Certifiable Madness

So, Ruby and I were talking the other night, and we decided some things.

Thing the First: if we’re both still single in our late 30s/early 40s, we’re gonna get married.
Thing the Second: Yes, that means Milady and I are no more. Not the important bit here.
Thing the Third: Ruby and I decided that we needed a prenuptial agreement, both to make sure that divorce can be quick, easy, and painless in the event that either of us wants to marry for love (rather than codependence), and also to protect our butts.
Thing the Fourth: We decided that, should we get married and later divorce, that we should see if we can drive the arbiter absolutely bugfuck crazy. Because that is our idea of funtimes.
Thing the Fifth: We will continue to live in the same house despite the divorce, and while we are far too civilized to quibble over the crockery, there might just be a war over the loose leaf.

Because tea fanatics we be, and that is serious shit, man. You do not fuck with the loose leaf.
~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

More (Also Warped?) Wisdom

Never Leave Your Minions Unattended.
~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

This One’s Not My Fault

. . . what has happened, I hear you wondering, that is not my fault? And if it’s not my fault, who is to blame?

Important things first: this is Ruby’s fault.

How? Glad you asked.

See, we were talking the other night about our plans — such as they may or may not be — for grad school. And she mentioned to me that there is no required or disqualifying major when it comes to applying to law school. She mentioned that I, as an English major, am technically qualified to apply for entrance to law school.

(Which, as a side note, seems really odd to me. An undergraduate degree in Political Science, Criminology, Psychology, Business, Social Work, even Youth and Children’s Studies or Women and Gender Studies makes sense to me when it comes to the law. All of those majors relate really well to certain legal fields. But English? As in, literature and theory and criticism? Does not compute.)

My immediate reaction is that I will not be applying to law school; I’ll leave that to Ruby. Because I would lose my shit if I were in law school.

And then . . . then I actually stopped to think about that for a minute. I thought about what it would be like, to be a law student. To deal with that atmosphere, those peers and professors, the politics and ambition, the workload and expectations. And after considering all those things, I started to think about what my inevitable fuck-this-shit moment would look like.

I’m pretty sure that I would set my textbooks and/or my dorm room on fire, spray Silly String all over the campus monuments, and then climb the clock tower/tallest monument to glitter-bomb everything in a suit, and coffee-bomb everything else that moved. I’d be up there, whipping water balloons filled with lukewarm shitty coffee and screaming “TAKE THAT! AND THAT! AND THAT! AND HERE, HAVE SOME MORE, YOU SOULLESS, BACKBITING CORPORATE-LOVING MONKEYS! IT’S ALL YOU HAVE LEFT IN YOUR BODIES ANYMORE!”

When I shared this vision with Ruby — and the accompanying wisdom that law school is really not for me — she laughed. When I mentioned it to Milady, complaining that the above would result from an inability to deal with people, play politics, or care enough about others’ opinions of me/my reputation, she was rather concerned. Mostly by how much thought I’d put into this.

But, well. If I was going to consider it, then I had to do it properly. After all, there would have been no point to half-assing it, would there?

(But you see now? Ruby’s fault.)

~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

 

URGES

You ever just . . . have a really powerful urge? One that, no matter how hard you try to deny, or not to think about, just won’t die? One that, instead, grows stronger and more tantalizing with time?

I have one of those. It whispers to me, painting pretty pictures in my head, fantasies that all but beg to be made a reality. I think about all the times I could have, when it would have been just the thing to make a moment perfect and unforgettable. I try to actively avoid planning to do it in the future, fight not to give into temptation. But I can’t deny it:

I want to glitterbomb someone. So bad.

So, I think it’s officially going on my bucket list. Even though I think bucket lists are a patently stupid idea. So maybe I should just prep a glitterbomb and wait for an opportune moment. The only issue that I run into is logistics. How will I engineer this for optimum glitter dispersal? More importantly: how will I manage to run away when I’m going to be busting a gut laughing?

Because, yeah. If I glitterbomb someone, they will be finding glitter for the next three months. If they’re lucky. If they’re not lucky — or aren’t knowledgeable about proper glitter removal protocols–then they will probably be finding it for six to eight months.

*evil laugh* NO ONE IS SAFE! Well. No one will be safe, once I sort out the logistics, because once the practicalities are out the way, I just need to figure out who I’m going to ‘bomb.

(Thank you, Ruby, for reminding me of how much I want to do this.)

~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

 

Non-Equitable

So, it’s official: when The Powers That Be were trying to separate Ruby’s Ness from My Ness, there was not an Equitable Division of THINGS.

(Because reasons.)

~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

 

Unintentional By-Products of International Study-Dates

“There is something very wrong with a lesbian putting sperm in an asexual person’s face.”

Explanation: Ruby and I.

That’s all I got.
~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

I Don’t Even Know, Okay?

So . . . interesting things happen when Ruby and I are allowed to communicate. We haven’t talked much lately, what with how busy we’ve both been, but we’ve been playing catch-up. And, while our conversation started normally enough, we soon got a little silly and then . . . it just all went downhill from there.

