The Password’s Lasagna.

I’m going to a write a post that is made entirely of stream-of-consciousness.  It is a stream of sonsciousness. “Sonsciousness” is not a word. My grammar, and my spelling, fail at times like this. Man, this will interest nobody and horrify a few, but here we go. Pie. Pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pipe, spell check, I meant to write “pie,” not “pipe.” Chimney smoke, wintry woods, Santa beards, elves in hoods. Christmas time and fire is high, reindeer run and folks eat pie... Also, folks eat pie at Thanksgiving. Which was yesterday....Happy Thanksgiving, all! Pie pie pie pie pie pie pie. You know when you eat a lot of pie, and then you still want to eat more pie? Exactly. Which do you prefer, pie or whipped cream? Both, duh. Together, obviously.  Obviously shmoviously. And even while I think about pie, there are so many other things that cross my mind.  Like whales.  And pie.  And lighthouses.  And pie.  And yogurt.  And pie.  Yogurt pie. Raisins. Flaming

Yesterday, I had an emotional breakdown. It was all because of a banana. Now, I know that I write about bananas a lot on here - either I identify with them or I’ve eaten too many of them, maybe both.  Maybe I just like the word “banana.”  Speaking of which, have you ever eaten a peanut butter and chocolate covered banana?  If not, please do, thank me later. But back to today.  It was in the restroom at work.  The breakdown, I mean.  And the banana.  Or what was left of it.  There it lay, the skin (or, as you might call it, the peel), tossed in among heaps of paper towels, crammed down, flowing over, heaped up; what might have been a small tree, once upon a time.  And amid it all, like a yellow M&M in a bowl of damply buttered popcorn, lay the banana skin.  It had been out in the air for a while – probably tossed there early in the morning by someone who had, undoubtedly, chewed on it in their cubicle with grating teeth and slavering lips.   And I, seeing it, thought, “On

Need we go into details? A lot of things bug me. A lot. Bugs bug me. Things bug me. Me bugs me. Lots of things. Lots of bugs. Lots of me.

Pee and tree Sign and mine Nose and no’s English was made For dog poetry. Cow and now Chair and hair Eat and meat English was made For dog poetrow. Barf and snarf Burp and slurp Fart and heart English was made For dog poetrarf.

I actually wrote this as a spinach post (my “inspiring” post of the week, lest you forget) sometime last winter.  I’m sure it will leave you with a rosy glow of some sort.  Enjoy. Do you hate things?   I’m here to help.    I also hate things.    There.    Now we both feel really lousy about how lousy and horrible and evil and jerky we are.    Which means we share a common bond.    Which means...it’s sad if that’s the only common bond humans can find.    But it’s better than nothing.

Made-up words are difficult.  See, you get to make them up.  But there are still rules.  Is there anything more frustrating than that kid who turns your game of “exploring the Andes while running from tigers and crocodiles and other accurately-placed harmful animals” into a game of “this is how we do it and there’s no other way and I AM THE PRINCESSSSS!!!” Not that I speak from a bitter personal experience. Anyway, the thing about made-up words is this: Even when you’re talking about them, you have to say “made-up” with a hyphen.  If you don’t, it looks like this: made up.  Which looks absolutely awful. And then “blogstipation” (see last post).  My heart yearned to write it out as “blongstipation,” because “blong” is more entertaining to say than “blog,” which isn’t even a made-up word (except it sort of is, but not by me, which makes me angry).  It’s also probably something inappropriate.  I’m sheltered and wouldn’t know. Other made-up words that annoy me are as follows: Ablobad

You may have noticed I’ve been a little less consistent here lately.  I believe I missed a week, which goes against my strongest moral principles.  However, there has been much change in my life as late, yada yada, the crux of the matter being this: The Lasagna is finished.  It is no more.  I don’t have time for it.  The end. JUST KIDDING (okay, I’m sorry mom, that was mean). There may be some changes here though.  See, recently something happened unexpectedly which, to be as brief as possible, is this:   I now write for a living.   This has not always been so.    I used to spoon tiny seeds into tiny packets with holes in them, but I like to look at that as more of a hobby.    Anyway, these days, I’m a legit, published writer with a special badge that allows me to ask people nosy questions and take photos of their children.   Because of this,   a ravenous fan (hi Auntie!) recently showed concern that I would experience burn-out and be unable to produce blog posts as vora