Life in the Country, Part 29357

Today was Rural Traffic Jam day. Going to work I ended up stuck for several miles on Route 11 (which I prefer to I-81 because less insane truckers on meth) behind some sort of Lovecraftian farm implement on huge wheels going about 20 miles per hour in a 55 miles-per-hour zone. No really, it was this skeletal thing with all these tubes coming off of it and I half expected it to roar out “Iä! Iä! Cthulhu ftaghn!” (I think it was some sort of irrigation thing, or maybe what sprayed out of those tubes was acid to dissolve marauding Shoggoths.) There was, of course, no visible license plate, not even the one saying “farm use” that I saw on a beat-up old truck going down a definitely-not-the-farm road the other week.

Then tonight on my way home I ended up stuck behind a horse-and-buggy. The poor beast was clopping along hell-for-leather too, and the considerate and patient Virginia drivers were whizzing around it inches away, completely disregarding the double no-pass lines on the road. The buggy had one of those big shiny orange reflective triangles on the back. I ended up having to pass the horse too, because of the considerate and patient Virginia driver behind me that was trying to crawl up my ass and I was afraid an accident would occur and I’d end up buried in a mess of dead horse and Amish and considerate and patient Virginia driver. I’m so glad I moved out of Florida with all those crazy homicidal people who drive there and now live in a civilized place where everyone is so considerate and patient with other people on the road.


I don’t even

Okay folks. I am on the Twitter (by the way, my handle is now @SpinsterAndCat), and I find this news: apparently the Senate wants to legalize propaganda. My first thought: oh great, more fascism. Then I had a second thought: I didn’t actually realize it was illegal. I mean, I thought the reason we didn’t see any more of those “the Commies are coming in the night for YOU!” things was because, well, no more Berlin Wall and stuff. I can’t find a link to anything on the above-linked page, though they say some stuff they got off Buzzfeed. Buzzfeed is a site that has a shitload of crap on just about everything and I’m too tired to go through it looking for this specific thing. So instead, read this amusing tale of a man who really, really wanted his taco. Anyway, maybe soon the government will be sending subliminal messages through our iPods to tell us to not be Commies or something. Also they can now lie to us which I’m sure that no government official has been able to do for years. *dismay*

Anyway, I am on the Twitter, because lately I’ve only been able to write in short bursts of 140 characters or less. It hurt me physically and psychically to type these many words in a text box, but I do it for you, my people.

It’s always been Zombie-O’Clock in Miami

Why the hell do you think I left? Well yeah, new boyfriend, cost of living, if I didn’t get out of that town I was going to burn it down… but one thing I really couldn’t stand was all the damn zombies. (Via.)

Girls were girls and men were men

I’ve been hanging out on the Twitter and just saw the most terrifying thing someone retweeted: a woman praising her husband for doing the dishes “the first time since we were married.” But before that? She said, “I caved.”

To what the fuck did you cave, madam? To the idea that dish soap won’t in fact make your man’s testicles shrink up into his body? You know what, that’s pretty pathetic that in 2012 we apparently have women who think they’re getting some sort of special present when a man does some household chore.

Let me tell you something, my fellow Americans: men have always washed the dishes, cleaned the house, done the laundry, gone grocery shopping, and changed the kid’s smelly diapers. They did it in the 1800s. They did it in the 1700s. They did it in the 1950s. They just did, it was no big deal, there was none of this nonsense about women’s “proper roles” being anything to do with needing to eat off clean plates and not live in a pig sty. Just because some men managed to brainwash their wives into doing housework alone does not mean they should get special prizes when they finally get up off their lazy buttocks and wipe a plate or two. They have done nothing special. They have only done a task that needs doing. They certainly aren’t impressive because they’ve managed to avoid doing it all this time until now. There is nothing men do that is so great that means women have to wait on them hand and foot. For God’s sakes. I thought we’d moved past this nonsense.

This is pretty much what I think.

Clarissa's Blog

Many Conservatives long for a non-existent, mythologized past while many Progressives long for a non-existent, mythologized future. Such Conservatives reject certain aspects of the present objective reality because it doesn’t fit into their doctrine. In the meanwhile, the Progressives reject the way human beings actually are because only the completely different, vastly improved human beings will fit into their doctrine.

Neither group is all that interested in existing people and actual reality. I, for one, can’t say whether I prefer a political movement that exists for the sake of an impossible past or the one that exists for the sake of an equally impossible future. I also can’t say whether a political group that considers people to be a lot worse than they are is preferable to the group that considers human beings to be a lot better than they are.

There is too much myth-making on both sides.

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Settings problem

I’ve been working on a story in my head and had it in some desert location, like Tucson. Problem: I’ve never actually been to the American Southwest. I complain at length when people get places I’ve lived wrong, so I don’t want to make someone who actually lives in Tucson go “say what now?”

So I thought maybe I’ll move it to Miami, where I was born and raised. Only I haven’t been home in about twelve years so it has probably changed enough to make any reference I make anachronistic. (My story is set in contemporary times or at the very least no more than “two months from now.”)

Then I realized I still think of Miami as “home” and I was all like nooooooooo…..! Just when I thought I was out… They pull me back in!

But the story doesn’t really “feel” Miami-ish. It feels like it belongs somewhere out west. (No. It’s not a western. God no. Go wash your brain out with soap.) Maybe I’ll put my characters in Los Angeles. I visited there for a few days and like every American who grew up in the Seventies lived there vicariously through television so I know it, yeah?


Maybe I’ll work on my other story, the sort of steampunk one though mostly it’s more airships. And bisexuals. No, the airships aren’t bisexual, the king is. So is his boyfriend so it all works out in the end. (I’m a big fan of happy endings, aren’t you?)