First:
For those of you who are mad at me about yesterday’s post.
I have never actually insulted or verbally assaulted my children on facebook. I have never actually called them assholes (to their faces) much less told them to much go &*(# themselves.

As for the menace that I intended to kill them in their sleep… I’ll own that one because I can’t fully swear I haven’t done. I don’t remember ever having done so but I’m not 100% certain that I haven’t.

Second:

I don’t want to throw you guys off or anything.

I know you’ve grown quite used to me hating my life.

But some really amazing things are all going on at once and it’s making me really really happy.

I know, it’s weird, but don’t worry, I’m still as bitchy and moody as ever, it’s just that my bitching and mood swinging is currently peppered with bits of skipping and jumping and lots and lots of smiling.

I spent a really inspiring afternoon in the studio, with one of the most talented and creative people I have ever met yesterday afternoon. We did a little recording and discussed some top secret projects that I am going to tell you more about once they get moving.

After which, I ( and by I, I mean my alter ego/Burlesque self, Damiana Dolce) rushed off to an interview with Emily Hill of wherearetheshows.com, the link for which I will share with you as soon as it’s published.

I feel like if I tell you guys all of what else is brewing over here I’ll jinx everything and none of it will happen. But I’m so excited I could scream from the mountain tops. Except for that I live in Montréal and we don’t do mountains here. Unless you consider the mole hill that is Mount Royal a mountain. Which, having grown up in British Columbia, I do not.

Maybe if I don’t come right out and say it, maybe if I just imply that it may or may not be happening, I’d still be safe?

Maybe if I just told you that I may or may not be going to Brooklyn soon to film one of my blog posts, it will still happen.

Maybe if I tell you that hypothetically speaking, were I to be performing in the Burlesque tent of the Just For Laughs festival this summer, I would be pretty damn pleased, it would still potentially, hypothetically happen.

Maybe if I straight up told you that I have been invited to spend the first week of August in Japan, performing in the first ever Tokyo Burlesque Festival, it would stay real, because it totally is and I was and OH MY GOD!! Seriously? Japan? Are you kidding me?

And also, I’ll be there for my birthday! I’ll be singing. In Japan. On my birthday. I could pretty much just pee my pants with joy, in fact I just did, just now, as I wrote that.

In all fairness, I sneezed at the same time so…

What I can also tell you, without hesitation, is that tonight is the Candyass Club Cabaret’s Prom Night Burlesque Show and the details are HERE: Candyass Club Cabaret Class of 2012 Prom Night

Original article: So Excited I Could Scream! I Mean, More Than I Usually Do

©2013 . All Rights Reserved.

Many people tell me I’m the best mom in the world;
None of them being my children mind you..

And there was a time when I deserved that title.

Around the time that I was the pregnant single mother of a 4 year old, a 1 year old.

Around the time that my children were all under the age of 8.

Around the time when what parenting entailed was deciding if it was too early to introduce solids, singing babies to sleep, going on nature walks, and making cookies, mud pies, and play-dough.

And although my usual tendency is to be entirely self-deprecating, I can proudly say I was pretty fucking amazing at all of the above.

But now, while I’m not sure how it happened or when I turned down that fateful road, now I’m a complete failure of a parent.

Now, I fully understand why lions eat their young while they’re still cute and defenceless.

Now what parenting entails in my world, is being talked to like a 12th class citizen in the home that I furnish, clean, organize and pay exorbitant amounts of money for each month.

Now, parenting means tripping over 15 pairs of shoes that are lying in the middle of the floor next to the empty shoe rack when I walk in the door and following the trail of mess and filth all the way to the bedroom door I locked before leaving the house but is now somehow mysteriously wide open and noticing that half the things I own are missing and every dish in the house is filthy and the dog is running loose in the house with cat litter all over her face and somebody’s underwear dangling from her jowls.

Now parenting entails staying up till 3am worrying about the child who still isn’t home yet, being woken up at 4am by the sound of her throwing-up on the front balcony and woken up again at 5am by the smell of the dog taking an explosive crap in her crate, on account of all the kitty litter she ate the day before.

Parenting is giving up on sleep and getting up at 5:15 to hose off the balcony, bathe the dog, wash her bedding, clean up the cat vomit

(probably the result of a cat witnessing the dog eating out of her litter box, a mere foot and a half away)

from the laundry room floor and dig lime wedges out of beer bottles that have been sitting on your kitchen counter for days, next to the food that’s been left out to rot all week, because you pretended that if you left them there long enough, the people who drank those beers would actually clean them up themselves – all before you’ve had your first coffee.

