https://www.sugarsync.com/referral?rf=bp0ieikkxo7oj&utm_source=txemail&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=referral

Cus I didn't get to post it on Amazon

My name is Blair and this t-shirt is a fantastic addition to my kitsch Native American collectables. Me and Petunia, my cat, spend hours watching the Home Shopping Network for turquoise jewelry and such. I recently bought an adorable porcelain Native American baby doll which I placed on my fireplace in between the wooden Rain Dancer and one of my ceramic arrowhead book ends. Petunia broke the other. (Needless to say, she was in time out for the rest of the night).

Anyway, the delivery was fast, which I was grateful for. I stained my herd of buffalo t-shirt and needed something to replace it.

The Magic of Games (Excerpt)

When I try to analyze my own cravings, motives, actions and so forth, I surrender to a sort of retrospective imagination which feeds the analytic faculty with boundless alternatives and which causes each visualized rout to fork and re-fork without end in the maddeningly complex prospect of my past (Nabokov, 13).

Here in this passage, Humbert Humbert describes his obsession with wanting to have done things differently, or imagining the way things could have been, had the events in his life occurred differently. This is a prime characteristic of Humbert Humbert that adds to his “gamesmanship” mentality. This desire to change the course of his past is futile, and yet he continues to obsess with the “could have beens” and “only ifs.” The death of Annabel was an event that was unavoidable and irreversible. This is the kind of situation that Humbert Humbert is unwilling to accept. Perhaps, the death of his childhood love, (whether it was really love, lust, or simple infatuation), left Humbert Humbert mentally stagnant. Just as a child is unwilling to accept that it is bed time, or that his/her birthday party is over.

Plum Purple

“It’s called Plum Purple,” said my room mate Sarah as she ashed her cigarette into a glass half filled with water. She spent the day painting her dwarf bedroom. I could see dried brush strokes and patches where the old eggshell white glowed. She had already tapped magazine cutouts of Van Gogh paintings to her wall and strung Christmas lights across the ceiling.

The Plum Purple paint was a bruise in the apartment. Each day after work I passed her room and it seemed to turn a shade darker. The more she smoked and allowed dirty dishes to mold under her bed, the more her paint resembled decay and not plums. If our apartment could have talked it would have begged to have her room amputated.

It took all my strength to ignore the sound of her bead curtain clanking in her closet as she tried on outfits with no where to go. It reminded me of the paint, the marsh of dirty clothes, and her hot flat iron on the floor.

“Do you think you will be able to get it back to it’s original color?” I asked her one day.

“Duh,” she replied as she tried to feed her turtle a pellet that was bigger than it’s head. She had recently bought her new pet from a woman in downtown L.A. who sold illegally bred amphibians and knock off purses.

“Is that turtle still alive?” I asked.

“I think so, it just won’t eat,” she answered, “oh well, I tried.”

I'm Afraid

Don't Thread On Me

I hate Manual Writing and dive lights.