7:36 and I burned my finger.

I wake up on a Saturday morning. Cue birds, violins, etc. Rays of sunshine. Ya know.

Well, someone cued my cat. Remember this post? I should hope you do. Go reread it now. This will make more sense.

I have a pretty wicker basket in my room that I use to put books in when I finish them before bed, as opposed to slamming them on the floor. Perry thinks it tastes positively scrumptious, and it has teeny bite-marks all over it. Picture coming soon. He also likes to chew plastic to pieces, as showcased by our lovely ex-lid.

Anyway, I'd hoped Perry had grown out of his issues, but he hadn't, and came into my room at 6:15. So I messed up my artistically neat bed and, against my wishes, was forced to get up at seven. . . as I would have if my cat wasn't a psychopathic maniac.

I am very mad at my cat now, so I stumble downstairs to warm up a cinnamon roll for breakfast. However, I burn the cream cheese icing and, in my starvation and thus requirement of food, I burn myself as well. Just a little spot on the finger, but it's like a constant pain. I am not a hypochondriac/an exaggerator/dramatic.

Not bad for a morning of pain and hummingbirds.

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I washed my mouth with soap.

Really truly, I did.

I was brushing my teeth and not really paying attention. Why worry about dental hygiene? Sure, it's expensive, but you could be thinking about the murder mystery you finished last night (The Patriotic Murders) which was about a dentist who was murdered. . . actually, never mind what I just said.

I accidentally squirted the hand soap onto my toothbrush. Then, realizing what I had done, I rinsed it under water for approximately half a minute or so. Evidently, that did next to nothing, and I brushed my teeth for hardly two seconds. I was counting.

I fail to see how this would prevent me from cursing.

Je n'aime pas vendredi.

Un-Luck O' the Irish

Meaning well, I was about to bid my dear friend a bit of luck over the interwebs, but then something struck me:

THE IRISH ARE NOT LUCKY!!!

They were conquered by the British. Conquering isn't usually a fancy word for a tea party with all the trippings. It is, though, sometimes. I've been to one. You'll understand someday. But anyway, NOT LUCKY.

Then they lived on potatoes. POTATOES. I mean, I like potatoes. But potatoes every day? Way too much starch.

Then the potatoes rotted and the Irish died.

Then they moved to America, where they were forced to work in factories that could maim them and got sunburns.

Luck of the British to you too, chap.

I've been busy, apology accepted?

MY DEEPEST APOLOGIES for not posting for FIVE WHOLE DAYS. The first day of school put me out of whack, and I don't know what my new posting schedule will be. We'll see. c:

Please follow & invite!!!

I just made a trip to the library. Here is my list of current books. After this post, you can find them in a linky-box-thing in the sidebar.

List being:
-Victorian Fairytales, Michael Patrick Hearn: Hello. Victorian Era = AWESOME.
-The Murder of Rodger Ackroyd, Agatha Christie: BLOODY MURDER!!!
-Miss Manners' Guide to a Surprisingly Dignified Wedding, Judith Martin: It's manners. And rules. And polite ways to tell people you aitch-aye-tee-eee them.
-Miss Manners A Citizen's Guide to Civility, Judith Martin: I need not say anything, yes?
-The Big Book of Beastly Mispronunciations, Charles Harrington Elster: I don't think I have to explain, but will anyway. There, I just did.
-20,000 Years of Fashion The History of Costume and Personal Adornment, Francois Boucher: Victorian Era!
-The Patriotic Murders, Agatha Christie: MURDER.
-Remembered Death, Agatha Christie: DEATH.
-The Body in the Library, Agatha Christie: CORPSE.
-Why Didn't They Ask Evans?, Agatha Christie: Do I ever scare you?

Homework calls. World Peace Recipe to follow!

Why.

My neighbors have a pebble-lined perfect sand rectangle in their front yard with a statue in it.

One day, I was walking by with my friend and commented on how peculiar it was that they had a statue in the middle of their parking space. She looked at me, laughed, and said "Emma, that's a zen garden!"


Evidently, a zen garden looks just like a parking spot.

SUMMER!!!

If you're on the computer, please at least go here.

My Cats and the Deathly Compost

Well, I think it'd be a best seller. And make movies. And be annoyingly popular.

There's nothing much to hodgepodge, but here are my rules for church dressing:

-No shoulders. We do not care that you are giving yourself skin cancer by tanning. I mean, we do care, but we're focusing on the Lord, not your shoulders. And some of us (me) are thinking about how stupid that is, even though we have to do it before the "forgive our sins" part.
-No backs. I don't even understand this one. Why would you want to show off your back? And who wants to look at your back?
-No flip-flops. It's very noisy. Even though they were very "in" last year, and they may be the only nice pair of shoes you have, DO NOT WEAR THEM.
-No layers. A nice suit jacket, shrug, or cardigan is okay. Church is cold, yes? But REALLY? LAYERED TANK TOPS?
-No miniskirts. Some of wish you would keep that at home. Most of us, actually.
-No t-shirts or anything else sloppy. I should think this was obvious. If you have nice clothes, wear them. If you don't, go buy some.

My rules for church behavior:

-No excluding people. Well, this is obvi. I pity you.
-No "pretending not to see" the eight-year-old usher. We do not discriminate. If he's the one closest to your entrance, then you receive the pamphlet from him. If you have to crouch on the ground, so be it. I do not pity you, I just hope you're not wearing a miniskirt. See above.
-No agreeing with whatever the minister says to your neighbor every time he says something. Come, come.
-No somersaults. I don't think I have to explain.
-No running. There are lots of sweet elderly people.

I digress.