Start of new short story.

In the interests of trying to make myself write, I dusted off a few exercises.  A few nanos ago I decided I was gonna do one short story a day for November, and every one was going to begin with a fortune cookie fortune and word.  I dutifully started them all, but never followed through.  So here we go.

You cannot run away from yourself; you’re always right behind you.

(LEARN CHINESE – Chicken. ji ròu)


Gaspard and Carl found the bay in the emergency room easily enough. There were only five of them in the unit, and Maman’s was the only one that was occupied, they could tell from the screaming. The blue-green curtain ruffled and something flew out into the hallway. Carl glanced at Karl and shrugged.

“Je vous voyais prendre les assiettes! Je vais vous le rapport et cracher sur ta carcasse!”

“Ah,” Carl said, “she’s in good form.” It was no secret that Carl wasn’t fond of Maman. Even now his smile was that wan sort of cross between dental pain and the smug satisfaction that comes from being right despite the tragedy of the situation.

Gaspard sighed and watched the billowing curtain as the medics behind it most assuredly tried to tie down his eighty-eight-year-old mother and probably insert a catheter. Some day in the future, they’d have that hypospray like in science fiction shows, and they could just blast her in the neck with an aerosol and knock her out. It was funny how ethics started to erode the louder and more violent someone got.

“Jesus, Gus, get her—ooghf!”


The curtain opened and a nurse poked her head out. “Nancy, call Roger up in—” “—I got it!” came a voice from inside the bay. “Never mind!” The nurse disappeared behind the curtain again, and the room quieted.

“Are you gonna restrain her?” came seconds later.

“Are you gonna reinsert the catheter when she yanks it out?” answered someone. The room fell silent, but there was still noise issuing from it—rustling, the occasional squeak of a shoe on the lino, tubes clacking against hollow metal, and the ever-present beeping of machines. Gaspard figured that if one stayed in the hospital long enough, the beeping noises faded into the background, just like how he no longer heard the chickens clucking when he cleaned out their coops.

Carl shoved his hands into his pockets and whistled under his breath. Gaspard stared at an open box of donuts in the nearby nurse’s station. Most of them were only halves.

The same nurse whose head had appeared earlier drew open the curtains long enough to exit the bay, and turned to them with a little jolt of surprise. “How did you get back here?”

Carl thumbed behind them. “She sent us back, for Marguerite—”

The nurse waved her hands. “No no, not yet, back to the waiting room. She needs an EKG.” She cast about for something, possibly a chart, possibly a magic exit. “You’ll have to wait until the techs are done.”

Gaspard was about to argue, but Carl simply grabbed his arm and began pulling. In reality, Carl was the one with more experience in hospitals. Both of his parents had been in and out of them before they had died, something Gaspard had remembered all too well, though then, he’d been the second fiddle. This time was his first time, and he wasn’t sure what to do, when to argue, when to listen.

Carl waved a pointed finger at two doors. “The cafeteria?”

The nurse didn’t look back at them. “Follow the blue line.”

An hour later they made their way back to the bay, sated with bad coffee and stale Tastycakes extracted from a vending machine that asked for too much and gave too little. They approached the curtain and were met by a short, rumpled man in blue scrubs and a lab coat. He didn’t introduce himself, but when they mentioned that they were here for the lady behind the curtain, he flipped open the chart in his hand.

“She’s sedated,” the doctor, whose nametag read ‘J Jones,’ said. “We had to restrain her in order to place the catheter, and to keep her from pulling her leads off.”

Gaspard frowned. He knew that Maman was slightly senile, but he didn’t understand the fighting. Carl might have made a snide comment or three about her behavior, but for the most part, Maman was a gentle creature.

“I don’t understand why she’s being so…so…”

“Combative?” Dr. Jones suggested. “She’d not quite fully cognitive, right now. She presented with blue lips and rapid breathing, so we’re going to wait until her bloodwork comes back and probably admit her to the CCU for a while.” He shrugged. “Her circulation is poor, and she might not be taking her medicine.” He raised his eyebrows. “She does have assisted living, right?”

