railenthe: (Default)

With this set of ten we switch subjects again, and dive a little bit into my favorite television things. Yes, people still watch it, and yes, there are a few things worth watching—but looking at me here you’ll get a weird impression, as I’ll go from people getting their limbs ripped clean from their bodies to…foodporn.

With that in mind, let’s talk Supernatural!


I remember when this show got started. I was in high school and I was still annoyed at the fact that Charmed was soon to be not a thing—hey, they went from ‘well researched(ish) witchcraft with a snarky but dramatic flair for demon slaying and how the rules of Wicca work’ to ‘OK let’s just throw this in here and see how the fans react’ which usually means they’re trying to wind it down. (It got better before it went bai-bai, luckily…but it left a void.) I figured “Hey, witchcraft with boys and hey he’s kinda cute let’s watch.”

Well, I could not have been wronger.

But in the good way.

Supernatural is horror done right—you’re allowed to see just enough to know that things are going to get really, really bad in about three…two…one…with a healthy dose of incredibly bizarre, almost surreal, humor. I don’t remember another leading duo with snark like that working so well—and didn’t run into it again until introduced to the Sherlock universe(s).

There’s those that think that things ended quite well at the end of season six (I think that was the one), and don’t much watch after that. I used to be one of them, but then I actually stopped to watch again after a long hiatus and found out how they kept things going. …Apparently you can’t fix the impending doom of the world without something going horrendously—and sometimes hilariously—awry.

…also, the male leads are hot.

The series has no shortage of meta, from the episode where the Winchester brothers discover that there’s slash of them, to the one where, to be helpful, they’re thrown into a parallel universe in which they are a pair of actors…playing characters named Sam and Dean Winchester…on a show called Supernatural…

Yeah. It gets WEIRD. But awesome.

railenthe: (Default)

Dean Koontz is known as a horror and suspense writer. My father recommended his work when he saw how quickly I took to Stephen King’s work.

This book…ran a little differently.

With our (most definitely not) fearless hero being an average mystery writer, things start to get really strange when he runs into a weird but beautiful woman. And his not to mention the…CREEPY voodoo doll that’s been following him around, bringing disaster in its wake.

…and it only gets WEIRDER.

And the weirder it gets, the funnier it gets. By the time we know what’s going on, even the disasters are a laugh riot, because by that time we giggle in gleeful anticipation at just how it’s going to get worse. If you think YOUR luck’s bad, this guy will make you feel better.

railenthe: (Default)

Rumi is a name that you may have heard before. I can’t say much without basically rhapsodizing about him, so I’ll keep it simple. Rumi’s writings are important to Sufism—the religion with the whirling dervishes—and have a different sort of feel to them than books like the Bible and the Torah.

Rumi’s poems have a certain intimacy and immediacy about them, a man who has fallen so hopelessly in love with his god that his devotion borders on the obsessive. It’s a completely different sort of faith, driven not by the need to prove that his god exists, but the need to feel his god through every fiber of his being. Rumi’s writing is spiritual without being overtly religious, and just about anyone can pick up something within his words.

It really is a work of beauty, and if you’re in the least bit spiritually inclined, you should totally look into his work.

railenthe: (Default)

The history of the Bible is an interesting thing. A collection of stories culled from both the original Torah and writings created later, it is a repository of general scripture that a multitude of branches of Christianity take as sacred. (Some literally, but that’s not the point here.

Certain stories did not make it into the full text, known as the Canon. These are collectively called Apocrypha. Some texts are apocryphal because a) they may have incited heresy (Gospel of Judas), b) were generally disliked by specific people in charge (Song of Solomon, which—let’s face it, is basically the first written erotica), or c) they were just plain weird (Gospel of Thomas anyone?)

The Book of Enoch—or if we’re being really careful about technicalities, 2 Enoch (read as “second Enoch”) is the story of Enoch—the second Enoch if we’re being neurotic still. (I wonder if this was intentional. If not, it’s just weird.) Enoch, an ancestor of Noah, was evidently going about his business when sudden an archangel is like “HEY! LISTEN!” and drags him into something strange. Under the angel’s tutelage he learns the secrets of creation—including the ones that the Watchers, fallen angels, taught humanity against the supreme god’s will.

