take my sandwich bread recipe
now,
substitute the sguar for honey,
add 1/2 or more oats
add sunflower seeds when shaping,
bake as per normal,
and watch them line up to beg for some.

Inspired by Drawn to the rhythm

The soldier knows not but war,
the laborer not but work.
The mother knows not but love,
the father knows not but work.
Together they wander this earlthly plane,
Searching for another way.
The faces they know they cannot see,
for they've left them far behind.
Their childhoods they left so long ago,
in the past and heat of summer days.
The green leaves of apple trees,
the swings and baking bread.
The mother's hands are wrinkled from washing,
father's from working and playing catch.
The soldier's forever cramped into that of a gun,
As he's washed otno the desolate shore.
The mother's heart is torn with worry, for she searches for her child,
The father knows not which way to turn.
The soldier stares into the distant sea,
longing to feel the flames again.
Each of them knows not but one,
only one sacrifice they've gave,
And only at the end of all this time,
can they each rest but not in peace.

So Bake your bread, fire your gun.
Work your hours in the office when your son is at war, thinking not of him.
You son will call your name,
your wife call for you in dispair.
You, the father, will hide behind decisions you know must be made,
And the family will never be complete again.

Michell's memory loss rules:

1) Should you happen to see scraps of paper with illegible scratchings on them, that's my handwriting. If they are taped to something, including but not limited to counter edges, the fridge, pantry door, cabinets, bits of various cookware, etc, please....

Don't move them, throw them out or otherwise maul them.

2) moving my medications so that I don't accidentally overdose is a good idea. Doing this and not telling me you did, is a bad idea, as I may forget a dose of my meds. and that's not a good thing.

3) The fact that I can't recall your name, much less who the hell you are, doesn't give you the right to call me "my love."

4) don't finish sentences for me. Phone reps do this and it sometimes bothers me. I know they're on a tight schedule and can't wait around all day, but it's frustrating because hafl the time what they want to say doesn't convey the point I wanted to make.

5) I know my memory sucks. That's why I'm going to the doctor.

6) The fact that I'm staring at some arcane properties screen and have no flipping idea how I got there is equally as scary as suddenly losing the memory of what the tab key does, and why I use it so much.

7) When I'm on the phone, and you happen to be listening in, calling me grandma to my face will either make me laugh or cry depending on what kind of a day I'm having.

8) You see me wandering in circles somewhere in the zipcode of the office. Coming out, or having your husband do so and asking me if I'm ok and where was I trying to go is good. Having one of the insane tennants come out and start screaming at me is bad.

Because I will run.

9) The fact that I can remember in bits and pieces does not make it any less valid. Yes I might remember your name later, long after we talk, and may say it as a nonsequiter, but there's a reason for that.

10) Picking up a pair of knitting needles with a work in progress on them, looking down at them and arranging them properly, then staring at them in blank confusion before setting them down again...

is not funny in the slightest.

Normally I don't follow recipes off the internet, except to get a basic idea of how to make the item. In baking, sometimes, I eyeball things. This has of course resulted in hellatiously terrible results, but of course it's my fault, so I grin, bear it and throw up later.
However, yesterday I ran across a recipe I wanted to try for a cinnamon swirl bread. The swirls didn't work, I am horrible at rolling things up evenly. But, the bread itself was wonderful. It didn't fall apart when cut, and I'll provide the recipe for my new sandwich bread.