Gaspard squirmed. It was one of the things that they fought about quite a bit, the only time he ever saw his mother get so angry she’d thrown something. It had been a pot of geraniums, and he’d cleaned them up, but still. “We’re trying. She’s not too keen on having strangers in the house.”

Carl coughed something under his breath, and Gaspard didn’t even bother to decipher it. It was plain as day what he thought about Maman.

The doctor flipped the chart closed and slid it into a slot on the wall. “Well, like I said, she’s sedated for now. And we probably are going to admit her. Adjust her meds.” He shrugged. “I’d suggest looking into someone who will care for her, at least make sure she’s taking her medication.”

“Like a home,” Carl said, glancing pointedly at Gaspard.

The doctor waved a hand. “Whatever is convenient for you.” Then he paused, looking past them at something, eyes unfocused, as if he had remembered something unpleasant.

“Your mother,” Dr. Jones began, and then paused. He tilted his head sideways and reached up to scratch his neck a little, and then glanced at the curtained area. “She—I don’t know what…it’s not my place.” And then he shrugged. “You can see her. You sister is in there with her, I think.” And then he scuttled away, but not before reaching into the nurse’s station and grabbing half a donut.

Carl and Gaspard glanced at leach other, shrugged, and then approached the curtain. Should they knock? How did one knock on a piece of material? Gaspard settled for shaking the material up and down and saying, “Knock knock!” and waiting three seconds before pulling the curtain open just enough to slip in.

The bed was angled towards them, with the foot right in front. Maman was small and skeletal on the bed, tubes and wires attached to places, snaking through the blankets like mystery plugs.

The most startling things weren’t the bright yellow bag of piss hanging from the side rail, or the orange IV fluids pumping in to Maman’s arm, but the thick leather restraints that anchored her wrists to the frame of the bed.

Laure was already there, fully made up, hair and nails immaculate, yoga pants hugging her ass in that Mommy & Me way. Gaspard wondered who was watching the kids until he remembered that she had an au pair.

“She’s not awake,” Laure said, her lips pursed. Gaspard didn’t precisely dislike his sister, but she did have the tendency to make him feel as if he was five. He did have eyes. They saw Maman, right there in the bed, eyes closed, breathing. Her white hair had come undone from the standard crown of braids she kept it in. Maybe that was because they had brought her in the middle of the night, when her hair was down.

“Oh, she looks horrible,” Carl said, cutting to the chase. Laure’s lips tightened further, as if they could squeeze together enough to implode and leave nothing behind.

“She’s had a rough night,” Laure told them, as if they hadn’t been here for over an hour waiting, and she had gotten there later. She gave them the accusing glare that daughters were allowed to give brothers when matters of parental care were at hand in their society.

“They’re going to admit her,” Gaspard said, hoping that they could have a conversation about what to do with Maman. Carl had been arguing for assisted living for a while, and Gaspard was beginning to agree. There was a distinct possibility that to get Maman in there, they’d have to assume power of attorney, and that was something he would prefer Laure to have. Daughters were better at this, right? If his time came, he wanted Clara making decisions for him, and not Robert. That might have been because Robert was a junior congressman, and Clara was a kindergarten teacher, though.

Laure sighed. “They said she kicked a doctor in the groin.” Her nails clicked on the railing and the charm bracelet on her wrist jangled when she reached out to smooth some hair from Maman’s forehead. Maman, for her part was silent on the subject. All subjects, actually.

Gaspard shifted from one foot to the other. Now that Maman was stable, and they were all in the room, it was as if the evening had come to an end, and his job here was done. A whole case of hurry up and wait had led to this moment, where he was apparently just supposed to stand there and stare at his mother’s sleeping form. Were they waiting for more doctors? Were they waiting for a bed to free up in the CCU? It was difficult to tell.

“Do you want to stay and we’ll come back?” Carl suggested. “We can bring you stuff.” Something in Maman’s visage must have softened him, because usually he and Laure had a tense relationship. They had for thirty years. Nothing turned civility into sympathy like a sick parent.

