tomorrow is tuesday and we all know what that means. today is monday. i was scrolling through some old photos last night and came across the antman photo and started to sort of get nostalgic for killoggs. sort of. .. in that i used to read these bluewhite pages daily. keenly. i was intrigued, fascinated, repulsed, entertained, inspired and occasionally piqued.. if that is the right word. i still read nowadays.. though not nearly as much, and not out of the original curiousity. i think it is habit now. an ocular fixation. a mental 42nd daily handwashing. a quick tap on the door frame before touching the doorknob for fear of getting a zap. killoggs is the comic book series that has no heroes and no end in sight. i still have expectations for some of the characters. some, so much so, that i don't even read anymore. not out of contempt or dislike or anysuch. it is almost like switching the channel after pausing on a seinfeld episode for a few minutes. mostly, i just scan the titles, glance at the heads in the journal rack, and then click on. i have a theory that the world is going to end on a tuesday. this is largely because i expect the world to stop spinning on a tuesday, and therefore, there will be a very long tuesday in the distant future where lots of things will happen. tomorrow is tuesday. a brief glimpse ahead to the end? actually, it is already tuesday on killoggs time. antman died on a tuesday.

Last night I watched the entire first disc of Season 3 of Jem, except I swapped the last episode on the disc, #33, with #40, "Alone Again."
I couldn't contain myself. I had to watch "Alone Again," based upon the synopsis. It delivered.. TIMES TEN.

Jerrica welcomes a new orphan Starlight House. Laura is very shy and reticent, with miserable self esteem. She watches from the corner as the other girls interact happily and wholesomely.
When The Holograms overhear Laura playing guitar and singing (one of the best musical performances on the run of the show!), they are so impressed that they invite Laura to be a guest in a Jem concert.
Laura goes to school and a boy named Bobby befriends her and encourages her -nay- goads her to accept some free drugs (red pills). Laura goes home and takes the pills while practicing guitar.
Suddenly, she is plunged into a psychadelic wonderland. She strums wildly on her open guitar strings, reveling in the dissonant sounds. After a moment, she puts down her guitar and it morphs into a wild fanged beast before her very eyes. Her lunchbox transforms into a bird and begins to take flight.
Laura decided that she too can fly, and she jumps out onto the ledge of her bedroom window. She is narrowly rescued from a deadly fall by Jerrica.
Laura goes back to school fiending wildy for more of the pills. Bobby tells her that they are only free the first time, and so Laura attempts to steal money from Jerrica to buy the pills.
When she is caught stealing, Jerrica takes her to a support group meeting where Laura learns that she is not alone in her perilous struggle with drugs.

I found this episode to be very moving. As I sucked down clouds of marijuana, I remembered how it all began. Maybe, just maybe - there is hope for me too.

I sat and watched City Mouse climb all over the toilet paper roll for about a half hour, and then I went to bed.

This is MINE NOW.
I purchased it used for $350 at a Guitar Center in Fairfax, VA, two weeks ago.
Stan the guitar salesman was kind enough to let me pay for it in installments, and today I gave him the last of the money. This guitar is mine. No one picked it out for me, no one bought it for me, it wasn't bestowed as a trinket of affection or a bribe or a reward. I found it, I played it, I fell in love with it, and I paid for it. It might be the first big thing I've ever really owned.

Her name is Molly.
And she is very, very beautiful.

who wants two free tickets to see the mystics play the stings tonight??!! Starts at 8pm at the mci center...
first come first serve!

I made a Big Decision today: I'm leaving DC and moving to Chicago on September 30 (less than two months away). I might stay in Chicago or I might move on to the Pacific Northwest; we shall see.

I have an amazing opportunity there to live with my best friend rent-and-utilities-free so that I can save for school (he has an extra bedroom and is paying for it anyway). If I go out there, temp for a year or so, and then go into an accelerated nursing program (and work part-time), I'll have my NP license by the time I'm 30 and can then essentially get a fulfilling job where-ever I'd like to go.

The other thing is that I'm stagnating here. It's not a stagnant place - I have incredible friends here who I'll miss immensely. It's just that I grew up here. My childhood self haunts my edges. I don't want to stay here any longer - I have growing to do, and in the shadows of decisions both fortunate and unfortunate I don't feel like I can. I know the resources this area has to offer, I have used them, and I am ready to move on.

Also, Chicago is an hour and a half from the town I'm writing my novel about, so I can do research.
Hopefully I'll have the bulk of it written before I go back to school full-time, because I won't have time when I start.

