STRICTLY BIGGIE AND DOLLY PARTON.

OH NO! I got busy!

















Or maybe I've been enjoying the weather and ignoring the internet because it's warm most days so I get to wear all the cute outfits I didn't get to wear in August because I was temporarily an invalid who did not see the light of day.

If you're not knee-deep in a so-called INDIAN SUMMER then don't you fret because you can totally just buy this candle.
























At my steady's currently, mentally preparing for my 9 o'clock yoga class, I have noticed something new and exciting...











































He owns the former, not the latter but let's be honest, is one safer than the other?? Still, I'd give him snaps if he did own Clueless and double-snaps if he owned Buffy the Vampire Slayer, featuring Kristy Swanson and Luke Perry and introDUCING...Donald Sutherland!!!



















So Peewee Herman might be in it too, but like, what's the big whoop there, right??





















If it ain't Allan Cumming, then I'm not coming.





















CASE CLOSED.

Soanyway...














As I journey into my 5th year at Concordia, the only thing I am scared of is people born in the 1990s...NO DEFENSE.















I am happy I go to Concordia because on the 7th floor of the Hall Building, you can get a lot of free tampons and who knows when you might commence menarche??


















Yes boys, this is a reference to uterus lining and if you're afraid of it, your girlfriend will eventually dump you, and maybe even your boyfriend (if he's extrememly sensitive and on his rag.)

"If it's not fun, why do it?"

So goes the team motto of Ben & Jerry's, so the over-priced magnetized notepads tell me...

They are $3.99 but this here blast from the past is sort of priceless, no?

THISISME...THEN.






















WHO KNEW I WAS A TRANNY?!?!





















MY MOM AND DAD PROBABLY!!!

PEACE Y'ALL AND THANK FOR YOU ALLAN CUMMING.

Wild Radishes Are Falling On My Head

Batten down the hatches
and pack away the easels,
there’s a mistral wind
blowing in over The Bald Mountain.
It shakes the bell-tower of the old church
and rattles the grapes upon their vines.
The wind serves merely as a precursor.
An early warning system if you will.
It heralds the arrival of a storm on the horizon.
But don’t worry. There’s no need to panic.
For the dark bumpy clouds approaching
the Lubéron Massif are in no especial rush.
For Things happen a little slower around these parts.
This storm requires some time to brood a little.
Time to procrastinate. Time to shrug its shoulders.
If this were a game of pétanque,
we’d be bracing ourselves
for a thirteen-to-love whitewash.
If this were a game of pétanque,
we’d be about to be "Made Fanny" of.
Sheet lightning strafes the nearby Plateau d'Albion.
Thunderclaps echo out across the Golden Triangle.
Further up the garrigue a stray cat comes into season.
Further up the garrigue a hunting dog is ritually slaughtered.
And then, finally, a sudden drop in barometric pressure.
Starlings swarm for the safety of nesting spots.
Earthworms pour fourth from the rich red earth.
Geckos drop their tails. Fire ants self-replicate.
There’s a phrase in the local dialect for the kind
of unrelenting deluge of raindrops soon to betide us.
Literally translated, it means “wild radishes are falling”.
The hatches are all battened down.
The easels are all packed away.
The radishes start to fall upon noble Occitania.
They pommel the ochre deposits at Roussillon
They pound the hilltop enclave of Gourdes.
They pepper the melon fields of Cavaillon.
Wild radishes fall upon the tiled roof
of a converted Farmhouse
sheltering just behind
those tall cypress trees right here.
Further up the garrigue a hand chokes the engine of an old Motocross bike.
Further up the garrigue a voice on a car radio raps in Arabic and verlan.
The lights flicker once, twice, and then they go out.


The Cloud Appreciation Society

Oh Train Of Great Speed

I’ve seen enough French New Wave to know
that the roads to Provence are piled high
with the wreckage of burning bourgeois automobiles.
The TGV high-speed locomotive is the quicker option by far.
Faster even than Japan’s famed Shinkansen bullet network.
Sculpted long ago by slow-moving glaciers
the rich rural folds of this fertile landscape
now hurtling past my window at over 500km-an-hour.
Human hands planted the potpourri of lavender fields.
Assembled the sleepy village perches hewn from local stone.
Rustic panorama sung softly into existence by troubadours.
Agricultural patchwork painted into being by Cézanne’s brushstrokes.
A true sense of place for all the senses.
The high-speed TGV locomotive is also the safer option by far.
I mean, think about it for a second; when was
the last time you heard of a cross-channel train catching fire?