Laure shrugged. Gaspard noticed for the first time that she looked tired. The makeup wasn’t doing enough to hide the dark circles under her eyes, and the set of her frown had drawn out wrinkles in her cheeks that he wasn’t used to seeing.

“I suppose,” she said. “I’ll call you when she gets settled.” Laure met Gaspard’s eyes, and exchanged the promise of impending conversations. “Tell Clara I’ll try to make the shower, if I can, but I’m sorry.”

Gaspard nodded. This was one of those things that was more important than Clara’s bridal shower. She would understand. She was good like that.

“One thing,” Laure said as they turned to leave. “Have you ever seen this?” Laure asked, pulling aside the bed gown to show them Maman’s hip. Carl put a hand in front of his face.

“Oh, I don’t want to see that,” he groaned, eyes shut.

“You idiot,” Laure grumbled. She reached over Maman and pulled his hand away. “It’s on her leg, asshole.”

Carl bitched and closed his eyes. Laure rolled hers. But Gaspard just stared at the small expanse of skin Laure had carefully laid bare without revealing anything titillating.

Right there, high on her hip, old and faded, spread the bent arms of the swastika, tattooed on her skin like a spindly birthmark.

“Holy shit,” Carl said. Gaspard couldn’t have agreed more.



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Happy Guilty-Relief Day

I was trying to think of things I am thankful for, and then I was trying to figure out how to list them. Then I had a sip of coffee.  Then I thought about how thankfulness is innate sometimes, and I feel worse for stating my thanks. Then I had a sip of coffee.  Then I wondered who I was thanking.  Then I decided I was more grateful.  Then I realized that I’m appreciative.  Then I had a sip of coffee.

Then I realized I am lucky.  I am lucky to have been born here at this time, and in this country, especially being a girl.  I am lucky that I had parents who believed in education.  I am lucky that despite being poor, both my mother and father managed to get us through childhood healthy and safely (despite a near miss with a car, Dad, you know what I am talking about). I am lucky that I have a modicum of intellectual ability that got me into a reasonable position for my career.

I am lucky, very lucky, that Vi was born healthy.  I am lucky that we got social security.  I am very lucky that my parents were near to take care of me and Vi after Tianyu died.

I am lucky to have great friends, and the luxury to pick a good school district for Vi.  I am not so lucky that she’s so pretty, though that will help her when she’s older and pretty much make me fucking insane. I am lucky that she is well-behaved, relatively illness free, and doesn’t seem to have any developmental learning issues that would make life more difficult.

So yeah, I feel very lucky today. And because I am lucky to have all these great things, I feel relieved and guilty.  And that’s a pretty good thing to be, all things considered.

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…in which I am obvs an adult and kid is right.

Viv: I want to be a mailman!
Me: Really?
Viv: Yeah! A MAILMAN!
Me: Well, I am sure that’s a fun job.
Viv: I will deliver all the mail!
Me: Well, I hate to break it to you honey, but by the time you’re old enough to be a mailman, that job might not be available anymore. Not like it is now.
Viv: Whaaaaaa?
Me: Well, see since the start of email, people just don’t send as much mail, and the post office has been having money problems, and so they have to downsize and make themselves smaller so that they can stay in business.
Me: I imagine that they won’t ever truly disappear. Maybe they’ll privatize, or something.
Viv: (holds up envelopes) I was just going to play mailman on my bike when we get home.
Me: Oh.
Viv: The valentines are for the kids, and the bills are for the people.
Me: Oh, so grown-ups don’t get valentines?
Viv: They’re fun.
Me: I see. Well, why don’t the kids get the bills?
Viv: Because they have scary things in them.
Me: This is hard to deny.

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Short Story: Registry

Title: Registry

“It’s not like there’s a Chinese gay kama sutra,” Wei Min says, leafing through the pages in the book. “Seriously, how is that even possible? We invented noodles.”

I can’t even look. It doesn’t matter because I have three ties slung over my shoulders and I have no idea which one I’m supposed to wear. They all look the same although Wei Min assures me that they are not.