You will need:
3-1/4 to 3-3/4 cups all-purpose flour
You can substitute part of that for whole-meal flour. I haven't tried it, so I'm not sure how well it works.
1/2 cup lukewarm water
1/2 cup milk (whole, please. I substituted 2% and it was fine, but I prefer whole milk)
2 large eggs
1/2 stick butter (1/4 cup)
a pinch of salt
1/3 cup sugar or your sweetener of choice, just adjust to the level of sweetness.
1 package active dry yeast.
warm the milk and butter until the butter is melted. Cool to body temperature. Sprinkle the yeast over the 1/2 cup of water. Add the sugar and eggs and mix thoroughly. Add the milk mixture and 2 cups of flour, keep stirring. Add 1-1/4 cup more flour, keep mixing, be careful at this point to use something sturdy like a wooden spoon.
Measure out another 1/2 cup of flour and set on your work surface. Sprinkle the work surface with flour and pour the dough out. Try to scrape the sides of the bowl, make sure to get as much as possible.
Flour or grease your hands and begin to knead the dough. Pretend it's your phb's head, or his brains, whatever. Keep going, adding in the 1/2 cup flour a little at a time, until the dough is smoothe and elastic. Place it in an oiled bowl, turn the ball so that all sides are oiled, cover with clingfilm or a moist, warm cloth and allow to rise in a draft-free place until doubled in volume.
Surf internet or dance around like a moron listening to James Taylor while the dough rises.
Once the dough is risen, pour it out of the bowl onto a floured work surface. Punch the hell out of it, and then at this point knead it again. You can knead in herbs, fruits, nuts, whatever you like. Carefully rolls the dough into a tube and pinch the seam and the ends together. Place in a *greased!* 9x5x3 loaf tin, and begin to preheat the oven to 350F. Allow to rise until the dough is 1 inch above the pan, or if you're like me, it's even with the pan and you just want to eat.
Toss in the oven on the centre rack and leave alone for 35 minutes. Pull out of the oven while singing "carolina in my mind" and cool on wire rack if you're lucky enough to have one. If not, use a breadplate or dinner plate and carefully turn it to prevent any side from getting soggy.
Cut and enjoy.

Variation: you can add in 1/2-1-1/2 cup of real oatmeal, and/or sunflower seeds. Be warned, though that the oats will seem to disappear in baking. They're there, they've just hidden themselves, and I guarantee they'll smile at you when you're running because it acts like a bulk laxative.
Hey, it's useful for something.

Everybody's either praising or bitching about the magic jack. Google if you don't know what I'm talking about.
For the blind person, this gadget can be a godsend, or a curse from the pits of hell. You have to be slightly more tech savvy than the drooling hords to get it working but once working it's generally flawwless.

1) remove the mj from the packaging. This usually requires the sacrifice of your first born, a live goat, burrkiss and self-flogging with a cat of nine tails dipped in capcaicine.
Just kidding. Actually, it requires judicious use of a sharp knife to open said packaging.
Plug the mj into one of your primary usb ports. This may require shifting things around or prioritising what does or does not get juice.
Plug it in. Don't bitch about the fact that the software wants to update. Just do it, shut up, read the ToS, and let it work. Input your address and email, choose a phone number, plug in a phone or headset, tell it which one you're using, make calls and shut up.

Should you encounter problems:

1) remove and restart. Remove the mj from the USB port and restart the computer in question. Once it's restarted, plug the mj back in. Let it start up completely before using, otherwise you'll get kicked back to dialtone.
Should it seem like your quality is suffering, go into task mananger. Window xp/vista this is done by pressing ctrl+alt+del or ctrl+shift+esc and click the processes tab. Look for magicjack.exe or similar. right click this process, find priority, open this menu and click "high" answer "yes" to the warning, give it about a minute, and voilah!
Don't run heavy internet trafic in the background while the mj is running.

misconceptions:
1) mj will not work through a hub. Bullshit! Works just fine through my unpowered 2.0 hub
2) will not work behind a router. Again, bullshit!
3) will not work over wireless. As long as the wireless connection is relatively stable, go for it!
4) that it's a ripoff. Go to a store and buy it physically.
5) that you must have a high-end pc. Nope, just make sure again that you've streamlined your processes, i.e no excessive processor eating programs and you're good.
the software

The software is a little unique. It has its own querks, cures and glitches, but since I don't use the contact list, that's fine. Bonus though is that jaws automagically announces the incoming phone number. I haven't tried it with the contact info just yet, but I will.
The add contact dialog is not accessible, but that can be fixed. Dialing can be a little tedius as you have to tab back and forth through the pad should you choose to use the on-screen dialpad.
Occasionally when you answer a call you will hear the brief tones of a modem or fax machine. Don't worry, your caller may or may not hear this, and it causes maybe a half second of delay when answering. You will have the occasional dropped call, hiccup and barfing, and sometimes the dongel can overheat a bit. Other than that, it's worth it. i will be renewing my services next June.
Enjoy!

