This Week at Sprocket Ink

What a whirlwind week! *whew*

I tackled some doozies this week at Sprocket Ink, lemmetellya.

Zees veek, go read:

The Parent of a Mass Murderer
Father of the man accused in the Norway attacks says he wishes his son committed suicide. I wonder what that must be like.

Spanx at the Gym? Pshaw!
NOW you too can look skinny while you sweat your disgusting pounds away. Don't worry if you're not perfect and can't look like all those better people ...

Stopping to write just for me

I’m a firm believer in setting up some ground rules for yourself when you blog. There are certain things I deem inappropriate for my own blog and I do my damned hardest to stick to those. And by inappropriate, I don’t mean vaginas and sex stories and cursing like a pirate terrorist on death row. We all know I specialize in such. For me, it’s about not using my blog as a weapon.

I am always conscious to never use my blog as a tool to hurt people in my life. Sure, I blog about certain people who are important to me or who feature in my stories, but I’ll never blog about them maliciously. Will never use that forum to hurt them.

Oh sure, I’ll snark away at the world around moi, the idiots I encounter, how asinine society behaves. But that kind of snarking, I think, is healthy. I think it’s good to let that stuff out. Helps you to not take it out on the people whose feelings matter (or should matter at any rate).

I used to have a friend who believed I did just that, used my blog to passive-aggressively attack said friend. Which, at the end of the day, I just didn’t and there was no proving that. So c’est la vie as they say. “They” being the French. Duh. Keep up.

But some bloggers blog just to bitch about those folks they can’t deal with in their lives and you know? That’s their right. I would hope they’re doing it anonymously because there could be some serious repercussions there, but I’m not here to judge. For me, I won’t use my blog for that. I’m also not great at being anonymous, because I share my writing with everyone I know.

None to the less, I’m a writer, yes? And writing out whatever is broiling in me has always been the best way for me to get perspective, let off steam, and also let whatever it is out in the universe where it just dissipates and becomes separate of me. It’s all very Foucault.

Or think of it like barfing. I have to get it out to feel better. Like word vomit, only with better grammar and punctuation.

And often what I have to express, what is broiling around in my insane little head happens to be something I deem inappropriate for le blog. So I’ll usually write it elsewhere. Maybe in a notebook, which I have entirely too many of and which if anyone tried to read in order, they’d have a hell of a time making any sort of sense out of (let alone decipher my hideous handwriting). Or sometimes I’ll type it up and sometimes save it, sometimes not. It’s all very unorganized and haphazard, but since I don’t ever plan on anyone else seeing it or even reminding myself of how angry or upset or stressed or what have you (lest I revisit that emotion again), I don’t much worry about keeping it all together.

Lately though, I sort of forgot to do that. I was so wrapped up in the demands of blogging and then I took my blog hiatus, which was absolutely necessary, that I forgot to write for me. Forgot to let the words out into the ether.

Not that I’ve even been upset or angry or stressed (well about a couple things I am) or whatever. And lest my friends and family who read this blog get concerned, I'm not angry or whatever at someone right now. I'm not secretly ranting about someone so none of you need worry. It's more about issues that were popping up about my past and affecting my behavior in the present. Which does affect others I care about and who I don't want to hurt.

But it’s like exercise, I suppose. You gots ta keep it up to stay healthy. And the truth is some stuff about my past and has been popping up here and there and I wasn’t exactly dealing with it. I was shoving it aside, pretending it wasn’t there (Like that one annoying coworker you’d love to smother in duct tape. Just kidding. Or am I?).

In other words: no bueno.

Also: I highly miss therapy. Once I go full time at work (read: benefits, baby), I’m so finding a new therapist.

Sose (It should be a word. Shut up.) all those thoughts were just doing their worst to me and bringing back my insomnia and really doing no good at all. Yet I didn’t really figure it out. How is it that we have these great things we do for ourselves, but when we really need to do them, we forget? How is that productive?

But Monday I figured it out. Like an anvil from heaven, it hit me. I needed to write. Just write. Just free write all those words until I found some truth and could let the rest go.

What’s funny is I’m still writing. I took a break to write this post (I guess because I had to share SOME of it with you) and then I’m sure I’ll write a ton more. It feels fucking great. So great I can’t believe I ever stopped.

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

I love Oregon. I do. I love it here.

