Sauce: A zinnia by any other name would be as creepy...

Hey, don’t get me wrong. I love zinnias. Zinnias, if you don’t know, come in a variety of colors and sizes, but their defining characteristics include brilliant hues and stiff stems, which makes them one of the very nicest flowers for bouquets. I wouldn’t name my kid Zinnia, but hey, it’s not bad. Nothing against zinnias.
HOWEVER.
When you go out back on a stormy night, long after darkness has fallen, in your vulnerable bare feet and pjs, because you remembered to take the trash out about three hours after you’d forgotten to take the trash out (or “forgotten”, because taking the trash out is the worst), and you find a carefully placed, long-stemmed, single pink zinnia, freshly wilted, ON TOP OF YOUR TRASH-CAN...THAT, my friends, is CREEPY AS H E DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS.
If you’ve been reading since Monday or so, you’ll know that I’m in the process of moving. It’s a long, arduous, painstaking process at the least, and, like Rome, can’t be completed in a day.
Except when it can.
Friends, I am GONE and may or may not be filing for a place in the witness protection program.
The perpetrator will forever be known as the “Zinnia Stalk...er...”

Comments

Welcome to Weirdness!

Hi, world, and welcome to “The Password’s Lasagna”! One day I’ll share where that name came from - for now, just revel in the wonderful idioticity of the word “Lasagna”. Say it over and over again. Let it flip off your tongue in all its gleeful lasagnaness. Say it until it means nothing, say it ‘til it means everything. Lasagna. It’s a word with many layers. Moving on quickly now... I have to wonder if, in a year, I will regret this first post. I’ll think “what kind of imbecilic idiot was I, to think starting a blog would be a good idea?” As if there aren’t more constructive things to do. Like...fishing. Or hunter-gathering (which is the sport of gathering as many hunters as possible in one weekend and stuffing them all in the back of a closed pickup, preferably with a limb or so hanging out and dripping blood). Or making clay...things. Useful things. Mugs and the like. Or I could be chillin...

Noodles: It’s autumn, all of you.

Hi world. It’s me, your favorite super sheltered, extremely Scandinavian, strangely endearing pile of soggy, tomato-drenched crinkly noodles! Otherwise known as Baby Swedish Lasagna under an Inadequate Tent. The reason I bring up my origins is this: I grew up without hearing anyone say “y’all”. I believe the contraction never crossed my path outside of a book until middle school, when it became trendy among my equally sheltered, pale-skinned friends. I started saying it often, with little understanding of its pronunciation, spelling, or proper usage. At some point, perhaps in a fit of cultural sensitivity, maybe after the madness of middle school had seeped out of my neurons, I stopped using it. Except in emails. Yes, my friends, I am an email y’aller. It just works for the already-awkward group conversations. There’s honestly no equivalent in northern dialect. Check it out. “You guys.” Offensive to feminists. “You girls.” Offensive...

Cheese: I think I know what “disconcerting” truly is now.

It’s hearing someone whisper the words “hot and spicy pizza” out of context while your back is turned to them and what they’re saying is literally none of your business and three inch long unidentified bugs are landing in your hair. But that’s beside the point. Today is all about the cartoons, after all. Unfortunately, I don’t have any prepared except one which might possibly be the most subversive cartoon I’ve done to date. Again, most unfortunately, I’m not in the mood to shock and offend at this exact moment, so I’m going to take the easy road and publish this completely unnoffensive little sketch of a cute mushroom-hatted person. (Psst, it’s not funny, it’s just cute and I don’t know why I expect you to want to look at it, but just humor me.)

The Password’s Lasagna.

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