Stumbling over this fact, one of the Watchers petitions Enoch to act as a go between, trying to be let back into the heavens. It’s back and forth, as Enoch learns more about what is going on and what he has to do. He is forced to be the conduit through which the divine decree—permanent exile—is delivered.

It isn’t an easy message to deliver. In fact it’s such a difficult message to both deliver and take that neither Enoch nor the Archangels take it particularly well—there is a spat between Raphael and Michael, wanting to rush in and beg an alternative decision—ANY alternative but exile.

So yeah, fallen angels beg for mercy, don’t get it, Archangels concur and want to stop it. Not a message that the church would want out there. TO THE APOCRYPHA IT GOES.

There are a few good translations out there. The Book of Enoch is considered an important part of Ethiopian Christianity, though not generally accepted as canon. I recommend it—it is an interesting read, especially for comparative religious study or for metaphysics/mythology buffs.

railenthe: (Default)

OK, give me one more and then I’ll be done fangirling, OK?

Though the lists and advice is pretty much all available on his blog, I have one problem with whitespace—don’t get me wrong, his layout’s classy and understated, it’s just…well, white space hurts my eyes. I picked light bulbs with a warm, redder light because the blinding white walls of my apartment—which I am not allowed to paint—gives me blinding headaches.

There’s something about having some of that snarky, profane wisdom handy at all times. There are lots of places where I got stuck, and actually caught myself asking, “WWCD?” What Would Chuck Do? With all of his work on the subject available at my back pocket, I can find the proper brain-grease to unstick the gears.

It’s not all writing advice, though—there’s life advice, there’s essays on various things, like life in general, and also blisteringly funny satire.

I’d recommend it to any creative types. It translates to every medium.

railenthe: (Default)

This is the second post where I gush about Chuck Wendig’s work—what can I say, I’m a fan. Irregular Creatures is a collection of his short stories, varying in tone from delightfully dark to friendly family fun—as someone first introduced to him via the blog, the latter was more jarring.

Without spoiling any of the contents, the man has an astounding creative mind. While I got used to him as an advice-tossing profanity-spouting guru, it was bumping into his narratives here that sold me on the man’s mad skills. This was one of the first books I got a sample on and was verily cheesed off when I hit the end of the sample. I honestly took a detour off my route to find someplace with wi-fi to buy the whole book.

At some point, I’m gonna have to review it on Goodreads, after I reread it again and it’s fresh in my head.

railenthe: (Squee!)

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a staple of classic reading. However, I will admit that until a year and a half ago, I hadn’t read a single Sherlock Holmes story. And this at the time where the BBC reboot was getting big, and I had a friend prodding me to watch.

Luckily, I had two things: A brand-new Nook Simple Reader, and the URL of Project Gutenberg. Basically all the classics are available, and so I pounced on it, reading as much of the canon as I could (though admittedly out of sequence).

I went in without expectations, but the ‘classics’ were well known (by my folks, who colored my expectations) as stuffy old things.

So when the first thing that happened was the science of antemortem bruise formation, I cracked up laughing. The series as a whole has a strange, sardonic wit to it. I dove headfirst into the thrillers then, enjoying the thing without the preconceived expectations of before.

If someone’s trying to sell you on any of the reboots, I’d totally read the originals first. …then again, I’m a purist.

railenthe: (Default)

This time around, I will gush.

I was introduced to Harold Budd by proxy. I found out that he had a hand in a few of the Cocteau Twins’s songs, and I had to find out who this man was, on account of the fact that I am a HUGE fan of the Cocteau Twins. To my surprise I see that not only has he got his own work out there, there is a lot to choose from.

I begin my exploration with an album co-created by him and Zeitgeist, titled She is a Phantom.

In the middle of the gentle, chamber ambient, there are pieces that have…not lyrics, but verse, recited over the music. The man’s poetry lifts over the music, creating images at once lovely and disturbing—and in the case of “We Step Across,” humorously jarring. I start hunting around, discovering that a small imprint has printed a limited edition collection of his work: 50 hardbacks and 200 trade paperbacks.

I was lucky to score a paperback. It’s one of my treasures now, stored on the shelf carefully shielded from damage.

I did read it first, after washing my hands thoroughly, drying them on linen towels, drying my hands a second time on a different towel, and then very carefully before opening the first page and getting a strong hit of that delicious new-book smell. I read slowly, savoring the text, and the feel of the expensive pages under my fingertips. Then, carefully, I took the text down, saving it to a document I could put on my readers and safely carry everywhere.

