Makes Sense to Me

To those of you who know me in the real world, sorry.  Really, I am.  My generally less-than-stellar communication attempts are currently non-existent.  Seriously, send a message to Gliese 581 G and wait for a response; you'd have better odds.

It's just that there's a lot going on.  I've got to print a murder of crows, knit a fish, and bake a whole bunch of little tiny people this week, and I assure you that if you're me, this sentence makes sense.

So, sorry.  At least I would be sorry, if I had the time.  Full plate.

I've had three or four topics on which I totally intended to blog over the last couple of weeks, but time's moving at warp speed and they're already stale.  In recap, I've knit green yarn up to my knees.  Cows are dangerous.  My cactus is blooming. I finished Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and was humorously surprised to find that while I enjoyed the Bennett sisters strangling a ninja with his own entrails, Mr. Darcy making veiled sexual comments made me frown with distaste.

And there is a new volume of Buffy Season 8 out which I bought promptly on New Comic Wednesday but I can't crack the cover yet because I'm moderating a group of two hundred monster lovers with sock fetishes and the need for frequent technical support.  (And again with the sense that makes if you’re me.)

I’ve been Python-wrestling all day at work.  I neglect it for one week and I find that my parseltongue has been subject to defenestration.  I know just enough of a smattering of different programming languages that every time I sit down to code I get vertigo.
dim...no, def... no, wait... crap.

arcpy.AddMessage(“crap.”)

Don’t ask me what my favorite color is; I’ll go flying right over the side of the bridge.

And, for the love of God, will you people stop sending me emails full of pictures of puppies rescuing baby rodents from deforestation and chihuahuas wearing hats?  I’m going to call up PETA and tell them that you eat bunnies for breakfast just to see what they do to your house.

Luke’s watching a movie while I multi-task. (Can I watch StarWars?  Yes.  Can I watch Pretend StarWars?  No.) Paul and John are streaming over the wireless and pouring out of the speakers in the kitchen telling me that don’t you know, everything’s gonna be alright but I’ve got artichokes to fit into a pot and then I have to go into the other room to clean up cat barf and write up an interview with an 83-year-old lady who writes gothic erotic poetry. (True. Story.)

When next week is all over I'm going away someplace with yarn and wine and a whole mess of vampires and people who don't think that's at all odd.

And that, my friends, makes sense to me.