many people from different backgrounds have insinuated over the years that I am immature. What makes them say this? I now know the worries, the pains and the triumphs of being an adult. I know that compassion is difficult to show, and cynicism seems to be all the rage. I also understand that sleepless nights due to worrying about one's bank account aren't uncommon.
I do not possess the latest and greatest technology. Nor do I want it. I want what I have, and have what I want. Granted, a few skeins of alpaca yarn wouldn't go amiss, but they are not vital. I know that life is not all it seems, it is somehow more and less. Emptiness seems to be all I have left. I have no will to work on much, save for the knitting projects in the basket, and even then that's becoming more of a chore. But one the one I cannot afford to wait, cannot procrastinate. I must get it done, and get it done soon.I feel as though a part of me has died, and I am unsure as to whether or not I should mourn or celebrate.
I also doubt anyone will remember my birthday. Of course I have gotten many wonderful early presents, for which I am eternally grateful, but I don't know if any of my family will remember, much less my friends that haven't already sent me anything. it is not merely the material things that bother me, it is more the lack of acknowledgement. I guess this is part of growing up, things stop mattering, everything becomes dull, lifeless and dreary. Yes, dreary, that's the word.
I search and seek, to no avail. I cannot not go on living, for my cat, and my friends would be very sad. And that I cannot handle. I cannot, however, continually absorb the pain of others. It will be my undoing, but it is what I do naturally, without thought. Tendrils of my aura come out and remove the pain from the person and transfer it to me. This, is the problem. Especially when it is someone I care about, I cannot help but try to ease the pain a little. Even if it means I suffer, so be it. They are happier for it and that is all that matters.
I will write more later, as I am exhausted and very tense in the back and must lie down.

I mostly use these fiction posts to write out what I can't really talk to people about. I hatched the idea to have my grandparents come up in January or Febuary of next year, to gather at my mother's graveside and honour her. This is how I envision that the proceedings will go, so this may not be how it really works out.

That morning made every other grey and rainy morning in the city look like a warm tropical day, spent somewhere with a drink in one hand and a hot girl's... I'll stop there, in the other. I awoke around seven-thirty, well before I normally got up, and dragged myself out of bed, trying and failing to not disturb my cat, who had been lying peacefully across my legs. I wandered into the kitchen, making myself breakfast and scanning the morning news for anything of note. Since nothing was really going on, I continued eating. It was oatmeal, apple banana cinnamon, as I recall, and not perfect, but certainly better than plain. I drank a cup of Earl Grey tea, as well. More to wash down the feelings than to quench any feeling of thirst, and more still for its soothing properties.
I finished breakfast and washed my lonely dishes. They're a sturdy plastic, made to last and make me feel at times like an invalid. Although I know I need them for safety's sake, I know they look and feel just, somehow fundamentally wrong.
After laying the dishes to dry, I walk into the bathroom, glancing into the mirror, although it is useless. What I can see of myself I don't like much, although it seems I have lost weight. This was my goal in the first place. I hopped into the shower, washing every inch of me, since this was a ritual bath, and scrubbing with seasalt, then washing my worries, cares, fears and pain down the drain, where it would be dissolved into the greater pain of the planet. I didn't like doing this. I hate adding to the Mother's burden, but what more can I do?
I hop out of the shower, nearly slipping on the feaux tile floor, and catching myself by judicious use of the towel rack, which creaks under my fingers. Regaining my balance I dry off, putting on conservative undergarments, my hands moving swiftly but surely over parts of me not best mentioned in detail.
I took a left from the bathroom doorway and entered the somewhat bare realm of my closet. Looking around proved useful, however, as a set of similar, though not identical, garments met my fingers. They are hand-knitted kimonos, although the full thing, not merely the crotch-length sweater-like garments one finds in pattern books. They are floor-length, perfect for wearing boots under, and hide everything but themselves. I decide upon one that I can't go wrong with. it is a base royal blue, with green trim and a purple button and buttonhole pannels, the buttons being leaf-shaped and green as well. I've embroidered twined ivy curls down the sleeves and down either side of the buttons, giving it a stately, although hopefully not overly formal, appearance. A knock at the door breaks me out of my revery and I go to answer it.
My friend Sharry is standing there, wearing something I can't distinguish in the morning gloom. I let her in and she sits down on the sofa, the baby in her arms calm and cooing. I bend over and kiss his little forehead. His tiny hands reach up and grab at my hair, for it tickles him, and I smile at Sharry.
"I'll be ready in a minute," I say quietly, disappearing into the bedroom and pulling the kimono/dress over my head. I carefully yank on my boots, black leather with silver on the tops, almost calf-high and with a perfect heel that I can walk in without pain.
I slip on my necklace, hiding it under the dress, leaving only my dogtag out. We don't need a religious argument at this gathering. Another knock, and this time it's my father. I sigh and let him in. He looks around critically, searching for dust or rat droppings. Finding none, he stares at me, searching for signs of self-negligence. He then says, grudgingly, "Nice place." I smile at him, a tight-lipped, razor-thin smile, and say "Thanks. I work hard to keep it nice."
Luna growls at him and runs off to hide under my bed. I know she doesn't like him, and he hates animals. I shield the doorway so he cannot see where she is hiding. I don't want her hurt by his stupidity. Soon Keith, Sharry's husband, arrives and we head to the graveyard. Along the way, we discuss in detail exactly how things will work, knowing that it might all go wrong, somehow.
I get the playlist ready, the exact order in which the songs are played is important.

