verrrrrrry tiny paintings.

Made by me. No, made by Susie Ghahremani. Would that I could spend my time making tiny tiny art... gawd, when will I get to do what I want to do?!

unsatisfyingly,
p

cure for all ills

If there is any sorrow in your heart, any at all, watch this. Your pain shall disappear. And I know you can spare 7 minutes. It's worth it. Perhaps watch without sound.



much loves,
p

McSweeney's is only a little funnier than me.

from internet tendencies:

No. 86:Novelty Items—Some Novelty ItemsThat Never Caught On.
by Eric Hoffman and Gary Rudoren
- - - -
Itchy milk
Exploding eye patch
Shit gum
Gassy nun's habit
"You're Dead, Cocksucker" inscribed pencils
Tiddly-cancer
Syphilis ink pen
Dirt-in-a-bottle
"Stinky" drink coasters
Placebo suntan lotion
"Squirting" glass eye
Hobo negligee
Leaky-mercury anal thermometer
Farting brick
Measles underwear
Asbestos wig
Bendy turd
Mosquito-on-a-stick
Weewee toothpicks
Bouncing ice cubes
Indestructible ice cream
Pills that make you vomit boxing gloves
Prancing foot-odor mustache
Lice beer
Faux insulin
Jumbo eyelash
"My Other Car Has Cancer" bumper sticker
Poo-poo eye drops
Sexy edible shoe insoles
Shrinky toilet paper
Invisible-ink "Missing Child" poster
President Anne Frank dollar bill
Halitosis adult board game
Vomit bikini
"Keep On Truckin'" inscribed on the head of a pin
Glow-in-the-dark elephantiasis glitter
"World's Greatest Grampa" coffin comforter
Pet fingernail

think of the lists we could make if we put our minds to it...
love you and miss you,
p

having fallen headfirst into every stereotype about gender roles and marriage...

...I hid a pair of jeans and three shirts from my husband after shopping with a girlfriend. Additionally, I created stories about where they came from should he notice that they're new. I'd like to welcome you to the land of the money struggle in which every purchase is scrutinized for its benefit to the household. I can make a damn fine case for the jeans, but TD is going to have to come up with something pretty damn creative to explain the $42 Lowe's purchase. Don't worry, spying on bank statements is another way in which we have decided to plunge headfirst into deception. When did this happen? I was never this woman. Bullocks.

Your pea who needs a vacation from a world where this is a FUNNY joke--"Alllllll women do this, right? Tee hee! Let's go scrapbook!"...

p-

Totally Not an Epic Battle

Dearest P,

As you know, I'm a supremely confident person who never worries about all the ways in which everyone most assuredly hates me. Please allow me to share a recent example of this.

The successful execution of my job means that I need and have access to a lot of information, including my boss's email inbox. Everyone knows this, and we have systems in place to make sure that messages intended for his eyes only are routed to folders that I'm unable to see.

Occasionally, however, people don't follow the proper flagging procedures, so things show up that aren't intended for my review. I recognize these items immediately and have never looked at them, which has always made me feel really grown up and responsible.

Yesterday, one of these types of messages arrived. Its subject line had one simple word: my name.

I did not look at it. It has been approximately 18 hours since it arrived.

Don't worry, though, because I ABSOLUTELY am NOT freaking out. I'm not replaying every interaction I've had with this person over the past few weeks. I'm not worrying about what I may have said or done. I'm not nervous every time I get called into anyone's office or whenever my phone rings. I'm not failing to remember all the ways in which I'm clearly competent at my job and appreciated by my colleagues and supervisors. I'm certainly realizing that the message could be about anything, and could even say nice things about me, and is not necessarily some kind of scathing condemnation of my very being. And, most importantly, I'm not straining with every fiber of my being against the temptation to look at the message while simultaneously kicking myself for begin absurdly ethical and trustworthy.

Just thought you might like to have a reminder of how very together I am.

Maturely yours,

P-

Ominous

Comment made to me as casually as, "I like your knitted panties":

"The Relief Society knows where you are. They always know when someone moves into their ward"

Might this explain my terror?

Dear Abby,

I am a moderately crazy woman who, at work and in most social situations, seems well-adjusted and friendly. I have a lovely life with a very tall man and two delightful little dogs. I love our home, my jobs, and my computer. Here's my problem, Abby: I am terrified at the idea of making friends with my neighbors. Or even seeing them. Or having them see me. Yes, this begs the question, "Why the piss would someone so dysfunctional move into a cozy neighborhood full of dog-walking conversationalists?" and even more to the point, "Why in the name of the holy of holies would you marry a man who will strike up a conversation with a pigeon and in the first 24 hours made friends with the drug-dealing, dying, drunk next door who sweeps the street at midnight?"

Help me, Abby. I am so desperate that I will wait until my neighbors go inside to run out and drive away in my car. Why? They seem pleasant enough. Maybe they're just waiting for the chance to bring me chocolate chip cookies and who am I to stand in the way of their dreams? In therapy speak, "What's the worst that could happen?" Tell me, what?

-quivering behind drawn blinds