American thing.

I tried to do the American thing by replacing cow milk (poison) with coconut milk creamer (hip not-poison) in a Tetra-Pak container for my coffee. It tasted like Rosemary's baby's spit, but I drained the entire mug to punish myself for disrespecting coconut milk and coffee.

Kerunch.

I am snacking on shelled pistachios, or pure nut meat if you wish.

Waft.

Me: neroli, pink pepper, bamboo, champaca, freesia, basmati, myrrh, green tea and musk.

You: stale alcohol.

We clash. I'm moving over to 'politics', but you have good taste in design magazines.

Blorp.

Her face had changed. It was narrow as ever but it seemed to me that her maker was remoulding it from the chin up. I wondered if I was wrong to peg her as one of the pretty girls in class.

Then it hit me.

She got fat.

Squosh.

I can feel my butt crack when I sit down.

Practice #1.

From this Boing Boing post about Sarah Palin:

Andrew Sullivan, with whom I agree not all of the time, but do this time, says this about the CBS News interview embedded above: "All you can say is: unbelievable. Except it's true. She is the vice-presidential candidate of a national political party. Seriously."

The phrase I italicised is just really awkward. 'With whom' is usually deployed to avoid ending a sentence with a preposition, and the blogger was never in danger of that. What she really meant was:

Andrew Sullivan, who/whom I don't agree with all the time. . .

If she REALLY wanted to use 'with whom', I'd suggest:

Andrew Sullivan, with whom I disagree sometimes. . .

'Not all of the time' is as graceful as a clown in Dutch clogs. 'Whom' usage is sadly falling out of favour, and does sound a little old-fashioned and formal these days. Given the tone and content of Boing Boing, I think it would be consistent for the bloggers to stay away from 'whom'. Except in the steampunk posts, of course. ;)

Blerk.

The freshly boiled pasta smelled like wet dog, but it didn't stop me form serving it with a side of French beans.

Point.

Right now, there is only one famous female singer from Barbados and her name is Rihanna. Not Rhianna. Never Rhianna. Why is it so fucking difficult to get right?

Yowch.

Sadness triggers migraines.

Twitch.

The box of head lice solution matched her pink flannel pyjama bottoms. Embarrassed to be seen in public, her hair hung dejectedly in dark, wet strings about her head. She shuffled across the parking lot into a waiting SUV, the soles of her white socks darkening with every step. She was a woman who had given up on Life.

But not lice.

Sip.

When I'm pulling pieces of skin from the roof of my scalded mouth, I forget about things. Coffee allows me to go on.

Tummy noises, 9.42am

Grrrrrrrrghhhhrrrrlllschhhrrrrrkkkkkeeeeee.

Slump.

And with nothing better to do, she decided to window shop in the hospital. "Ooooh, if I'm ever sick and hospitalized with an intravenous drip hooked to a vein, will somebody love me enough to get me one of those fruit hampers? Maybe I prefer chocolate. OooooOOoOooOoh, get well soon BALLOONS!"

Mood: Grim.

Kitteh disapproves of talent going before its time. Lilo, Amy Wino, clean your acts up.

Ahem.

Keeping At Stiff Upper Lip turned two today. You promised her a pony.

Blee!

We had two nights of Chinese opera at our neighbour's funeral. People came and went, car doors slammed open and shut, and oh, how I longed to release our killer canines into the madness!

Lick.

On her exposed left arm, near her shoulder, was the perfect scar-- a raised, pale brown rectangle that glowed softly like a satin pillow in the light. All I wanted was one little lick. Stealthily, my tongue drew closer and closer and closer still...

... until the elevator doors opened and the perfect scar walked out of my sight, and my life.

Smack.

Dear people,

You don't need to use 'signage' or 'signages' when 'sign' or 'signs' suffice.

Love, actually, no, seething hatred,
Shryh

Died.

Two people died in my dreams two nights ago in two unconnected incidents. The first to go was my young, balding co-worker who had a bad case of the sniffles, so his death was met by a great deal of wide-eyed disbelief. The second death was that of my aunt's, which devastated me so much that I wept with great abandon in my dream, and woke up to a salty, tear-soaked pillow.

Polish.

He droned.

As I mentally applied blush and a shimmery highlighter to those cheekbones.