The graveyard is quiet, not a breath of wind stirring the grass, flowers and wild bushes that have grown over many of the plots. My grandparents are walking from the opposite side. We call to them, knowing in advance where the plot we want is. They see me and stop dead in their tracks.
Sharry has stayed behind in the car, caring for the child. Keith is with me, standing in his Army uniform, looking strong and just how a soldier should. My grandparents look at each other. My grandfather is wearing a suit, my aunt and grandmother dresses that I suspect had to be heavily tailored to fit. We all stare at each other for a bit, Keith and my grandfather sizing each other up, as though preparing for a fight. my grandmother grabs me and hugs me tightly, crying into my acryllic-covered shoulder. I pat her back, murmuring soothing sounds, not really words. But she hears and is calmed as we break apart. Keith produces a bottle of red wine from the inside of his coat pocket and uncorks it at my word.

I begin to speak, my voice practiced, cultured with a slight northern British accent interlacing the words.

"We gather here, this morning, to honour a fallen family member. A conrad, if you will, in the fight against intolerance, insanity and injustice. Tina was a mother, a lover, a sister, a friend. A daughter strayed from the path, that was welcomed home, and strayed again. The protigal's daughter, as it were. I cannot stress how much she meant to each one of us, in turn, we must find that for ourselves. I have had time to think over this long year, and though we all have loved and lost, found friendships and lost others, we cannot forget how much this hole in our hearts has hurt. We cannot fill it with food or wine, but we can fill it with love, and caulk it with memories of good times past. I shall share a memory, and take a sip of wine. then I will pour a small amount on the plot, to show that I remember. I wish and hope that you all will follow suit. Keith, as you do not know her well, you may......"
My words are broken off by another figure running. It was her fiance, Fernando. I smile sadly at him as he approaches.
"You're a bit late," I chide simply, but let him take his place.
I hold the crystal chalice out to Keith, who pours the crimson wine into it. I hold the vessil in shaking hands, and again speak.
"I've always remembered my mother as a kind, gentle person. I don't know how much of this is truth, or my wishful thinking. But I'll always remember the time that she showed me what embroidery is, and how it is done. I couldn't do it myself, of course, though I did try to learn."
I take a sip of the wine, and pour a bit on the ground. I pass the chalice to my right, to my grandfather. He speaks, does the same as I did. The chalice makes its rounds.
"Now, we have music, for music soothes the savage beast, and it will soothe our hearts and ease our pain."
I cue up and then play a song. the lyrics float, melodically, and I sing along.
"Once you had gold,
once you had silver,
then came the rain,
falling for you.
Ever and always, always and ever,
no one can promise a dream come true.
Now you can see,
spring becomes autumn,
there come the leaves,
falling from view.
Ever and always, always and ever,
time gave a promise a dream for you..."
Songs float from my player. Happy songs. Sad songs, Songs to make you want to tear your eyes out with a spoon. But songs that ease grief in time.
We stand around, staring at the graveside, singing, crying and in general grieving, like we haven't done before, in a year, as a family.
"Journey on, Sister," I say, pouring the last of the wine on the grave. "We will see you one day."