“I’m editing the drawings, and then we can wrap it,” Wei Min says. I can see him in the mirror, Sharpie in hand, doing something intently to the pages.

“I already put the slow cooker on the gift table,” I mumble. The second tie looks good. It’s gold with little flecks of something in it. Or are those grease spots? Did I wear this in the kitchen at work? That one’s out then.

“We bought them a slow cooker?” Wei Min asks, and for a second I can just hear the squeaking of the Sharpie on the glossed paper. “Laaaaaaaame.”

It’s possible that this could be the start to an argument, but on the other hand, probably not. Wei Min doesn’t care about the gift, not really. He just likes weddings, especially when he’s not related to the engaged. This time it’s my side of the aisle, and since this is the first wedding we have been to in three years that we have not been in (or worked), we are enjoying a busman’s holiday.

Though being in it would have been better at this point, because then at least I wouldn’t have to figure out what tie to wear. I turn and toss them both at him. “Pick the right one.”

He does. He always does.

Three minutes later, Wei Min closes the door and slips the hotel key into his inner jacket pocket. “We get to share a table with Tai Tai,” he says. “I told Greg we’d take the same shuttle to the church.”

“You can’t call her Tai Tai,” I say to him. “Really. “Don’t.”

His smile is electric, and when he kisses me it’s a wonder that my shorts don’t catch fire. “Stop me after I’ve had about three beers,” and I know that the evening is going to end in glares and possible shunning forever.

There are worse things than being excommunicated from my sister’s life, I think, when we get to the elevators and I look at her very unhappy husband trooping down the hall behind her. His tie is very tight and straight. He gives us the baleful look of the oppressed dog when they pass us. Wei Min waves with both hands, and I have to kick him in the back of the leg.

“Don’t do it,” I warn, and he flips a hand like he’s ineffectively swatting at gnats.


Sometime over the course of our fifteen years together, I must have decided that there was only so much I could do to protect myself from the generous wave of humor-filled trouble my partner surrounds us with like so much static cling. In fact, I must have welcomed it, because through numerous family vacations, outings with friends, and work-related soirees, I have only attempted to hush him once, and that was because he was screaming about Grindr whilst we sat behind a table of nuns at a local Applebee’s.

It just doesn’t seem right, like owning a big dog in the city where there’s no yard to run about in.

So when the wedding is over and the reception starts, Wei Min downs one imported domestic micro-craft brew after another, and by the time I realize the three bottles on the table are his, it’s too late.

Craig and Ben are happy and dancing, and cake is cut, and the DJ has already gotten the obligatory YMCA out of the way so that no one has to address it again. Wei Min and Greg spend the sit-down dinner portion of the evening arguing about whether or not school vouchers would improve the education system. I don’t have anything to discuss with my sister except for the fact that we have to do something with Dad in the next few months. I’m pushing for a retirement community. She’s pushing for a live-in Swedish nurse named Urs, but that’s just because she doesn’t want to sell the house in this shitty market.

She keeps shooting mournful looks at the adjacent table filled with married heteros.

“Laaaaaaame,” I murmur under my breath.

Wei Min uses his pocket-church-key to flip the cap off his latest beer. “I knew you’d regret the Crock-Pot,” he tells me. His tie is loosened, and his face is red. But he’s taken off the suit jacket, and he’s wearing those adorable and yet useless sleeve garters. I don’t know when he decided that they were cool, but he’s right–they are.

“I was just thinking about what it would be like to get married for real.”

Wei Min lays his forehead against my shoulder. “I guess we’d have a lot of Crock-Pots,” he drawls. One hand creeps across the table, fingers interlacing with mine. The music is something slow and plodding, something for beginning dancers, which we most certainly are. I pull Wei Min to his feet and back up to the wooden dance floor.

I can see Craig and Ben doing something showy in the center of the floor, and as the crowd pushes back to give them more room, we are confined to a very small corner of the square surface that the hotel probably put down just this morning, along with the twinkle lights and red bunting.