Except for one thing. Merging. As in, on the the road. You know?

Like merging onto a freeway. Or from one road to another where you don't have a stop sign and are meant to simply merge.

Not too hard right? Wrong.

Because Oregonians can't merge. They can't do it. They stop and they freak out and pretty much drive me batshit crazy.

If you did that in LA, you'd be dragged from your car and beaten.

And that would be reasonable.

FUCKING MERGE! That's what you can hear me screaming from my car at any given point whilst I am driving.

Fucking merge.

~~~~~~~~~~

I have always worked with people. Whether in retail or with clients or whatever, people. People's files, people's names.

And what I have discovered after all these years of seeing people's names? I am a 12 year old.

I can't see the name Warren without thinking, His name isn't Warren? I thought his name was Warren. My name isn't fucking Warren!

Name that movie.

If I see a name that happens to be a character in a film or a famous person (or even sounds close), I can't help myself. I start quoting (or just giggling most annoyingly). I once met a customer named Jake Ryan. Jake Ryan! As in, "Is your dad a big man, Jake?" And, "No more yanky my wanky. The Donger need food!" Yeah. You know what movie I mean. If you don't, I'm not sure we can be friends. I'll have to really rethink things.

Sigh.

The other day I saw a client file (which are labeled last name comma first name comma the type of file) and this file had the guy's last name and his first name was Tu and the type of file was PAC. So it said Tu PAC. I swear. Tu PAC.

Like I said, 12.

~~~~~~~~~~

Soooo remember when I went kinda gluten free? I'm pretty much all gluten free now. Except I don't go so far as to check what kind of barrel my wine was fermented in or anything. But for the most part? Gluten fucking free.

And it's fucking fantastic.

I feel so amazingly better you wouldn't believe. I'll never go back. For me, it's all about realizing my body wasn't processing the gluten and not about a health choice. BUT, because I feel so much healthier, it's just win-win.

Yeah, certain things were hard to give up and I still crave occasionally. Namely, bread. I have found a couple of decent gluten breads, though there's just no replacement for a good French bread or flour tortilla. But I don't miss that stuff much most days anymore.

And since I discovered gluten-free beer and ciders? I've gained all the weight back that I lost going gluten free.

It's awesome.

~~~~~~~~~~

So I'm dealing with a leetle drama with my old landlords, which I suspect I can't even discuss in case we go to court (for reals! to motherfucking court!), but the assholes are trying to screw us the fuck over and it's a stressball of epic proportions.

I am trying my best to just do what needs to be done and not freak out until I need to freak out. But DUDE! this  totally completely utterly supremely sucks hairy monkey balls. I exaggerate not.

Please send us all your good anti-asshole landlord vibes because if I have to pay these people, I'm gonna cut a bitch. 

~~~~~~~~~

The Raw Photos Contest is in full swing! The theme is people, but we encourage you to get creative with it.

Speaking of which, I've been a phenomenal dork and keep telling folks to "go shoot some people!" Because it's awful and mildly disturbing and in poor taste and therefore funny. Right? Until someone I tweeted that right after the Oslo shootings (being completely innocent because I'd been so busy that I hadn't read the news or been on the Twitters!) and my friends told me I was being an asshole. Yeah, sometimes I just have bad timing. Extremely bad timing.

Anwayyyyyy,

Submissions close Saturday so make sure to get over there and submit and see the awesometastic submissions! Sun and I are gonna have a hellofa time choosing a winner.

Raw Photos Contest: People

The Raw Photos Contest is opening Sunday! What? Oh yes. I know you all have been shivering in anticipation.

Theme: PEOPLE

Be your most creative. This could be portraits, street photography, silhouettes, etc. Remember this is how YOU interpret the theme! We want to see you shoot some people (hehehe).

A review of the rules:


1. You have to have taken the photo [duh, don't be a jerk and enter someone else's photo. NOT COOL.]
2. The photo has to be a raw photo. What does that mean? That means NO PHOTOSHOPPING. You can screw around all you want with exposure and white balance on your camera, and we'll even let you crop the photo, but that's it. No changing hues. No intensifying colors. No adding aliens or unicorns. RAW PHOTOS, baby. That's what we're looking for. (Both digital and digital scans of film are okay)
3. You have one week to enter a photo. You can enter up to two [2] photos per contest.