Now I understand why parents buy one bedroom townhouses, leaky condos and air-stream trailers. Now I know why they go on cruises and move to Florida.

They’re running away from home and giving nobody the option to join them.

I know this is all my fault somehow, because my friend’s statuses on facebook include announcements like

“So happy to have my boy home for the holidays!”

“So proud of my guy on his Asian excursion! can’t believe he won’t be home for another 6 months!”

“Baby girl just moved out 3 days ago! I haven’t stopped crying since”

etc…

Where my updates are more like

“Whoever broke into my bedroom and stole my iPod dock today while I was at work slaving away to pay your rent can pretty much go &*(# yourself”

and

“Missing: The cat in heat that i told you @ssholes not to let outside”

or

“Announcement: If you don’t stop smoking on the back balcony and sticking your cigarette butts in my planters I’m going to kill you in your sleep”

My question isn’t where did I go wrong (anymore) because the damage is done and honestly, I feel so resentful and oppressed, I don’t care anymore.

My question is this : Hypothetically speaking, if a mother were to have no choice (in the name of what shreds are left of her sanity and mental and physical health – And maybe also to prevent her from doing anything that might land her in prison) to run away from home, how old would her children have to be in order for her not to be considered a negligent parent/cold-hearted bitch?

Original article: Who’s Number One?

©2013 . All Rights Reserved.

I’ve been running around like a crazy person lately, and if feels like there is barely time to breathe because there’s all this stuff to take care of. Some of it sucks, like work stuff and grown-up stuff, bills and being nice to people and faxing stuff…and stuff.

Some of it is awesome, like social events and preparing for shows and driving about the city and fixing stuff and stuff.

And by fixing stuff I mostly mean fixing two lamps, some wordpress plug-ins and my brain.

And by fixing my brain I mostly mean going to therapy for the first time in years and begging [my therapist] to fix it for me.

It will clearly take years because we’re still working on teaching me proper therapy session edicate. Apparently I haven’t fully grasped the concept.

“I feel really bad talking like this, if she knew I was talking about her behind her back like this she’d be heartbroken” I confess.

“You’re not talking about her behind her back. This is therapy. This is the place to talk about these these things” she reassures me.

“I feel guilty talking about myself for an hour” I apologize. “I didn’t even ask you how you are doing”

She stares blankly at me, shaking her head.

“I appreciate you offering me a reduced rate” I thank her “But are you sure you’re comfortable with that?”

“Jennifer, it’s not YOUR job to take care of MY feelings”

She’s offered me almost half price sessions if it ensures that I come once a week. Should I take that personally?

I’m especially broken lately. So honestly, if she was willing to charge me a quarter of her fee, I’d go every day.

In the meantime, I am trying (and I use that term very very lightly) to focus (which is hard enough in itself) on the positive.

Even though my bedroom suddenly smells like alcoholic chain-smoker.

Gross!

It’s coming through the window .

How is that even possible? I live on the 2nd floor!

It seriously smells in my room as though a raging drunk who hasn’t changed their clothes in a week or washed their hair in a month, is pressed up against the screen of my window, drooling stale beer and cigarette breath through the wire mesh.

That’s seriously disgusting.

Anyway… back to happiness and joy.

This weekend is going to be awesome and here’s why:

1) Today I’m taking a creative day today to work on some crafty projects that I have been neglecting for months and that makes me very super extra happy.

2) Tonight I’m singing at Café Campus with the fabulously talented cast of Blue Light Burlesque and the theme of tonight’s show is Happy Hour, which makes me so even extra amazingly happy, you have no idea. And the best part about that is that if you’re in Montreal tonight you can come be happy with us for our happy hour Burlesque show. How awesome is that??

and

3. Tomorrow I have a super special awesome photo shoot scheduled for a top secret project and really, I mean REALLY, what’s not happiness and joy inducing about a Top Secret photo shoot? Am I right?

So have yourselves a fabulous weekend and hopefully I’ll see your gorgeous faces tonight at Café Campus.
xx

Original article: Happy Happy Joy

©2013 . All Rights Reserved.