We take turns shuffling each other about, and by the time the song is over, we are stuck on the same two-by-two feet of temporary parquet. Both our shoes have been stepped on so many times that the shine is completely gone.

Something canned and horribly similar to the Backstreet Boys starts, and I bury my face in Wei Min’s shoulder.

“I always thought this song was about anal sex,” I mumble.

“That makes Burger King’s choice of it to use in their ads slightly more hilarious,” Wei Min says with such seriousness that I wonder if we haven’t magically switched blood, and I am wasted instead of him. I sway a bit, thinking that I might just get a little drunk myself. It’s not every day that you can go to a real gay wedding in New York, except that this is just the first of many, right? We went to a dozen that first day, standing across the street and cheering when they came out, but never grabbing each other’s hands and running towards the door ourselves.

And now that enough time has passed for lavish things to be legally planned, for hotel deposits to be made and the paperwork to be changed to, ‘party of the first part/party of the second part’, the full weddings, planned ones with a band and caterers and giant cakes are rolling out onto the social scene.

Craig and Ben must have been on hold with the caterers that whole first day, watching the married couples spilling down the steps on the telly.

“So, are we going to get married?” I ask Wei Min, softly.

“Oh, I dunno, all the cool kids are doing it now, so I suppose we should.” He spins me out so that I fall into Craig’s sister in her groomsmaid dress, then pulls me back into his arms. “Then again, just because we can, should we?”

I shrug. Craig’s sister bumps into me in a mirror image of what I just did, and her curls flip in my face. She smells like Shalimar. Possibly Jägermeister.

“Is this what it feels like to be straight?” Wei Min asks, slowing and swaying from side to side as he mock-thinks. “I thought it would be so much more centered on martinizing and vag–”

His mouth is soft when I press against it. He tastes like the fifty million beers (re: four) beers he’s had. His hands tug on my waist and I am aware that we have stopped dancing, which wasn’t too much of a trial since we hadn’t really done more than tip back and forth for a few minutes.

Like most things, I have long given up on trying to keep him. That’s not my job. My job is this.

Wei Min bites his way to my ear and sticks his tongue in the hollow of it. “Ha ha,” he says when I pull away. “I killed the romance.”

“Muchly,” I say, but it was just as well, because I was going to propose, and this was not the place. And he would want to remember it, so now is not the time.

And not when Maroon5 is playing. What would we tell the children (oh dear god children excite excite excite)?

“I see Junie,” Wei Min says, and his grip slackens. I have just a few seconds to register that we’re spinning around and around across a quickly vacating floor.

Wei Min’s arms fling wide as he dances towards my sister. “Don’t–” I warn.

“MAI TAI!” he says loudly. “Come dance with me, you gorgeous Grecian goddess!”

Junie freezes, as if she’s not sure what she should do. She doesn’t like Wei Min, for many reasons, but she lives with it because well, that’s what we do with our in-laws.

She lets Wei Min whisk her away, and when Greg and I shrug and swing by the bar for vodka tonics, I imagine that I hear her laugh out in the fray. Just a little.


Downstairs out by the pool, someone is playing old John Lee Hooker songs. The fall wind is sucking the curtains against the screens in the open windows and then blowing them out into the room. There’s a splash and a little giggle, and someone from the after party has fallen into the pool. There’s a clack of heels on the cement, click click-click, click click-click, a dance move on repeat.

“Last call…for alcohol,” comes a voice from the carpet on the side of the bed. Wei Min is on the floor, where he has been banished since I am afraid he’s going to boot again. I sit on the bed with the reading light on and page through the book.

“I think we should give this to them,” I say.

“Craig will love it,” Wei Min moans. “Coffee table book.”

“You know like over half of the people in these drawings are women,” I tell him.

Wei Min’s face is pressed into the carpet. “Pec implants.”

“And this one here where she’s being impaled in two different–”

“I’m sorry I called your sister a useless married woman,” he groans. “Please stop asking me dumb questions.”