Ruby: Speaking of food, I’ve had this insanely domestic urge over the last few weeks to get back in the kitchen to cook, or bake (apparently I’m a much better baker than I am cook)

Dom: And WTF? Get out of my brain
Dom: I’ve been like, fighting the urge to cook for weeks now

Ruby: You too?!

Dom: Specifically, to cook for Milady
Dom: Or bake apple pie
Dom: or cookies
Dom: but mostly pie

Ruby: Man, like I said, 50% of my brain and vice versa
Ruby: Nice

Dom: It’s a pride thing with the pie, because the homemade pastry is so fucking finicky

Ruby: Mom told me she needs me home to make her banada bread; apparently the one I make is the best

Dom: It continues to amaze me that we manage to be on the same wavelength despite a national border and two time zones between us

Ruby: I’ve got a recipe for one with walnuts and chocolate chips

Dom: AWESOME! (total bragging rights, right there–you know that, yeah?)

Ruby: It’s us, should you be surprised?

Dom: I like banana bread with chocolate chips. I’m not sure about the walnuts though. I don’t know if I like walnuts . . .
Dom: I know, okay? I SHOULDN’T be surprised, but, well . . .

Ruby: It’s not mine (well, the adaptation with both is mine, but not the base recipe)

Dom: Hey–innovation counts!

Ruby: I crush the walnuts fairly fine and they don’t have that much taste
Ruby: So it works out pretty well
Ruby: And yay, innovation counts! I has bragging rights!

Dom: Oh wow, okay. Baking Goddess, right there
Dom: You totally have bragging rights, do not even

Ruby: “Goddess”, aren’t you sweet?
Ruby: And I know I have bragging rights for all sorts of things, I didn’t know my baking couonted

Dom: *blows kisses* You know that saying . . . “you catch more with honey”?
Dom: I’m the honeytrap part of this partnership
Dom: I lure them in . . . and then you nom their souls

Ruby: Souls . . . souls . . . must have . . . souls!
Ruby: NOM!
Ruby: MINE!

Dom: *evil cackles*

Ruby: All their powers be mine!

Dom: Well . . . I DO get a share for luring them in, right?
Dom: I mean, it’s only fair

Ruby: . . . yes . . . *passes soul cookies*

Dom: It’s not my fault I have a hard time getting through the shell the gooey soul-centre

Ruby: Then I make cookies out of them

Dom: YAY! *noms the soul-cookies*

Ruby: 😀

Dom: *is dying of laughter*

Ruby: So glad you’re happy
Ruby: I tried soul pie, but it came out too dry
Ruby: Not enough honey
Ruby: 😉

Dom: Mm, yeah. It’s got a tough shell for a reason–it withers and gets leathery when exposed
Dom: OH!
Dom: You charmer, you

Ruby: Who, me?
Ruby: 😛

Dom: Yes, you!
Dom: *is giggling so hard my tummy hurts*

Ruby: *passes soul juice* It has restorative powers
Ruby: 😉
Ruby: It’s a little tart, but I don’t think you’ll mind too much

Dom: *sips the deliciously tart soul-juice between gigglefits*

Ruby: See, I thought you’d like it
Ruby: I would have made tea out of it, but it’s apparently like wine; the souls need to age a bit, otherwise it’s bitter

Dom: Ah. *nods* That would make sense.
Dom: And while the time required to let it age IS quite tiresome, soul-juice should NOT be made into soul-moonshine
Dom: Because I’m pretty sure that would start the zombie apocalypse

Ruby: It just might–I tried, but then had to bash it with a broom because it started moving

Dom: *just . . . dies*
Dom: *is brought back by the soul-juice*

Rube: See, I told you it works!

Dom: *dies some more at the mental image of you beating a zombie with a broom*
Dom: *is legit cackling my face off*
Dom: *deep breaths*
Dom: Whooooo. Okay. I’m good.
Dom: I’ve missed you SO. FREAKING. MUCH.

Ruby: And of course a broom, I was going to say a feather duster, but then I thought, ‘why would I have a feather duster in the kitchen? (or the cellar, wherever you make moonshine)’

Dom: Mmm, very true.
Dom: definitely a broom
Dom: Also: you get better reach with a broom
Dom: Always important when dealing with the rotting undead

Ruby: Of course, it’s also kinda badass

Dom: Well, yeah, that too
Dom: The feather duster has too many sexual connotations to be really badass
Dom: I mean, brooms = witches (which are powerful, fearsome beings)
Dom: feather dusters = French maids

Ruby: true, true

Dom: And one really MUST think of these things while aspiring to BAMF-dom

Ruby: But of course–though I think I’ve gone beyond aspiring 😉

Dom: Well, DUH.
Dom: You’re in the “active cultivation” phase now
Dom: But I didn’t want to make assumptions about when you experimented with soul-juice and had to smite a zombie lest you inadvertently start an apocalypse ahead of schedule.

Ruby: True, true.

Seriously. I don’t even know about us sometimes.
~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.