I have no idea if there are any remaining copies to be had. That can always be checked, though.

Chrysanth WebStory What's your WebStory today?
railenthe: (Black Mage (literal))

There were a few things in my Nook that were pre-loaded when I bought it—Nostradormouse, a story targeted ostensibly to children, was one of them (Or it might not have been. My memory is fuzzy). For some reason, I could not access the book on my first device, but when I grabbed my Nook Tablet, I read it.

And fast.

Nostradormouse begins with the birth of a mouse with prophetic abilities, who goes on a pilgrimage of sorts. As he travels, the animals are given names (not as in “You are a possum, and you are a beaver”). As he names his ‘people’ the animals go from being a collective without any differentiation to individuals.

The story has gentle underthreads of Norse mythology, something you rarely see outside of video games nowadays.

Got a Nook? I’ll lend it if you ask! See, me going much further than I have here will result in me gushing over it and spoiling the whole thing.

railenthe: (AWESOMEFACE)

The year before last, I was preparing for NaNoWriMo, when I got an article in my inbox spotlighting ‘dubious writing advice,’ as the writer put it. Being morbidly curious—bad advice is sometimes the best thing you can get, because it takes you out of your brain—I clicked on the link in the article.

There should have been a pop-up warning. “NSFW. Probably NSFB [brains].” Because the man is good. His advice is good.

And he’s fricken hilarious.

Incidentally, the coffee was where he got me hooked.

The man’s advice is solid, and his writing—oh, his writing!

…You know what, I could gush all day, but I think I’ll let the link speak for itself.

…and make coffee. ‘Cuz I’m out of coffee.

railenthe: (*halo*)

Because the 100 Things project was on hiatus for so long, I’m skipping the segment interlude post. We’re changing our topic now to the written word, be it in blog or book format, and today we tackle one of my favorite authors.

We start with David Eddings... )

railenthe: (Black Mage (literal))

If it wasn’t obvious by now, I love to write. I love putting words to paper—or screen, as the case may well be.

It wasn’t always this way.

Gimme a baseball bat. I swing left. If I try to swing right, I just can’t twist that way and it doesn’t work.

Gimme a volleball. Even though my right spike is harder, it’s…well, I’ve seen scatterguns with higher accuracy. So I serve left.

Gimme a sabre. I’ll fence right until my arm gives out—which is kinda fast. Then I’ll switch left and be slower, but more accurate and last longer. …I guess that’s one we can validly call ambidextrous.

But overwhelmingly, if I have to do something I’m going to reach left first.

Which is why writing frustrated me at an early age. I’d thin left, but them Mom would walk by my little yellow worktable and ‘correct’ me—which probably explains the serial-killer slant I have to hold the paper at to even write on a straight line. It was a necessary evil.

It wasn’t until I was about seven, when we got cable, that I thought about writing for a reason that wasn’t a homework assignment. Nickelodeon introduced me to a cartoon called Doug, the main character of which regularly wrote in a journal—giving rise to my realization that writing things like that didn’t have to be a super girly “Dear Diary” moment, something I actively avoided being because—well, I liked videogames and cars, I simply couldn’t do that!

I saved my juice money from lunch for two weeks, then on a family trip to Family Dollar I bought a cute little journal. It had pretty lined paper and a picture of a kitten on its glossy cover. At around the same time, I bought my first ink pens—journaling didn’t seem like something that you took to as lightly as a silly homework assignment. I was coming at this with a pretty blue pen, just like Doug did in his show.

…of course that first entry was a goofy, jokey affair in which I introduced myself to my new journal, gave it an idea of what to expect, and then closed off with a signature.

For the first time I noticed that things around me were interesting sometimes. It was hard to keep to that clearly delineated two pages per entry after a while, and I developed my distinctive TINY handwriting.

I was still journaling when I lost my mother. Most of the following year and a half seems to have been an extended fugue state, and even though I’d think that the time just hadn’t happened, reading over those entries every few months was a reminder that time had simply not stopped, and I hadn’t just fallen out of the world at some point. At that point things were very straightforward accountings of what had happened that day. There were no associated feelings, just facts.

