So, yeah… I just realized that I’ve been a little obsessive with the romantic and erotic images the past few days after saying I was going to tone it down a few weeks back. I know I should spread it out, but I’m playing with some ideas in this empty place I call a brain which should be a warehouse of brain cells, but has evicted all but two, which come in contact with each other at they bounce around creating sparks of ideas. And, as luck would have it, those two squatter brain cells have to have previous experience in libido and flowery romance. It is what is it. I hear word that someone will be sent around to fumigate the place soon, so you might be spared future atrocities at their goofy, teenage hands.
Speaking of atrocities, I somehow managed to avoid ruining the collaborative poem I did with tara caribou. It must have been before the warehouse underwent mass eviction. Or she’s a kick-ass writer who saved the day. Or both. If you haven’t seen it yet, I’m taken it off sticky post and you can find shadowfell here. Blame the bad parts on me and the good parts on her. Oh, and she saved me from stealing the art for the post from Dave McKean, which is a really nasty thing to do and I should be punished for doing it when I do such things. With a cat-of-nine. Wait, did I mean to type that? The two brain cells tell me that, yes, indeed, Michael, [nod nod boing] that’s absolutely what you meant to type. So I nod and smile and keep blathering away before I have to put on my chef’s hat which tonight will look very much like a frozen pizza chef because… brain cells.
And mentioning braincells begs the question: what happens if a zombie was a gourmet in a past life? Would they turn their nose up at some brains and relish others?
At least I’m safe. Two brain cells isn’t even a snack. And I’d be allowed to entertain myself with alcohol and ammo — two things that seem to go together well for those of us who are brain cell challenged.
What was I saying?