“Actually,” I say, peering at an illustration that Wei Min has made into gay Chinese kama sutra by drawing coolie hats on everyone’s heads. “You called her a Mai-tai. Not the most rational thing, I admit, but you know, better to be a tropical drink I suppose.”

“Please, no–”

“What’s in a Mai-tai? Gin?” I flip the page and stare at the flat coronet hat he’s drawn on one man, and wonder if that’s offensive or not. Craig would probably like it. I could always blame it on Wei Min, which, actually, isn’t remotely not the truth. “Maybe vodka? Or that grain alcohol stuff that’s illegal–”

Wei Min lurches to his feet and staggers into the bathroom. I smile and uncap the Sharpie, choosing an unabridged page to draw a Fu Manchu mustache on a man pleasuring himself in a way that I covet. Outside the click click stops with the music, and something softer takes its place–a few people softly singing ‘Yesterday’.

“You better not be drawing Asian shit in that book,” Wei Min says from the bathroom. “You’re not allowed unless you are one.”

Sharpie doesn’t erase, so I slam the book shut and toss it on the overstuffed chair, also home to our suit coats and ties. The fan is on in the bathroom, but it doesn’t disguise Wei Min’s dry heaving. I wonder if we have any of that anti-nausea drug left, the one I used for my chemo. I rummage through the toiletry bag and find a dusty foil packet. It expired three years ago, but it will still work.

The bathroom doesn’t smell that bad, because he’s showered since we got back, and he’s pretty good at hitting the toilet. But he’s kneeling in front of the bowl, head pressed into his arms as he leans on the seat.

“You do this at every wedding we go to,” I say, sitting on the floor next to him. He lifts his head from his arms and wipes at his lips with the inside of his t-shirt collar. He watches me peel the foil from the plastic and hold up the small foam disk. “Under the tongue.”

A minute later, mouths are rinsed, washcloths are pressed to foreheads, and the light is off, so that the only illumination is from the pool patio outside. ‘Yesterday’ has become ‘Hey Jude’, and then a very slow version of ‘Hard Day’s Night’. The fan is off, and now we can hear them better, a mix of voices, indeterminate to the point where it is difficult to tell how many men or women there are.

“You drew on a mustache, didn’t you?” Wei Min asks suddenly, half in my lap, long legs stretched out into the hallway. I scrunch my legs up a little and pull him up towards me more, so that I can cradle his chest a bit. My leg is going to fall asleep in about five minutes, I can tell.


“White people,” Wei Min laughs. “You go right for the mustache.”

“What can I say,” I drawl. “I have a thing for Ming the Merciless.”

“You’re going to hell,” Wei Min tells me, rubbing his cheek against the bend of my elbow. I lean down and kiss the top of his head.

“Marry me,” I whisper into his hair.

His fingers slide along my forearm, and I can feel the huff of his breath on the hair on my knuckles. “Every day,” he says. “Every damn day.”


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Got the phat brew on the reel.

Firstly, let us all take a moment to appreciate the fine lyrical genius of Salt N Pepa’s 1993 masterpiece, “Whatta Man”, the Bechdel-strangling powerhouse ballad performed with nineties flash-paper early Destiny’s Child predecessor, En Vogue:

What a man, what a man, what a man what a mighty good man
What a man, what a man, what a man what a mighty good man…

That said, I recently tried Caribou Coffee’s offering, called Mahogany.

I want to take a minute or two, and give much respect due
To the coffee I been drinking in the morn.
And though most blends are suck
I just had some good luck,
Cause this coffee is a dark roast form of caffeine porn.

And indeed, the best thing about the coffee is the description, which is made of LOL:

Mahogany is a dark roast coffee that offers dry spice notes, woodsy accents and hints of vanilla and flowers. Expect bold, dry spice along with heady, aromatic wood and leather flavors. Look also for the hints of floral, vanilla, molasses and semi-sweet chocolate.

Or possibly the picture on the front:

So, yeah, I made three pots: well, sort of. The first time was in the French press, but I let it sit too long because I was reading porn, and if you have ever let a dark roast brew for 20 minutes, you know what you get. Things did not bode well for Mahogany.