So,
this morning, I did something that has been on one of my 2 billion To-Do-Lists for the last couple of years.

The To-Do List entitled: Stop being a baby and do it already!

The thing is,
that when I was many months pregnant with my youngest daughter, in Vancouver, I learned to drive.

I acquired a licence and drove my little heart out like I was queen of the road for years.

And I loved it.

However, since I moved back to Montreal, 13 long years ago, I have only driven a vehicle a couple of times.

Once, when the police came to my house to inform me that they had arrested my boyfriend down the street and that I needed to come move his car from the corner of Parc and Mount Royal before it got towed.

Once, when my mother’s husband couldn’t get his car out of its parking spot and, being the parking wizard that I once was, I had to go squeeze it out for him.

And once, about 5 years ago, when my boyfriend decided to take me on vacation and announced:

SURPRISE!

My dad is renting us a car tomorrow and you’re driving it to Baie-Saint-Paul!!

So, first of all, I got myself so worked up the night before that I managed to convince myself that I was going to forget which was the Gas Pedal and which was the breaks (never mind how to use them) so I searched it, and how to drive a car for dummies, on Google. I found neither. Apparently even dummies can drive.

Second of all, he told me that it was like a 2 hour drive, which was freaking me out as it was. Then I google mapped it and learned that it was actually 4 hours. Then when we drove it we encountered every freak weather scenario imaginable so it ended up taking about 5 or 6 hours in the end. My first time driving in like 7 years.

When we were leaving the Car rental lot that morning, I was literally in tears. I can’t remember if Franky was just so confident a believer in me that he chose to ignore my tears or if he simply didn’t notice them.

I will say this though. We were gone for about 4 days and by the time we got back, I was almost in tears at the thought of returning the car.

But I haven’t driven since. And with time, I became scared to all over again.

So here’s the thing. For about two years, I have had the plan to take a couple of driving lessons so that I could practice and try to regain my confidence.

And I have put it off and put it off and put it off…

Until today!!

This morning I went driving with an instructor and it was awesome because:

1. I didn’t run any red lights, knock off anybody’s side mirror, or drive the wrong way down a one way street or anything else I shouldn’t have done.

And

2. Despite my insistence that the instructor not overestimate my abilities, he spent most of his time on his phone – texting, looking up once in a while to tell me which direction to turn.

3. The only mistakes I made were holding the steering wheel with only one hand and sometimes in the wrong position, and running a yellow light, and refusing to drive when a baby squirrel was on the road.

We chatted about work, Burlesque shows, relationships, heartbreak and hockey and before I knew it, the hour was up.

I was super nervous and I’m still not convinced that I should be allowed to possess a driver’s licence but I feel pretty proud of myself and so happy to finally be able to check that one off my list.

Yay Jen!!

Next task: Graduate from Law School. Or apply for it anyway…

Original article: In Which I Put On My Big Girl Pants And Take The Wheel

©2013 . All Rights Reserved.

Do you ever get this weird feeling, like you’re scared you’re going to do something that you don’t want to do, or aren’t allowed to do, and the more that you think about how you can’t do it, the more scared you become that you won’t be able to control yourself or stop yourself from doing it?

Like, are you ever sitting across from somebody you like perfectly well and while they are talking you suddenly become consumed with the fear that you might just spontaneously punch them in the face for no reason?

No?

Really?

How about intermittent yet almost debilitating phases of fear of accidentally having no control over keeping yourself from leaping in front of a moving metro despite not having any intention or desire to ever do anything of the sort?

No?

Really?

No paralyzing dread over potentially losing control of your own will and physical reality to a detrimental or even fatal extent?

Okay, so maybe I actually do have OCD afterall.

Whatever, no big deal. You know why? Because I happen to know for a fact that some of you are lying.

Maybe not all of you. I mean, there are probably at least 2 or 3 grounded and well-rounded people on this planet. Although I imagine they probably have more grounded and well-rounded activities and things to do than read this blog.

But many of you are just big fat liars.

Liars who are too selfish and scaredy-cat to admit that they are just as bonkers as I am, even if it means letting me feel alone and even crazier than I actually am.

But I know you’re out there and that there are plenty of you.

So many in fact, that Forever 21 even has to print these kinds of warnings on their underwear labels.