Once all the photos have been entered, we'll take a few days to look them over. When we decide who the winner is, that winner's photo will be posted on our blogs Crazy with a side of Awesome Sauce or The Suniverse, our Twitter feeds @andygirl or @TheSuniverse, and on Flickr. Plus, the winner gets an AWESOME BADGE to post on their blog, showing the world that they have mad photography skills.

And if you have any questions, just ask:
awesomecrazylady@gmail.com
thesueniverse@gmail.com

Submit here.

Now go shoot some people!

GOOD LUCK!

This Week at Sprocket Ink

This was a fun week for me this week at Sprocket Ink. Wow, that sentence rhymed way too much to be deemed cool. Anywayyyyyy, hope you enjoy reading these articles as much as I enjoyed writing them!

This week, go read:

Nazi Singers Go Lib. Also: Pigs Fly.
Prussian Blue, the Nazi-themed pop band that created a media frenzy in the mid-2000s, have outgrown their White Nationalist phase and changed their tune to saccharine singsong. You read that right.


If Lesbians Can’t Hold Hands in San Fran, Where Can They?
Lesbian couple is kicked out of a San Francisco art museum for holding hands. I guess bigoted douchebags can live everywhere.

Thanks for reading! I love your comments like I love wearing nothing but sexy heels and eating ice cream (at the same time)!

Happy Anniversary to Me and Portlandia

I've just passed my year anniversary living in Portland. 

When I decided to leave California and then moved to Oregon, it began a long string of questions from every person I talked to. Why are you moving? Why did you move? For work? For a guy?

The guy was everyone's favorite assumption. No way any sane girl would quit her job and move to a new state for any reason other than a guy.

Of course it must be a guy! Of course!

No one can conceive that anyone would simply move because they just want to move.

That would be insane.

And, well, we all know my sanity is questionable at times.

But I think a move for my own reasons is perfectly reasonable. Why the hell not?

I moved for me. I moved because I wanted to be someone else. Because I was looking for a change. Because I wanted the things this new place would offer.

I moved to escape the heat, the smog, did I mention the heat? I moved to escape the confines of Southern California (which, don't get me wrong, I'm homesick for), the culture, the cities, the towns. I needed more. 

So at the end of the day, I guess I did move to Portland for love. I moved for the love of the city. Cheesy as it may be, 'tis true. I love this city. It makes me happy. Not every day, but isn't that love is about anyway?

Portland wasn't so sure about me at first. She sent me some harsh times, friendship drama, a stalker, cat cancer. But I think the Port Land, she finally warmed up to me. Now we're in lurve. I even put a bird on it.

Don't be jealous. Not everyone's city can be this cool.

She's so pretty

Photo of the Day: Fire!

Another 4th of July shot. I love this so hard. I shot a TON of shots that night, but I love how the focus and light of this one are both manic and clear depending on where you look. It's just so super freaking cool. And you know it.

Photo of the Day: Fireworks

It's like a week late, but here's a little hint from my fourth of July. Being a California girl, I hadn't played with street fireworks since I was a kid. All I remembered was sparklers. Needless to say, it was quite thrilling.

Also: Fireworks bokeh is now my favorite kind of bokeh.

Backseat

All I hear is the boom boom boom of the speakers in time with the pound pound pounding of my fifteen year old heart.

Heat. Heat outside and inside. So much heat.

Windows rolled up, both my head and the car foggy from smoke.

Eyes closed. The taste of Boone’s Fuzzy Navel and saliva. My back pressing into the seat belt. Legs falling asleep. Head wedged at an impossible angle. Jeans still zipped. Shirt being worked upward by callused hands I barely know, by a smile I saw at a party, a smile I was surprised noticed me at all.

Speakers pound as if both disconnected and dictatorial. Trunk subwoofers overwhelm every object pervasively. Everything pounds along obediently, including my head.

He moves against me. Jeans against jeans. Hands fumbling, squeezing in time. Tongues wrestle.

Exciting and scary. Stupid and irresistible.

This is not the fantasy of a young poet, yearning for romantic meter and the magical seduction she’d pictured.

Not this smoky backseat of an old Mustang deaf with noise, no room but for the booming. Not the sounds of breath or sighs or even a moment for a compliment.

Yet it was not without caprice and my body was certainly not saying no.

I was not entirely saying yes either, but for now somewhere in between felt good. I’d give over to the intoxication of the night, of the heavy pulse in the thick air.