As we walk away, I wipe tears that I didn't know were on my cheeks until the wind chaffed them with its skinning hands.


Restin in peace, Mom. I miss you.

Gather round! The buffet table's groaning with takeout pizza, ramen, and every other unhealthy concoction known to man! Enjoy this while it lasts, because starting this week it's gonna be piled with fruits, vegies and everything else in this planet that most people cringe at.

Burrkiss, sit the fuck down, and quit drooling over my knockers! Cecilia, you can sit somewhere nearby with a pair of needles and knit away. Now that's out of the way, let's begin.

Thursday: I head out of the shadowy, dimly-lit apartment to say hi to my property manager, a nice older lady named Laura.

Laura kicks ass.

The building owner's wife, Andria, has made a cake for Laura and me. Of course, being highly allergic to aspartame, etc, I ask about the ingredients before touching it.

Rule 1: people lie.

Thinking that said confection was safe to maw on due to the constant reassurance of the poor woman that it had nothing artificial in it....

I devoured it.

And what a glorious taste! Pineapple and strawberry, mingling together in a sort of cool-whip infested filling overtop a store-bought crust....

That was overly sweet.

Why didn't this set anything off in my head? Because I was eating so quickly I didn't notice.
Five minutes later, I'm still fine, if a little shaky, and I think to myself that when I get home I ought to take my remedies and lie down...

Cue me waking up at home, with a horrible headache, and the smell and taste of valerian and dandelion all the way up in my sinuses. The bleary question of "What happened?" Is quickly answered by "no more eating Andria's cooking."

Shit....

That mystery having been solved, I spent the rest of the night in fitful slumber, and finally get up around ten the next morning.

Still feeling bad.

I go about my day, seeing a wonderful friend of mine, we go out to lunch, yarn shopping, etc....

And I come home, let the maids in, they clean, etc.

Fast forward to tonight...

The pain starts up. It's a needle-like, sharp pain in my chest. The right side. Nothing to worry about, been here before.

Chug a valerian pill with some water. Warm water.
Lie down for a bit, it gets worse. Heart rate picks up to the point I can't really breathe. Try to call Sharry.

No joy.
Shit....

Head next door, thump on the door. No joy.

What's the next thing.... Can anyone guess?

Anyone?

Burrkiss?

Waking up and there's Sharry, lecturing me about calling an ambulance and "please, next time.. Do. not. refuse!"

In short, I'm banished to the house for the next few days while I recover.

Next time...

I bring my own fucking dessert.

...
Or how to make people roll their eyes.

Similar to the blanket posted previously, this relies on the same colour scheme, save for the neutral colour. You won't need it. You will need, instead:
1-2 skeins each of Red Heart, in the following colours:
light navy
dark green (christmas/moss green)
crimson, or your favourite shade of red
bright, or dark yellow, depending
white
grey, again, your preferred shade
brown, your preferred shade.

I like the vibrant, dark colours, not dark but bright enough I can see them. Anyway...

measure yourself from the centre back of your neck to your waist, or however long you want the stole to be when it drapes in front. Now, multiply that by the number of stitches you get per inch on your prferred needels. I get 4 to the inch on size 4 circulars, and that's my favourite pair of needles, ok...
cast on the number of stitches. You'll want to work this in a plain pattern. I chose garter stitch for the original, and make sure that the stripes are even. Count the row where you are changing colours as your "marker row". So, if each stripe is 12 rows wide, row 13 is where you would attach the new colour, and count it as a transition. It works.
Work one stripe in each of the seven colours, as wide as you want. The original pattern for this was a scarf, but you could make it as wide or narrow as you want.
In the books, I don't think it was fringed, but a long white fringe might not go amiss. When you've finished the last row of the brown stripe, bind off loosely, wash on delicate cycle or according to package directions, and wear proudly!

