You’ll be happy to know I’m taking the high road, today, and skipping the obvious scatological choice. It took me a lot of effort to come up with a good, clean, Sunday-School B-M word, so you’ll appreciate the Bode Museum in Berlin. It’s also going to take me a lot of effort not to cheat
Morning, in other words. Technically, all the time before noon, but not in my neck of the woods. Around here, there’s morning, and there’s the day’s half over. You wake up in the morning, not in the day’s half over. How do you tell the difference? Well, look around. If the sun’s up when you
I can kill a plant just by looking at it. My grandmother–the amateur botanist–spent most of my childhood reassuring me that I was not cursed, and sending me home with various clippings to start plants of my own. In my time, I’ve killed day blooming cactuses and night-blooming cactuses and African Violets (which, admittedly, had
We sold pornography at the bookstore where I worked. Not a lot of it, and nothing that would compete with Jugs, Jugs, Jugs down at the local Kum&Go. Sex-positive, consent-positive, feminist, GLBT, fetish stuff. Non-violent. It lived in a cabinet behind the counter, and if you didn’t know it was there… well, you wouldn’t know.
The Judeo-Christian gift-giving holidays are gaining on us, and that means two things. The girls at work want to buy a dildo for our manager, who really needs to get laid. (Or anything else that might tend to bring about a radical attitude adjustment. Nobody’s all that picky.) And I just received a Christmas-themed care