And I just want to point out, before any of you place an order to have me committed, that I’m obviously not as bad as some of you because even if I occasionally have intrusive paranoia related to the fear of the non-existent impulse to jump off bridges or spontaneously sexually assault my uncle (In my defence, he’s pretty hot), I have never, ever, EVER, been afraid that I might not be able to stop myself from lighting my crotch on fire. EVER.

So clearly, I’m perfectly sane.

That or, like in the case where somebody sued Starbucks for not warning them that their coffee was hot, subsequently obliging the company to print it on their take-away-cups, somebody accidentally straddled a candle flame or rubbed their ass on a fire log or something…

In which case I actually am completely f@cked in the head and possibly just lost the last 3 friends that I had.

Dear last 3 friends, please don’t dump me. I promise never ever to punch you in the head ever.

Dear Forever 21,
If the warning on your underwear label is actually intended to protect lunatics like me, I think you’re doing OCD sufferers a disservice. All you’ve done is plant one more fear in their heads. One more obsession to ruin their day. Hoards of woman are now wandering the streets without panties on because they are terrified that they might not be able to stop themselves from lighting our their bums on fire.
Not cool.
Love Jen

Original article: Liar Liar Pants On… Wait, What?

©2013 . All Rights Reserved.

So….. almost a month ago I posted about the continuing saga of my attempt to purchase a nutribullet. I blogged, I tweeted and I facebooked my little heart out, having basically, for all intents and purposes, the equivalent of a social media network tantrum.

And guess what!

The next day, I received an apology email from Nutribullet, saying that they were sorry about any confusion and that my order had been re-processed.

And just a couple of days after that, my NUTRIBULLET arrived in the mail! Oh yes it did!

And you know what else?

I’m so glad it did because I’m pretty much in love with it.

The first recipe I tried was an anti-inflammation concoction that consists of spring greens and 4 kinds of citrus fruit WITH the rinds intact, plus flax and turmeric.

I was so excited I could barely contain myself, until I took a big giant mouthful of it. I refrained, amazingly enough, from spitting it out all over the kitchen but only because I had just washed the floor.

It pretty much tasted a rind smoothie with a hint of turmeric. And also, not that it’s important, it looked like newborn baby poop.

HOWEVER!

I stayed optimistic. I rolled up my sleeves, and I tried again,

Spinach, strawberries, blueberries, banana and a handful of almonds.

Basically a heaven smoothie.

No seriously. It was so good.

And inspiring.

I felt the same way, after that vita berry-blast, as I did after the first time I had sex.

I seriously want to put everything I can get my hands on into this nutirbullet thing. I want to extract the shit out of my pantry and my fridge and everybody elses’ fridge too. I want to… well, you get my drift.

I haven’t dared to embark on the 6 week Nutribullet program yet because I’m not set up for it but it looks amazing.

And as soon as I do a proper plan, grow a pair and dive into the deep end, you all going to be the first to know – because I love you THAT much.

And also I don’t have any friends.

Original article: Nutirbullet Update For All Of You Who Were Dying To Know…

©2013 . All Rights Reserved.

So the thing is, that I spend my days and weeks and months and years feeling inadequate and talent-less and begging the universe to give me a skill or a product or something worth selling, because I don’t actually know how to do or make anything worth buying and the only thing I have to offer is myself and that’s not exactly selling like hotcakes these days, despite the adorable paypal button I created and posted in the side bar of this blog *insert gasping for air* but I haven’t completely given up hope that there is a way to support my enormous leech-like family and get by in life, without snuffing out the shreds of creative spirit I have left and replacing all of my hopes and dreams with a dead-end job that I hate…

And then just when I’m about to give up, (here’s the part where I say something mean that’s going to hurt somebody’s feelings directly and upset artists all over the world) I see something like this and I’m all

And I wonder if maybe I really have lost all of my entire mind, or if the world is just playing a HILARIOUS joke on me.

Original article: Fetus For Sale

©2013 . All Rights Reserved.

I had this idea a couple of years ago, that I could spend my time doing what I loved most in life.

Of course, I knew that writing stories and singing songs wouldn’t pay my rent, but I heard that if I allowed companies to advertise on my blog, I could make enough money to keep blogging, work on my book and make music and still be able to pay the rent, keep the wine cellar stocked, AND maybe even feed my children, on the very rare occasion that they were worthy.

SO I promptly bought up a few domain names and set up shop.