It wasn’t until fifth grade that I realized that writing could also be inventive and fun—hilarious in hindsight now that I think about it—when we get a homework assignment. We were to rewrite the ending to a story we read for class. I remember having the woman go insane, snap temporarily back to forgive her friend for something that hadn’t actually happened, then snap right back into madness (at one point I had her conversing fluent French to a tree). The third part got copied off of me and the turkey never got called for it—but I didn’t care. I’d started having fun doing little narratives.

Fast forward to seventh grade I’m twelve, in literature class, and BORED. I’ve pulled out a sheet of my good looseleaf—the narrow-rule paper—and have started writing down things that come to mind. Nothing I’ve committed to, just little snips of ideas.

Suddenly an assignment. Creative writing. Write whatever, as long as it has a clear plot, progression, et cetera. It must be based off of a legend.

I wrote my first short story for an assignment in class.

I didn’t know if it was well-received for a while…but then there was a thing in the school paper.

For one, suddenly we had a school paper.

For another, my story was in it.

Later that year, when our principal/lit teacher left the school, she flagged me down, holding a box. It had one thing on it: A note, reading “Never stop writing.” Inside was a Cross pen and pencil set.

I haven’t stopped since.

That’s when I get my idea...

Chrysanth WebStory What's your WebStory today?
railenthe: (*halo*)

Appropriate that after my hiatus from writing and reading, I get right back into the spirit of things by doing a post on reading.

When I was a kid, I read before I could read. My mom and dad instilled a love of words into me (perhaps why I was always told I talk too much when I was growing up—I LOVED words). I’d pester them as they read their books and the newspaper (remember those?), constantly asking “What’s this word?” as they read to me. This is probably why, before I was old enough to be sent to school, they taught me how to write. I remember sitting at my little yellow table in the middle of the hallway, in front of Mom’s closet that we never really opened that much—I would later sneak in, find her old glamorous clothing from her model career—and I learned how to write my letters. That came AGONIZINGLY SLOWLY—the problem was, I was a born leftie and my mom was training me right-handed. (The relic persists in sports.)

But reading came fast.

Before I knew it I’d blown through all the stuff in my room and was looking for something more challenging to read, something bigger across than a piece of an inch.

This was why my dad spent a day plucking me off of progressively higher bookshelves in the house: Stephen King is not appropriate reading material for a five-year-old.

Weirder still, my favorite part of books was when you opened that new book for the first time—the faint creak in the spine, and that delicious, delicious new-book smell: like the faintest vanilla and some unknown, long gone spice. Before I began reading a book, I’d crack it open to the middle, where that smell was strongest, inhale deeply, then flip to the actual beginning of the book, that aroma still tickling my nostrils.

When we were allowed to order from the Scholastic Book Club in school, I remember wishing I was coordinated enough to do cartwheels around the house. While I LOVED my video games to death, my first love was reading, and so I picked out what I wanted to read and asked my parents “Can I can I can I please please PLEASE???” until they let me send in the form.

(I honestly don’t think they thought about it all that hard: I grew up in an area where it was a rare sight to find someone reading at their grade level, let alone above it as I did.)

Two weeks passed. I started to think that the books would never show up. Then, one day, I come home and there’s this…MOUNTAIN of books sitting on my bed. I squeal, run in to give my parents rib-crushing hugs—and then shut myself in my room to read.

Really, it’s a habit I haven’t broken. If I’ve bought a bunch of books—whether old-fashioned paper or new-fangled e-books—I basically hang a ‘do not disturb’ sign on all of my social outlets and dive into the book. If I’ve mentioned getting a new book, it’s almost useless trying to get my attention, because it’s going to be basically impossible to get my attention until I’m done reading. I’m a bookworm at heart, after all.

railenthe: (Happy camper)

(This is an obvious one, isn’t it?)

I love music. Almost every kind. I mean, there’s a reason I have two iPods and use so much data on my phone streaming from Google Play.

It’s taken a new meaning since my PTSD started presenting. Keeping one or more of these devices handy, along with a good set of cans, has become almost necessary to make sure that I don’t lose my head when things get screwed around all wrong. In addition to cutting off a whole bunch of the outside input, it gets me into a small space that lets me not get affected by all that noise.

Besides the health benefits, having music handy helps me focus. Without something for at least two parts of my brain to do, it’s one of the worst cases of monkey brain that you’ve ever seen.

So I keep the music going. …sometimes, without the music handy, I make do with a generic white noise of some sort—from a TV droning on to an actual white noise machine.

