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I had one of these as a kid.
My sister, who was then just a baby, got into my bedroom and started swallowing the pegs.
The doctor wasn’t alarmed, but instead told my mother that they would eventually pass.
… I guess some kids just aren’t very bright, are they?

aww look at the shy mouse

… and the cat’s expression. Oh my god.
The Story of Little Phil
A number of days ago, my beautiful cat, Simon Ruppington Babyhead the 1st, spotted something in the yard. He didn’t seem to be terribly interested in hunting it, or harming it, but he was fascinated with this little baby creature. It was a tiny little blackbird that had somehow wound up on the ground with an injury. It couldn’t fly. It was just sitting there chilling like a little birdy does when it’s lost from its nest.
I didn’t want to touch it at first, because mother birds tend to flip out if their babies have human scent on them. So I kept an eye on him, and got him to hop on to a small branch so I could rescue it from my cat (just in case he decided to go for it). It seemed a little uncomfortable in the makeshift nest I made for it, so I transported it to the small garden my mother is keeping.
About an hour later I went to check on it and it had gotten itself all mucked up in the garden. It seemed unable to hold itself up. I figured, maybe it needed a little water. I brought it some water but it was uninterested. Upon realizing that its mother probably wasn’t going to come back for it, I picked it up and gave it a little bath in a small pail full of warmish water. Its stability began to decline rapidly, so I sat in back and held it in my hands, stroking its little birdy head as it dried off from its bath.
I sat there for about half an hour before I decided to lay it to rest under a tree. That was where it took its final breaths. I wish I would have known how to rescue it so it wouldn’t have had to die.
My sister named it ‘Little Phil’. For some reason we have a weird inside joke that all blackbirds are Philips. And since it was just a little guy, well, you get the point.

My Little Red Raincoat


Hello, my name is Ringo and I have a little red raincoat.

It’s shiny and red with big black buttons.

It keeps me warm and dry as I play my drums.

My friends don’t have shiny red raincoats.

They wish they could be as cool as me with my little red raincoat, but they can’t.

Only I can look this good while drumgasming in a little red raincoat.

I love my little red raincoat and my little red raincoat loves me too.


(via nothing-is-beatleproof)

This is me, with Desdemona the stray. She keeps coming around our apartment. We’ve been feeding her and giving her water but since she roams around we haven’t picked up a litter box so we let her in during the day and let her out periodically.
We have no idea where she came from but she’s really fat. We’re not sure if she’s going to have some kittens, or if she has an owner somewhere that’s just really negligent and couldn’t care less where she roams. She meows loudly, often, and kneads just about everything in sight - including people.
Nonetheless as I write this she’s sitting right next to the heater warming her paws.
When my sister was at the “just learned to crawl” stage, she happened to get into my bedroom and ate a couple handfuls of the pegs in this set.


Did I ever tell you guys about the time I ripped the handle off a door of a furniture store?

I was returning an application and on my way out I was met with a stubborn door, so I pulled and pulled. The handle fell off. I quickly fled the scene.

No wonder they never called me back.

The most horrifying place on the bay is the Cannery Row wax museum, located within 700 Cannery Row, Monterey, CA.

What makes the wax museum so horrifying? To start with, the price of the tour is over $8 per person. You’d think that such a ridiculous fee would go toward repairs, improvements, and upkeep, but as you’ll learn, that just isn’t so. I have a feeling they rob you blind so they can pay off the authorities still looking for multiple bodies that have disappeared inside of this “museum”.

From the outside it looks like a respectable, fun, and even interesting attraction. The entrance is located on the second floor of the 700 building, complete with a flowing fountain and booming audio. The host (or hostess) is always looking for customers, with an unusually warm and welcoming personality. It just seems like a good idea. Especially if you’re a history lover like me (and my significant other, who was brave enough to accompany me through the catacombs of hell).

You’ll notice the first red flag when you realize you’re going through a turnstile, down to a dimly-lit basement. A number of weathered sconces throughout the attraction are the only source of light as you meander through darkness, pressing buttons to activate vignettes that play out Monterey’s history. It’s worse than going to Hollister or Abercrombie & Fitch, except the plastic people aren’t alive here. If this still seems like a tolerable trip to you, read on.

The mannequins aren’t actually made of wax. They appear to be constructed with latex, or badly decomposed human flesh. The animatronic figures bear cold, steely eyes and their movements are rigid. Terrible audio clips drawl out in the background as they execute stiff, awkward hand and eye movements, only to stop suddenly as the lights drop. That’s your only signal that the vignette is over and you have to proceed to the next one.

By the end of the third presentation you’ll be met with some mannequins that just don’t want to stop moving after the audio clip is over. They just continue moving slowly, eyes rolling in their empty heads. Expect this to be 50 times creepier if you (or whomever you’re with) happen to be the only person inside of the exhibit. When we went, we stood there awkwardly, wondering if anything else was going to happen.

Once you cross the threshold into the next area of lush historical horror, you’ll be met with about a thousand eyeballs. This is when we bailed. The mannequins become thicker in numbers, the scenery becomes darker, and the vomit in your esophagus becomes ever evident. At some point as we were frantically trying to find the exit, something screamed and both of us went into a neurotic meltdown.

We’re both in our mid-20s and have delighted in dozens of gory slasher films, by the way. We were both jittery and sick by the time we finally made it upstairs again. We admitted to the attendant that we bailed because it was “creepy”. We didn’t even bother asking for a refund because we just wanted to get the hell out of that building.

If you’re looking to bring on some nightmare fuel, the wax museum is the place for you. Remember, I warned you.

"Delusions of Grandeur" (A short story.)

So here’s something I wrote tonight. Enjoy.

"Delusions of Grandeur"


Judy was a lucky woman.

When she won the lottery in June, she and Adrian planned the perfect wedding. Her bridesmaids draped the rafters of the Edwardian Englewood chapel with grey and white ribbons. Lilies lined the aisle. Even the sun kissed the kaleidoscope stained glass that overlooked the altar. Never before had she praised Jesus with such vigor and delight. She was truly blessed.

They bought a home far away from the noise of the city. The farm was long gone but the house remained, as it had since 1889. Judy and Adrian were enamored by the house. The delightful architecture made it look like a palace, with tiers and balconies. The original fish-eyed windows were still intact in the basement; a lattice bay window decorated the garden adjacent from the front door. Inside, a winding cherry oak staircase, hardwood floors, and imperial  wallpaper in the parlor. Hidden closets with charming hardware, delicate porcelain bath fixtures, the works. The house was a Victorian masterpiece.

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So we haven’t actually cleaned the toilet since we moved into this apartment in June, and today I’m finally giving it a proper cleaning. This reminds me of a pretty gross story of a nasty toilet I encountered a very long time ago.

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