I took an online SEO course or three, downloaded Noble Samurai, chose pointless niches. Bought useless names, and applied to about 353423432143664 affiliate programs.

One month I made a hundred dollars.

Most months I made closer to three

dollars.

As it turned out, people aren’t googling burlesque performers, lonely single mom blogs, and vegan activist we sites nearly as much as you might expect them to, and the few who aren’t aren’t usually looking to buy anything.

“You need to create a site that will attract desperate buyers”

A friend advised me.

“A site about weight loss or financial ruin or genital warts or a fatal disease or something like that…

something that people will pay anything to cure. Those people will click and buy, and you will reap the benefits.”

I’d be lying if I didn’t consider it, but only for a few minutes.

Well maybe more than a few.

I may or may not have searched godaddy for whywontmyboyfriendmarryme.com or inquired into the availability of loseweighteatingicecream.ca or bumwarts.info or something along those lines.

I honestly can’t remember.

But that’s not important.

What is important is that

I couldn’t bear the thought of making money off desperate people who don’t need yet another @sshole to take advantage of them, by selling them shit that they don’t need because it’s not real and isn’t going to solve anything.

What’s important is that I didn’t want to contribute to the false hope and the broken dreams of anyone other than the 3 children that I brought onto this planet for that precise reason.

So I opted not to go the desperate buyer route and continue to deposit my 3 dollar adsense cheques into my account, with a relatively clean conscious.

Which isn’t to say that I don’t have adds on my site. Because I do. See? Right there. On top of this post. and to the right of it.

But I feel confident that very few of you landed at The Lady’s Lounge out of a DESPERATE cry for help in the form of an insatiable desire to purchase a retro salt shaker, or a yoga mat, or trendy cosmetics, or vegan shoes. But if you did. Click on the links buy some. Buy lots and lots of them. You need them, you know you do.

So, even though I pretty much gave up the dream to get rich ruining the lives of innocent pathetics, it has come to my attention lately, that many Many MANY people, from all parts of the world, are landing daily on my blog by googling the words Vagina Museum, and, while it makes my moral self a little itchy, I caught myself feeling a little tiny bit tempted to splurge on the the purchase of vaginamuseum.com. I didn’t do it. But I considered it.

Until it occurred to me that there probably aren’t a ton of wholesome pay-per-click advertisers that would fit the theme.

So then I thought maybe I should actually create a real Vagina Museum. I would have a legit reason to have the domain name and could continue to attract these very same readers without having done it under false pretenses.

And then it occurred to me that creating a vagina museum might be a bit expensive what with staff, venue, rights, licensing, permits, advertising etc…

Also, (I hope) I imagine it can’t be all that easy to find exhibit pieces, be they pickled, preserved, mummified or otherwise..

Plus there’s the kind of important part where I STILL wouldn’t actually make any money.

And on top of all that, I don’t care about my vagina museum at all and I never really have so it is clearly destined to become a source of resentment and a monument of my broken dreams.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how my brain functions.

Oh, and also:

From: Jennifer June
To: RAVI4321
Sent: Mon, Apr 29, 2013 9:17 pm
Subject: vaginamuseum.com

I’m just saying…

Original article: Desperate Buyers And Vagina Voyeurs

©2013 . All Rights Reserved.

Warning: Some of you may hate me after reading this.

I was hoping I would lighten up a little, after that run of heartache and confusion that I let leak out onto you (for which I am sorry) but I guess I’m not done yet.

Please bear with me another day.

Two days ago, I listened to somebody rant on and on about how that 19 year old kid, the remaining Boston Bomber, deserves to be killed in the most violent of ways for what he did. My heart hurt. My stomach twisted into knots.

Yes. I believe there should be consequences. But I am saddened that the knee jerk reaction to these acts of violence is to manifest more of it.

I’m also sad that we still hold public witch hunts, name enemies of the state, encourage fear mongering and hold double standards of the grossest nature and ask the people,

Which terrorists should we be most afraid of?

Aren’t we terrorists? We must certainly be the enemy of other states. We’re just so narcissistic and ignorant, we think it’s different when we do it.

I think of the victims (and by victims I mean everyone who was effected in any way) of the Bombing in Boston last week, and my heart breaks for all of them.

I imagine this 19 year old, 7 short years ago, as a relatively innocent 12 year old boy, playing with his friends, riding his bike, living like any other child; with no idea that his very near future includes the blood of hundreds on his hands and standing in court awaiting a verdict – life in hell, or the death sentence. I grieve heavily.

