanks, you’ve doomed us to an enormous solar flare which wipes out all electronics on Earth the day we win the lottery.

Me: You’re welcome.

 

Sorry, Earth, but a winner without WIFI is still a winner.

 

 

Mid-March blahs.

Last week I went on a rant about the animosity I bear towards spring, Daylight Saving Time and covert candy shrinkage.

I can officially report that I have since sold out my entire stock of fucks to give. I sent in a request to the manufacturer for a bunch more but they got backordered, so in the meantime I’ve been shipped a jumbo case of apathy instead.

Mmm…savor that tantalizing aroma of not caring.

Now, I fully recognize the warning signs that I’m teetering on the edge of a patch of Depression Quicksand, and trust me, I have no intention of jumping in and letting myself get mired in that pit of bullshit. But sometimes you still just feel like taking a moment at the edge to dip your toes in a little self-indulgent misery before you get back up and suss out a safe route around.

So I’m gonna. Everything in moderation, I say.

Just a little wallow until my flock of fucks returns.

 

Gifts of spring: birds, blooms, and bitterness.

The sun has been shining all week. Little birds are singing show tunes as they flirt and flutter from tree to tree. Burrard Station is awash in a thick canopy of cherry blossom trees in full bloom.

I hate it. I hate it all.

As a part-time photographer in a city famous for its rain, I am required to take advantage of the good weather and fresh flowers while they last.

As a rest-of-the-time grumbling malcontent, spring can kiss my ass. And I’m not saying that just because my ass could use a little kissing after Daylight Saving Time just kicked it so thoroughly.

By some cosmic joke, I was born near the end of April, right smack dab in the middle of the season I hate the most. Most people with seasonal blues experience them in the winter, or slightly more rarely, the summer. Me? I get mine in the spring, during the otherwise traditional time of hope and renewal and all that bullshit.

The Universe: “Happy Birthday, Nutty. I got you some apathy.”
The Nut: “Aw, just like last year. Thanks, Universe.”

I’m out. You can keep your stupid tulips and your zombie Jesus and your blatantly shrunken Cadbury Creme Eggs (yeah that’s right, Cadbury, I said it). It’s not even officially spring for another eleven days but already I just want to find a cool dark place and hibernate until it’s over. The bears will know where you can forward my birthday presents. Continue reading