interpretive dance


I'll type them here.

You'll pretend they're intelligent and witty. 



But umm, not today, okay? 
So instead, we shall communicate through interpretive dance!

The furball.

Kitchen boredom.

And watching leaves die.

Not interpretive dance, you say? Well I say you're not trying hard enough. Pfft.


brung low by a woman

Earlier today I learned that beyond a shadow of a doubt I am a "supertaster", aka. a person with a lot more tastebuds than the average human. Most supertasters are more sensitive to sweet, salty, bitter, and sour flavours than everyone else, but for me it seems to be just the last two that often overwhelm me while my dining companions make googly eyes at my scrunched face and desperate dive towards the nearest glass of water.

A few hours ago, my decent meal at a mediocre yet overpriced Italian place was ruined by the inclusion of rapini, aka. broccoli rabe, or you know, "bitter broccoli", even though it's not actually broccoli at all. Now, I don't even like broccoli as it is, but shove the word bitter in front of it and I should have known to stay away, right? Right. Only I didn't learn that particularly charming nickname for the green until after my traumatizing meal.

Anyway, as there's no way for me to accurately describe the horrors of having my entire mouth die, I'll cut this long, boring story short :  OH MY GOD WAS THAT THE BITTEREST THING EVER OR WAS THAT THE BITTEREST THING EVER.


Defeated by a vegetable. that's me.


Today my boyfriend touched Bill Clinton's butt.

I have never been more proud in my life.


That is all.

Carry on.