Didja ever want a cool knotwork Laurel that didn't look like a squiggled string? Now you can has. :D





www.cafepress.com/ladycaviar

Yeah, ok, so no shit there I was at Gulf Wars in mah own court...



and the last item of business was some thing Trevor wanted to do. Except that he wouldn't tell me what the hell it was. Well, jeez, it's not like I haven't let Eric the Dane go to town for half an hour on inexplicable weird bullshit in court before, and we only had two other items of business, and the first one had been Pale Horse. So anything he had couldn't possibly be as much of a downer as sitting through a heartbreaking ceremony for the dead, and maybe the brothers had brought tomatoes to throw if he was as long winded as the Dane. Win win.



But NOOOOOOOOOOOOO the devious little fucker has to say he's putting someone on watch (wtf? you couldn't tell me that? wackjob) and then swoop down on one knee and flourish out this diamond and say



"My Khan, will you marry me?"



(meanwhile, I'm still thinking: "motherfucker, you can't put me on watch, I'm the fucking Khan, you moron")

What I said was, "That's not a watchcord..."



ding!



and oh, YES. Which was probably good, before he had a heart attack.



Son of a bitch outdoes me in my own damn court. Nobody does that. Ever. Not even the irrepressible Dane, who I poleaxed by doing a stripper tassel dance when he thought he was going to finish his inexplicable weird bullshit in court, but that's another story...



At least that's how I think it went.The way I remember it, coulda been like that, or a cartoon piano could have dropped on me. I'm not really sure. Way to go, Trevor. You win, you get to keep me, love.



As for the rest of you, find another damn Khan. I'm going to Disney World. hahahahahahahhahahahahah

Well, I won my case and blew the settlement in a record 20 minutes.

Yay! Four years of suffering, and yay. So to celebrate, I traded my Zombie car for a Chevy S-10. (By "traded" I mean "got $50 for"). I am a much happier girl. I will no longer be racking up tickets for failure to pass inspection, and everybody can stop worrying that they will have to scrape me off the road with a spatula. It's even black with red pinstripes, how's that for heraldry?



I made it through surgery today/last night/finally.

I'm only half-spayed. Holy fucking crap, I hurt. Ow ow ow motherfucking ow. Here's the funny part: the anesthesiologist team shot me up with some anti-anxiety drug while I was being prepped, and the last thing I remember was telling Talitha my socks were too hot and I wanted them off. Then I woke up in the recovery room.



Talitha's version goes like this: "We were talking about your socks, and then suddenly you started singing 'Yellow Submarine.' It was actually a pretty good rendition. The anesthesiologists were very pleased with themselves, and it made us all smile. We weren't so worried about how you'd do."



"That can't be right. I don't even know the words to 'Yellow Submarine.'"



"Yes, you do. All of them."



[Um, ok. I remember none of this, and if you asked me to do it now, I'd be at a total loss. What the hell are the words to Yellow Submarine? Why that? It wasn't event the song running through my head. Go figure. I wonder what that drug was.]



So anyway, now I'm hopped up on Percocet and you can't understand a word I say on the phone. Good luck with that. So don't worry if I don't answer. I'm a drooling sack of laundry watching bad TV, contemplating my sweet ride and the Beatles.

I'm glad I've taken to thinking about the posts I write and not writing them. Sometimes I edit them.



A recent one would have included this little gem, except that somehow, a Better Judgment Filter kicked on and put it here.



"I said he had the right to. I neither agreed nor disagreed with the wisdom of it. I have the right to, at this very moment, strip buck naked, coat myself in glue, and attach pearls to myself in the kitchen. And in the tradition of my own non-judgment of one's right to do the sorts of things one has a right to do, God love him, my apprentice would come downstairs, not blink an eye, make himself a sandwich, and suggest a better glue."

I am the animator froot loop. Much like the famous chocolate and peanut butter accident that brought us Reese's Peanut Butter Cups so long ago, my unsuccessful search for my favorite version of the animated "tits & boobies" icon combined with my new need to master several versions of web animation software led to my creation of this icon. Why, why, why did they ever let me out of the Home for Terminal Artists?