I got the biggest thrill earlier this year, in March, when I got to see the Distant Worlds concert live at Powell Symphony Hall. Even with the panics kicking in and out, I worked through it with one of my best friends and a moogle plushie.

As a matter of fact, it was the thoughts of going to that very concert that helped speed my exit from the loony bin. I was not about to miss that conert.

Whuf. Favorites, huh? I’d have to say that pretty much anything done by Nobuo Uematsu ranks high in my book. Anything sweeping or orchestral is an instant win. I’m also big on the ambient genre, metal, and rock.

…strange combination, isn’t it?

I’m a member of Last.fm. Depending on where you’ve caught me, you might see a little grey box (or most of a little grey box) in the corner somewhere. That little box live updates with the listening trends in my iPods and phone. If you get bored, give it a look. I’m sure that something’ll turn out interesting.

I don’t just listen to music: I also play the ocarina. Right now, though, that’s on slight hiatus—seeing as a nice little weather accident caused my instrument to just POP open on me, two clean halves of a beautiful blue whole, silenced. I survived it, and am now putting money in a jar to save up for my second oc. While I DO have a six-hole to tide my need to tweetle over, it’s one of the first domestically produced clay ocarinas, and it’s just the tiniest bit out of tune with itself—but that’s a big deal when you have perfect pitch. “OH HEY, DON’T MIND ME, I’MMA IMITATE F-SHARP FOR YOU EVEN THOUGH I’M REGULAR OLD F, OK?” Yeowch. Makes my teeth itch. Also the high-note ocarina squeak makes playing certain pieces impossible.

I’ve rambled on for a while, haven’t I? I’ll take a break now. Time to get to work on another of my favorite things.

railenthe: (TEA)

I love cooking things. I also love coming up with nice drinks to go with them. Often that’s a customized tea blend. Other times, it’s a homemade soda. Sometimes it’s a juice thing.

And sometimes it’s some unholy hybrid of the three.

And sometimes, it’s entirely undefinable.

I remember a good drink that began with seltzer fizzed-up three buzzes in my SodaStream unit. After having drunk half the liter as plain seltzer, made some lemon syrup using sugar and lemon juice, added a shot of tart Montmorency cherry juice, and then tossed that all in a tall glass. The combination was wonderfully sweet and tart, and the dark color belied the taste that I’d just made—because it tasted like pink lemonade.

A slightly less…successful attempt started with the same strength of seltzer, but with a bit of vanilla syrup instead—Torani, if I recall correctly. I’d forgotten that such a heavy syrup, being added to a seltzer’d bottle—even tilted properly—results n a vanilla geyser. Furthermore, even though the liquid was bubbly as hell, the flavor was flat. Missing that certain something or another. I still haven’t figured out how to get that one to work. A shame, considering vanilla’s my favorite flavor.

railenthe: (Happy camper)

I’ll admit it: I’m a bit of a noob where it comes to photography. One of my first memories of Christmas is of one where I got both things I wanted: a pink Barbie Corvette and a Polaroid camera. I was five…

Yeah, my perfect holiday was a camera and a pink Barbie car. I didn’t even OWN any Barbie dolls. I just liked (still like’em, too) Corvettes and I liked pink. (I’d eventually sour on pink, as it was all anyone wanted to buy for me to wear, but it’s slowly getting back in my good graces.)

I’d take pics of almost anything, and demand that someone ‘grade’ me on it. (Have I ever mentioned I’m a geek?) As I got older, I started using a regular film camera, but as it turned out, no one was willing to drive me to anywhere that’d develop the pictures.

On Digital

However, the rapidly changing technology meant that I was able to pick up the hobby again a few years ago. My first digital camera was this little pink VGA Hello Kitty thing that took surprisingly good pictures and came with software that let you transform photos into iron-on transfers, jigsaw puzzles, and positively adorable drag-and-drop things that let you add some more flair to the photos. The rise of digital photography did me quite a few favors—it made it cheaper for me to learn the ins and outs of good photo composition, and it let me learn the basics of good photography for FAR less than what my high school (and indeed, local college) was demanding. I’m not a pro by any stretch, but I can catch nice things.

And she isn’t much bigger now that she’s grown up, either.

Phones on cameras often infuriate purists, but even my dinky cameraphone can net some nice shots.