Save September 24th on your calendar for my going-away party (details forthcoming). I will hug you until you politely ask me to let go and I will blubber all over you about how much I love you.

My sister just sent me an evite for her 21st birthday celebration.

MY LITTLE SISTER IS TURNING 21!!!!! WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN? WHEN DID SHE GET SO STINKIN' OLD??? AND MORE IMPORTANTLY WHEN DID I GET SO OLD????

I have to stop this. She can't turn 21, pretty soon she'll be 25 which will make me gahhhhhhh THIRTY-TWO!!!! Then she'll be 30 and I'll be, oh sweet Lord, THIRTY-SEVEN!!!!!! The horror! THE HORROR!!!!!

Then, when she turns 83...you ready for this? I'll be NINETY!!!!!! Nooooooo!!!!!!! Make it stop! Make it STOP!!!!! Someone just bury me now.

Okay, well that passed. Happy birthday in three weeks sis, even if ya don't read this site (God forbid.)

I try to keep this to a minimum, but I'm gonna post something here that is entirely duplicated on my own website.

Bibbly, feel free to sue me.

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I'm a softie. Or an idiot. Or a glutton for punishment. Or a combination of all of those, and more.

I didn't get home until 5:30 today. And my originally-scheduled post was going to cover what a bad day I had, which includes at least two blown network switches (maybe three) at work, plus the fact that the reconstruction in the school's preschool area included PAINTING OVER ALL THE NETWORK DROP LABELS, so I can't even tell if the computers that can't connect down there are having difficulties with their network cards (as many others have) or the switches to which they're connected (as many others have). It's a nightmare from which I cannot awaken.

But that's not what this post is about, anymore.

When I got home, I immediately grabbed a drink (Sierra Mist Free is my new soft drink of choice - no caffeine) and went out for some quality patio time.

I noticed an adolescent duck sitting stock-still in the grass, a few yards away. I greeted it with my usual "Hi, ducky!" opening. It didn't move. The longer I sat there, the odder it became, because this duck was NOT moving from its spot.

Then I saw it lunge, as many ducks are wont to do when they are pursuing bugs. Only... something didn't look quite right.

I asked it, in conversational tones, if everything was alright. As ducks do almost every time, it ignored my query.

Then it lunged again. It was trying to walk, but couldn't. Its left leg was apparently very injured. It continued trying to move, in fits and starts. Every time it tried to walk, it made the lunge move and basically fell, face-down in the grass, only to rest for a good while before trying again.

I immediately started bawling.

As anyone who's been frequenting my site for at least a year knows, I love the duckies in a big way. During a hurricane last year, I actually tried to get a momma and five babies to come into the Palace to keep them from suffering any harm. That was unsuccessful, but this duck was tugging at my heart. But, I thought, I don't know how to take care of a duck. And, honestly, natural selection dictates that injured ducks die to keep the food chain alive and well. It's not my problem, as sad as I am for the poor thing.

By 8:30, my conscience had eaten away at me enough to where I decided that if I went back outside, and if the duck was still alive and in sight, then I would take it in. As I went out, wearing my iPod, Soulshine came on. I looked around, and didn't see the duck. I sat down on the chair I always sit on while doing the patio thing. Shimmer immediately followed.

I got up out of my chair, and walked over until I could see further in the direction that I had last seen the duck lunging.

About 30 yards away, I saw it, sitting perfectly still in the grass. Hooray for it still being light at 8:30PM.

I went back inside and locked Jessie Mae and Buddy Guy in the bedroom. I grabbed a towel. And I went back outside to go get my duck.

As I approached, the duck grew agitated and tried to get away. With a bad leg, it didn't even make it a foot from its starting point. I wrapped it in the towel, walked back to the Palace, and carried it into the bathroom.

So, world, meet Woody (named in honor of Allen Woody, my all-time favorite bass player, and a major driving contributor to Souldshine). The stains may tell the story of how Woody feels about his new home, but if I can get him (literally) back on his feet again, I won't give a single damn about how much duck poop and pee I have to clean in the interim.

The only thing that I feel bad about is that Jessie and Buddy love the bathroom, from watching me shower to sleeping in the tub or on the bath mats. Until Woody's either better or dead (which I'm really afraid of happening), the bathroom is off-limits to kittens.

Get well soon, Woody. I love you already. I'm on your side. If there's anything I can do (including research on how to care for [injured] ducks), rest assured... I'm on it.

In the meantime, I have opened myself to a whole new brand of heartache if Woody doesn't survive. But I won't toss and turn at night, wondering if I could have helped him. That definitely counts for something.