Blanky's howling for yarn. I'm making it for Lineswine, and even with the large package of yarn from my grandmother, I don't know if it will be enough. Anyone got some yarn, preferably acryllic, but I'll take what I can get, in worsted or babyweight? If so, comment here and or email me privately and I'll see what we can work out. I will even pay if I need to. I'm offering a free yarn disposal service, and rest assured that it will find a good home.

a.k.a Michell gives back to her neighbours.

This evening in the Admiral's lilypad was quiet, and tranquil. Bread dough was mixed and left to rise on its own, filling the kitchen with the yeasty wonderful smell of life propogating and continuing. An hour later, this dough was kneaded and stretched, then rolled into a tube and placed seam-side down into a greased pan.
This pan went into the centre rack of the oven, and the oven turned on to 350 and promptly turned off once it reached the temperature desired. The bread was left for about 45 minutes, and the resulting loaf was turned onto a plate. This pplate was covered by a gaily coloured cloth knapkin, and the knapkin was wrapped around the entire loaf and plate.

At 21:15, I exited my apartment, without my cane and wearing only a humble skirt and blouse, carrying the package in my arms, lest it fall and be wasted. I walked a bit, hearing the familiar voice coming closer, and the smell of cigarettes. As she came closer into my earshot, I stopped about two feet from her door and waited for her to stop speaking.

"Everything ok?" She asked, noting I had something in my arms.

"I brought you some bread." I answered, stepping up and holding out the plate.
I've never seen two women tear into a loaf of bread that quickly. They both admired that it came out perfect, and sweet, and suggested I add cinnamon sugar to the final loaf before tossing it into the oven.

Which I will.
I try to follow the golden rule, and I think, this time, I put Karma back into the universe where it's needed.

1) yeast will activate given enough sugar, unless it's dead by default.
2) those little packages of three packs of yeast, cannot be separated
3) the ratio of flour to water is 2:1.
4) the dough will turn out perfectly if kneaded by hand, never ever mixed with a spoon.
5) the more dough that sticks to your hands, the more perfect the bread.
6) using an unfloured knife to scrape dough off your fingers will be unsuccessful. especially if the knife isn't blunt
7) remove any and all rings from the hands before beginning to work. Unless you want to use it to make pretty designs in the top of the loaf.
8) salt is a bitch to measure if the top doesn't pop off
9) don't ever ever whoosh shut a bag of flour. A storm will ensue.
10) a baker's wire rack is absolutely necessary.

11) if you fuck up, better luck next time.

I haven't been this annoyed in a while.
here in the states, we have an emergency alert system that alerts us to weather events, etc. Look it up on Wikipedia, and come back here.

I'll wait...

Ok, now that you know the gory details of its workings, let me explain something.
The SAME signal, specific area message encoding, and the two-tone attention signal, causes a problem.
it causes a massive seizure. We're not sure why, but Sharry is probably going to run an experiment soon to find out what actulaly happens, because, I don't know. I just know that by all accounts it's not fun.
i got some colossal moron today telling me that epilepsy is a disease created by doctors for drug sales, etc, etc.
All right, smartass, you want to pick me up off the floor next time? You want to clean me up, tuck me back into, or into bed, make sure i don't chuck up repeatedly, be the one to call Sharry and let her know something's gone wrong? or do you want to be the one on the receiving end of the ass chewing you would get if your negligence was responsible?
because I can tell you one thing.
She's not happy with the morons that point to my tag and say that it's all for attention.
I feel humiliated every time I have to foolishly stuff my fingers in my ears whenever I hear odd synthesised sounds, that I know will probably set me off. I know I look like an idiot swallowing dropperfuls of what looks like vodca, or chewing what looks like a candy while my eyes roll around like grease-covered marbles on ice. I feel mortified when I have to explain to some fuckwit why they have to hastily mute the tv, lest they need to do an impromptu rearrangement of their living room.
trust me, I hate doing it.
But it's better than the alternative.