I did an autodrip, because I know people scorn the auto drip, but for consistency in timed brewing, it’s great, and I don’t use filters, so I’m not as complete philistine, assholes. I’m drinking more right now, actually. The scent is strangely dry, like you smell it and say, “yeah, I get the dry part.” Like wine. Or laundry. It is rougher in some ways, like I can see non-coffee drinkers not liking it. On the other hand, it doesn’t have that bitter edge that a lot of dark roasts seem to get the SHEER SECOND THE GROUNDS SENSE THAT YOU ARE NOT A TRAINED BARISTA AND REBEL RIGHT IN THE POT. I am serious, I hate dark roasts because while I love the aesthetic kick of that first cup, I am first and foremost a junkie, and I’ll drink the whole pot over the course of an hour or two, well after the time when it should be pitched. Dark roasts can sense that. I open the bag and they see my face and they get out their little red white and blue bandannas and ring a rousing chorus of “Red & Black” from Les Mis.

So anyway, this coffee is not bitter, but what I was excited about was that OTHER THING. You saw it. “LEATHER FLAVORS”. Who drinks coffee and says, “You know what this needs, Bob? Some leather.”

Bob: I’ll go get the gimp mask.

ANYWAY, if by “leather flavors” they mean the general sense of rugged…preppy…hipster…uh…cowboy…ness that I get when I smell the coffee and drink it, then yes. Or the way that after about two cups I get a bit of fur in the back of my mouth as if I have been ball gagged for a while, then yes. On the other hand, I might be somewhat relieved, because we all know that Red Bull’s brief flirtation with the “Leather Couch of Love” flavor for their new line of energy drinks was a complete disaster.

Yeah, it’s got woody notes, and yeah there’s dry spice, but not in that North Carolina dry rub way, if you’re asking. But what sells this coffee is the nice oil content, that gives it a bit of a smoothness, and the lack of bitter, even after it’s been standing for a while. The Brewmaster says that this is coffee for light roast drinkers who want to delve into a dark, and I agree.

Also, I feel like I’m in Masterpiece Theatre when I drink it.

I haven’t tried it in the vacuum, but I never do dark roasts in the vacuum. For why, see Marius and Enjolras over there waving that red and black flag on the battlements.

OMG SIDE NOTE: Trader Joe’s makes a coffee called “Wintry Blend” that has beans and red and pink peppercorns and cloves and shit in it. YOU CAN ONLY GET IT AROUND THE WINTER HOLIDAYS. GUESS WHO IS DUMB ENOUGH TO ORDER RED AND PINK PEPPERCORNS AND MAKE HER OWN? THIS BITCH RIGHT HERE.

And in closing:

Like engine-engine number nine
I got the rump-shakin’ flavor with the nasty rhyme
So if the crowd can move with me, move with me
Salt-N-Pepa said groove with me, groove with me.

That is all.

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Sleepus interruptus.

Scene: fair Verona Amanda’s room, 3:36 am

Me: (snore)
Vi: (entering) mumble mumble mumble
Me: snggegeeegerrgrrg–what?
Her: mumble mumble mumble bees.
Me: (sits bolt upright) THERE ARE NO BEES. (flops over. back to sleep.) Snggegeeegerrgrr….
Her: Okay…(shuffles back to bed)
Me: (snore)

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Why You Should Never Hesitate to Write Fandoms You Don’t Know


Foxy wrote: I want to read Amand-r Scarecrow and Mrs King fic right now.

Amand-r wrote:

Mrs King pushed her crown back onto her head. “Hurry Scarecrow, King Friday will be back any minute.”

Scarecrow shoved three straw fingers into–

Look I can’t do that.

“I knew the last time we solved that predictable mystery together that we were destined for this,” Scarecrow purred. “And now that I have a brain, I can think with both my heads.”

“Oh Scarecrow,” Mrs. King moaned. “I shall fuck you hardest of all.”

Amand-r wrote: I think i should post this to prove how much I don’t know about Scarecor [sic] and Mrs King.

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