I never have to say no and he wouldn’t have heard me anyway. Eventually climbing off me. I tug my top down. Suddenly shy.

No words spoken, he ruffles his disheveled head and we climb into the front seat. As he drives me home, the windows down, wind rushing through the car, the sound pouring out, performing for the stars, he shouts mysterious words at me.

Words swallowed into sheer sound.

I shout, “WHAT?” but can’t even hear my own voice.

Home, the silence is disorienting.

I still move with the boom boom booming.

 

This was a post for the RemebeRED prompt: Write about a time that rhythm, or a lack thereof, played a role in your life. And don’t use the word “rhythm.” Maybe it’s a time that you danced to a special song. Maybe it’s a period of your life during which the days were marked by a distinct pattern. Or maybe it’s a time that you couldn’t catch your breath because life just kept coming at your randomly. It’s up to you. Let’s see if you can convey that rhythm using your writing, and not the word itself. Word limit is 600. 

This Week at Sprocket Ink

I've got some serious and some funny for you this week at Sprocket Ink. I promise you won't be disappointed. And if you are, tough titties. Pretend you like it anyway.

This week, go read:

Remembering Betty Ford
Breast cancer survivor, recovered addict, champion of women's rights, and former first lady Betty Ford, a real spitfire, has passed away at age 93.

North Dakota Might Not Be a State. No, Really.
The Brontosaurus isn't a real dinosaur. Pluto isn't a planet. And now North Dakota might not really be a state. Excuse me while my whole world collapses ...

Thanks for being awesome readers and commenting on the SI site! Me love you long time!

Learning How to Read

I may have mentioned once or twice that I'm a bit of a bookworm. And by a bit, I mean raging. I am a raging, flaming bookworm. Yeah, that sounds about right.

I love to read. I've loved to read as long as I can remember. Loved stories, loved characters and their journeys, loved words, loved the ways words can enchant and delight, repulse and dismay. Words.

What's funny, though, is I guess I had a slow start at reading. I began reading well after my peers. I wasn't struggling with how to read. I just didn't want to, apparently. I loved hearing stories, but didn't it seem like so much work to read them myself? Luckily, I went to an awesome Montessori school and I remember Mrs. Shellcroft telling my parents not to worry, that I'd read when I was ready. And once I started? I couldn't stop. I began a lifelong love affair with books.

I was a very busy child, as most of you well know, but if you were to find me in my happiest place, it was curled up with a book somewhere, probably in the back of the car driving somewhere, getting an escape for an indeterminate amount of time. All that mattered was that in those moments, I was gone into the world of my book.

I loved to read, but I didn't really learn how until years later. I learned to read at Montessori school, but I didn't learn how to read until college.

And yes, when you study literature, you are going to learn to write. You'll be expected to write more than you ever think it's possible to extract words from your tired brain. You might even take creative writing and rhetoric courses and learn to take someone else's words and analyze one tiny nugget no one else noticed was there. But the most beautiful part of studying literature is the learning how to read. No one realizes what a valuable thing that is. They see two worlds: literate and illiterate. But when you discover a deeper level of reading, a club of the literati, it opens up too many worlds to count.

In my years of college and through the several different schools I've been in, I truly learned how to read a book. How to be in it and appreciate the nuance of each author, each style, each turn of phrase. How lucky I was to have those years. Those years where reading turned from pastime to art form. How delicious is that idea? Chew on it for a second. Reading as art form. Yum.

I learned to appreciate prose that you can get lost in, words that are delicious, constructed into decadent sentences, which, regardless of their message, I can lose myself. I learned to appreciate novels that don't give anything away, that make you sit through their vaguery (my word) and wait for any nugget of sense to be magnamimously delivered.

I learned to see the technique of an author. To sense the author's presence or lack of presence, for that matter, in between the lines of text.  I learned to identify just what was happening on those pages beyond plot and characterization. I've decided that the true beauty of an author's ability is not the fantastical worlds they construct or the insightful characters they create, but what they do to a reader. They fuck with us, they delight us, they control us with tiny, tiny moments and grandiose claims. They peer at us between words and make us feel.

I'm a writer, but I've never wished to be a novelist, to author a fiction that creates. It's just not for me. I can be a storyteller. I can tell truths, I can tell my stories, even often with embellishment. But I don't create fiction. It's an incredible talent to do so.

