labour day work

Comission, almost completed in one daaaay~
I have earned chai tea, adventure time, and knitting.

therapeutic illustrated journaling

look at my baby ponytail 

look at my chocolate covered coconut icecream bar

look at my first pair of socks

(keepin dese babies for myself)

lookit all did therapeutic illustrated journaling

this is what I do on my lunch breaks when I get sick of knitting

 

I have been working through my , ~* ' sad feelings ' *~ , in this way. I want to write postcards but I also don't want to be the kind of person that writes postcards full of sad things. I have been eating lots of icecream bars and trying to , ~* ' communicate ' *~ , even though that really just spreads the  , ~* ' sad feelings ' *~ ,  around. Maybe tomorrow I will buy some stamps.

On the upside, I can't remember when I was last this productive.

mains et pieds bien au chaud

everything I work with is sharp

at least I still have unicorn nails

more red knitting

christmas is coming the goose is getting fat

please put a penny in the old man's hat

seriously though everyone is going to get socks, and I am waaay ahead of the game it's not even septemmmber

the pitter patter of tiny hooves

all over my skin

schlump

(a poem)


watching some twin peaks
in my bed full of crumbs
no
i will not answer the door
(don't you know i am writing real-time poetry so i can post something on my blog?)
watched some more twin peaks
worried about what to do what to do
when i run out of episodes
scratchy throat gross nose
didnt do anything i was supposed to do this evening
cant call my girfriend
(my parents have my phone)
not really sick
just schlump

to the lighthouse

... "And that's the end," she said, and she saw in his eyes, as the interest in the story died away in them, something else take its place; something wondering, pale, like a reflection of light, which at once made him gaze and marvel. Turning, she looked across the bay, and and there, sure enough, coming regularly across the waves first two quick strokes and then one long steady stroke, was the light of the Lighthouse. It had been lit. In a moment he would ask her, "Are we going to the Lighthouse?" And she would have to say "No: not tomorrow; your father says not." Happily, Mildred came in to fetch them,and the bustle distracted them. But he kept looking back over his shoulder as Mildred carried him out, and she was certain that he was thinking, we are not going to the Lighthouse tomorrow; and she thought, he will remember that all his life. ...


Woolf