I murdered four more butterflies today. STOP THROWING YOURSELF IN FRONT OF MY CAR. It’s just like that guy who kept throwing himself in front of my knife, I don’t understand it.

Other events of the week included the pipe under my sink bursting and flooding my bathroom, doing odd tasks at work (“Quick! Call every medical supply company in the Triangle! We need an electromyography machine NOW!” “But…what’s an electromyography machine?” “Irrelevant. Here’s the phone book.”), and drawing a giant wagon on an 8-foot piece of brown paper for my mother. Hey, I’m a good daughter.

Trash the Dress, an intriguing photography idea that makes a lot of sense to me. You’re only going to wear the wedding dress that one day, might as well wear the heck out of it!
Attack of the tiny cardboard people! Watch as they eat Singapore!

Star Wars Yoga class. Downward facing Wookiee, indeed.
Star Wars Uncut. One of the biggest geek collaborative efforts ever, I would imagine.

Are you at a bar?
Double rainbow all the way! Sarah and Graham informed me that I’ve been hiding under an internet rock by not having seen this until now, so I figured I would help out any of my fellow rock-dwellers.

Go scribble something. Do it.

Continuing to be sidetracked from Walden, for the most part. Every time I go into the library for *one* book, it turns into…more than one. I finished On Writing, and King had loads of extremely useful information tucked away in there. I picked up a copy of Bradbury’s Zen in the Art of Writing, and I’m looking forward to getting to that in the near future. Comparing the two writer’s style should be quite fascinating!

In the meantime, my ill-gotten library gains included The Naked Sun, the second book in Isaac Asimov’s robot trilogy. It was, like most of Asimov, quite good. At some point I realized I had read it before when I was 10 or so, which made for a surreal reading experience this time around. I remembered just enough of the imagery for the whole thing to be one long feeling of deja vu, but not enough that it gave away any important plot elements. If someone wanted to convince me that I had precognition, I’m pretty sure they could accomplish that by hiding copies of books I read as a child inside covers with different titles. “I’m a genius! I knew he was going to say that!” That’d be a pretty fantastic practical joke, actually…

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