“Seriously! These immigrants…. Blah blah blah blah and that piece of shit deserves to be killed!”

My only response:

“What an ironic conversation to be having on our way to a Buddhist centre”

Yesterday, I sat in a room full of people who were discussing how intolerable discrimination is, when suddenly, the conversation turned.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting among a majority of 30 people who were agreeing with each other about how although they “accept” gay people being gay, that they shouldn’t do “it” in front of us.

And that there shouldn’t be commercials on television, depicting gay couples embracing because it’s shocking and offensive to see.

They shouldn’t “try and force us to think it’s okay!”

“We don’t want to see that!”

I feel an elbow in my arm and look up to meet eyes that are waiting for my sign of approval.

“right?”

I fight the reflex to throw up.

Apparently, we’ve been conditioned to watch exploitation and degradation and murder and mutilation on television to the point where there is absolutely nothing offensive about it but God forbid there be two men hugging or kissing!

We can watch women be raped on Law and Order every other night, but two women in a consensual embrace? Not on this guy’s watch!

Yesterday on facebook, I happened to notice a few status updates spewing intolerance and ignorance to the point where I momentarily vowed to abolish the internet, and then all of humanity from my life.

I kept chanting to myself quietly.

“Cabin in the woods. Cabin in the woods. Cabin in the woods…”

Is there something in the water? Is the moon melting?

Is the universe trying to teach me how to be tolerant of intolerant people?

I said I wanted to be Zen and all-embracing but honestly I didn’t mean that I wanted to be tested on a daily basis. And I certainly didn’t mean please test my tolerance until I have none left. Or Expose me to so much rage that it’s all I can feel myself.

I’d heard so much hate by the end of yesterday, I caught myself vocalizing

“I f@cking hate people”

I don’t hate people. I hate that I even feel that way sometimes.

There are so many amazing, beautiful, caring, compassionate people in the world.

Some of them are ignorant and immature and even clueless at times. But it doesn’t make them deserving of hate, from me or anyone else.

I know that, so why can’t I feel it?

If I am asking people to find compassion for the people who they can’t understand or are afraid of…

Surely deep deep deeeeeeep down inside, I can find some for the people who are afraid of the things they don’t understand. for the people who feel threatened by what might force them to change their way of thinking, or even living.

If I can see the human in the Boston Bomber. I can certainly find it in myself to see the human in the people who want to see him dead.

I need to remember that there’s a difference between ignorance and fear, and malicious evil.

I also need to remember to surround myself with positive energy and people who bring out the best in me,

not people who make me hate people.

If there’s anyone still reading at this point,

I thank you for your patience while I sort myself out.

I owe you countless posts of positive energy, wine tasting, puppy dogs, bicycle rides, restoring and recycling old furniture and recipes for delicious food. And they’re coming up starting tomorrow.

I even have a Nutribullet update for you…

Picture courtesy of Jo, courtesy of Other Jo, courtesy of wherever it originally came from

Original article: I Hate People – No I Don’t – Yes I Do – No I Don’t

©2013 . All Rights Reserved.

Although, despite yesterday’s cry for help, there wasn’t one single bouquet, bottle, or box of chocolates left on my balcony last night, I’m sure you’re all dying to know so,

Foot Update: It still hurts but not too much and, while I’m still not fit to run and my heart is broken into a billion pieces because I really wanted to go to the running room tonight to sign up, I can walk just fine, thank you very much.

And because I’m sure the only thing in the whole wide world that is concerning you more than my ankle injury is the status of my Nutribullet purchase,

Nutribullet Update:

Not getting my hopes too high this time mind you, the status has been at Preparing shipment for days now. Although I imagine it takes some time to get the box into another box and label it and stuff.

Especially if the person doing that is disabled, like fingerless, or 1 foot tall, or an earwig or something. So…

I would like to tell you about all the other unbelievably fascinating things that are going on in my life but my piece of crap, dinosaur of an @sshole laptop has, without exaggeration, turned itself off at least 10 times since I started writing this post, over an hour ago, and it’s making me feel extremely violent so I’m walking away now.

Please note, my balcony is also accepting macbook donations so…

Original article: Foot Tall Fingerless Earwigs And Other Updates

©2013 . All Rights Reserved.