ALSO Tesla, from above. She belongs to friends of mine. And while she often acts like she hates it (“NO! NO CUDDLES!”) she can be quite affectionate. When I stay over and crash on the couch, her favorite method of rousing me is a cold nose beep. You know—when she beeps you in the nose with HER nose? It’d be irritating if she weren’t so cute and soft.

Also, for some incredibly strange reason, she always smells like baby powder.

You may have noticed the nifty photo effects in the second shot. I like to take my camera’s pics, upload them to Dropbox, and futz around with effects, frames, and lighting. Instagram and Path are my go-to’s for standard work, but when I REALLY want to trigger “Pretty Overload,” I begin in the app Pixl-r-matic, add the pretty stuff, and then begin to poke around in the other apps until I am satisfied with the result.

railenthe: (Squee!)

…No one who knows me at all is surprised by this. Prepare for a ramble.


railenthe: (TEA)

I’ll wait for you to finish laughing and calling me an old fogey before I continue.

Got it out of your systems, now? Good.

On my off days, when I’ve hit quota on writing and just need to NOT LOOK AT PRINTED WORDS for a while (after a few marathon days, my vision literally cannot focus on text of any kind), I tend to hit the bus stop and decide what I’ll do on the fly. More often than not this defaults to window shopping. And where has the most things to window shop at? (Window shop for? near? SYNTAX?!) is the mall.

It’s fairly easy to be inconspicuous doing this—for one, I don’t join the seniors during their mall walks. I just try to look sharp and coordinate my outfit to the iPods I own (two different shades of green, and I can’t clash with either one or I look like I’m trying too hard.)

The usual stops involve the vitamin store (where I usually buy something) and the newest clothing stores (where I usually don’t).

I try to avoid going into any candle stores, though—if I go into a candle store I WILL be coming home with their best vanilla candles and maybe a pound (?!) of incense. (What? I like things that smell nice.)

railenthe: (Yummy)


I’ve said it before. I like to eat. A lot. I like to eat a lot. I love food. I’m a firm believer that one should live to eat, not eat to live.

INCOMING LONG POST. I can TL;DR about food with the best of them. )

railenthe: (Default)

…if this seems obvious, just hang on a second and I’ll tell you why it wasn’t obvious to begin with. I didn’t begin blogging for a real reason. I was pressured into getting an account on LiveJournal a few weeks into my first semester of college, after having met my first new friends since grade school who liked to write and share things.

I remember being at one of the lounge computers, agonizing over what my username was going to be, and finally resorting to numerology to come up with something. In fact my first entry was sort of a rant about that activity.

It wasn’t for another month that I began to see why people blogged in the first place: having a place to vent a while is useful; and, as I was between computers at the time, I couldn’t keep a diary as I usually did. (Not to mention that the place where I was living at the time didn’t really have a place where I could safely hide a traditional diary without being caught.) So my blog became a refuge for my mind as well as a place to show off my writing.

Three months in or so, I’d begun to really get into it, even if I didn’t have the comments or the reader stats to back up my thrice-weekly (sometimes more) rambles about things going on in my life, my head, and the world at large. It’d become more than just a case of “do it because everyone else is” by then, and I couldn’t think of a reason why I wouldn’t keep doing it.

After some time, it became second nature. Blogging became a way to determine who actually gave a fuck about me and who didn’t. If someone didn’t understand what the point of blogging was and tried to make me feel like an idiot if I kept doing it, I had to get them out of my life and right away at that. But I’m still amazed that the one person who I thought would give a shit about it never did, ridiculed it as a waste of time, and consistently called me things like ‘eccentric’ for doing it. …honestly, I don’t know why I stayed on so long with him.

…actually, that’s a lie. I DO know why I did it, and it was stupid. But we’re not here to dredge up such things. Especially with me out of nerve pills.

As things have gone, this has become a way to keep myself sane. While I love greeting new readers and sharing things I know (or think), a lot of times, this is mostly me yelling at me, pointing out what I’ve done that could be done better and making sure to drill that point home.

Then there are the times where I really do have something shareworthy, and my closest (in location) friends either don’t get it or don’t care, and I know that there’s at least one or two other people out there who don’t mind listening to a strange woman with a fascination with food ramble about things.

I love that.

And that’s why no one’s going to stop me from blogging even more.

September 2017

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