We spent a few hours on the beach on Friday. All was fine, except now all three of us have horrid sunburn. I don't have the worst of it, but mine is behaving slightly differently than theirs is. Sharry's is peeling and isn't hurting her too much, Keith's peels and doesn't hurt too badly, mine, multiple blisters have popped up, they're all oozing and I still can't lift my arms. ow, just ow.

Dear contacts,
I will be away from the keyboard, hence, unable to assist you, for the next seventy-two (72) hours. should this issue be urgent enough to require immediate attention, you may send an email to my address, which you should know, and the automagick vacation autoresponder will take good care of you. I will not, and I repeat not have a computer, keyboard, or anything moretechnological than a pair of knitting needles, an mp3 player and my sanity. So please, should this issue require somewhat immediate attention, please feel free to call my number and leave a message. When i return, I do not want to find ten trillion offline messages from you dimwits who can't understand that I'm afk and therefore cannot help you. Deal with it. I need a vacation just as much as the next person, and goddamn it I'm taking it this weekend.
Love,
Your friendly neighbourhood empathic impromptu underpaid overstressed counsellor
p.s., if someone is hurt, call your local emergency number, not if they're annoying you.

Ladies and gents, this is one of the times that I've had the pleasure of giving some religious fundy moron the smackdown.
This is in response to a "book review" of "harry potter and the sorcerer's stone" on Cutting edge ministries website.
Read that first, then come back here and read my reply.

Thursday we went apartment hunting, and I ran into some of the worst people I think I could ever meet. Since for the time being I can't do much about what income i get, it's fixed, and a lot of places require that you make three times the rent. This one landlady was a cunt, pushing me to come back and see this particular unit that was, to say the least, fucked. It felt stuffy the moment I walked in, and there was nobody in there. The living room felt of evil. The kitchen felt of fear. The study felt of panic. The bedroom and closet felt and sensed of death. A woman was killed in the closet, and I couldn't stay. I left in a hurry. Beore Sharry could catch up.

On top of that my grandmother and I talked, and she said

"You cannot live on your own. You cannot get a job. You cannot go anywhere. you are too immature to survive. You do not have seizures, even if you want to. You are to come home as soon as possible, and get away from that bitch."

Sharry heard this conversation.
it wasn't fun. I've just felt like hell, and I don't want to take another bath, because I feel that that is vain, conceited and selfish to take yet another one when I'd had one Thursday night. Any opinions on this?
And on top of that one of my "friends" doesn't now care that he's given me a bollocking for something that he should've mentioned a long time ago, and now doesn'treally want to talk to me.
Moron.
Fuck this. I'm going to bed early. Have to be uptomorrow, anyway.

Tonight Sharry came home from work as normal, and of course I immediately put down my headset, dropped my microphone and turned to the door when she opened it. She let me know she'd gotten me a set of plastic dishes, and they still look nice. So I paid her back for it and put the rest of my stuff away, and while I was busy washing my hands she tapped on my bathroom door, which leads out into the hallway, and asked how I felt about spaghetti and garlic bread. My answer? "Have I died and gone to heaven?"
She muttered something and we went into the kitchen. She mentioned that this was her great grandmother's recipe and that it's quite flexible. She then asked if I wanted beef, chicken or steak. I shrugged and said I was used to ground beef, so she said "chicken it is."
She roughly chopped about three or four tomatoes, minced a bulb of garlic, looked for onions, ok we don't have onions, but that's all right, she dropped the stuff into the pot, I backed up, handed her the butter and started washing a plate, cup and bowl for myself, bringing the rest of them in and placing them on the counter where we've designated that that would be my place.
She then added some cooking wine, 4% alcohol with salt, a tiny bit of pepper, fresh thyme, rosemary and oregonno
 (sp?) and then I started making the pasta.
While the pasta was making, she started the garlic bread, and oh my god, that's the best stuff I've ever had. Two slices a piece went into the oven, and then she started on the chicken. She defrosted and then cooked it in wine, butter and garlic, added the whole mess together and stirred.
I immensely enjoyed this particular meal.

Now, although I'm up at 3:20 in the morning, I have bad nausea, and methinks I should go back to bed.
Good night, everyone!