I know I've blogged before that writers who don't create fiction deserve attention too. That we have our own talents and challenges. I stand by that. However, today I want to celebrate those who write the novel, the novella, the short story. Without them, so many of us wouldn't be the reading artists we are.

It's funny, it's someone of a symbiotic relationship isn't it? Authors need readers and readers need authors. I think that arrangement works just fine, thanks.

Saying Goodbye to Jeté

Many of you already know that Jeté is gone. About 3 or so weeks now. Losing her was a big part of why I went on blogging hiatus. I felt like I couldn't really express my feelings about her condition without getting a slew of advice that I just didn't want. And I just couldn't talk about it. I needed to do some grieving alone first.

I knew, even though I didn't want to face that I'd lose her, that she'd let me know when it was time. I knew that. And everyone around me telling me that I couldn't let her suffer and I needed to do the right thing just wasn't helping. The truth was, I'd already promised myself that I wouldn't let her get to the point where she was miserable. And I couldn't have pushed it much longer had I so chosen. She could still eat, still walk, still purr, still lots of things. But the last week, I'd come home and she'd cry at me and look at me with those huge eyes and I knew I had to make it better.

This was the most difficult thing I've ever had to do. Holding a little life is your hands is a huge responsibility and I feel it's changed me.

But there's a great organization here in Portland called Compassionate Care that comes to your home so your pet's last moments don't have to be stressed out in a car or on a steel table.

I held her little body in my arms as she passed out and then passed away and it was the most beautiful and most horrible experience.

I missed her instantly.

I miss her terribly. Oh I go on about my day and life is fine and for the most part things are happy. But her absence is still distinct. Hobbes misses her. He's so lonely, poor guy. He's been attached to my hip like he never was before, cuddles with me now, falls asleep on my hand, sleeps on my bed. Like the whole world has changed. 

How does it ever stay the same? 


For Jeté from Andrea Anthony on Vimeo.

Halftime

As if our Chiquita Banana costumes weren’t bad enough, these black crushed velvet jumpsuit monstrosities complete with colored ruffle sleeves and a satin sash around our waists, we weren’t nearly practiced. The routines were shaky at best and the dance girls and the drill girls were not getting along. And no one was happy about throwing flags. 

Yet there we were. The first football game of the season and we didn’t have a choice but to perform together. We’d power through. Hopefully not humiliate ourselves. Or kill each other.

This was going to be painful.

Halftime show.

Ready?

The first number was a blur. Count count step step toss catch step. Don’t forget to smile. Don’t hit the trumpets with my flag. Watch the drum major. Stay on time. Don’t slip on the grass. Hope we’re all remembering the steps and don’t look like idiots.

Whew. First number finished. All I had to do next was kneel, set my flag down and pick up the swing flag in front of me. So simple. One would think.

Kneeling down, the slick grass under my front leg betrayed my jazz-shoed foot and the next thing I knew I was face down on the ground.

The only sound in my ears the cackles of the cheerleading squad sitting in front of me, my ex- boyfriend among them. A laughing pile of uniformed, beautiful people, rolling all over themselves, taking utter delight in my small humiliation.

Then the next song began. All too soon.

Mortified, picking my sorry ass up, grabbing my swing flag, not looking anyone in the face for fear the tears would come, limping slightly to favor a twisted ankle, smiling so large it hurt to favor a bruised ego, what choice did I have but to continue on?

Mortification churned into anger and suddenly I was dancing the hardest I’d ever danced. Tossed that flag high. Flicked my head and flashed my smile. Pointed my toes and swayed my hips. Every second of the next two songs was precise, palpable.

Oye Como Va. Shake those hips, ladies.

Sure we still kind of sucked and my ankle was aching, but I would be damned if I’d let those laughing assholes make it worse. They could kiss my clumsy, limping, skinny ass.

Besides, later I had a sweet boy to get me nachos with extra cheese and carry me to the car even though I insisted I could walk on my own.

 

This was a post for the RemembeRED prompt: Know what's NOT funny? People laughing at you. Did someone embarrass you, your parents perhaps? Or did you bring it upon yourself? Are you still embarrassed or can you laugh at it now? Take us back to an embarrassing moment in your life.

This Week at Sprocket Ink

I had a really fun week this week at Sprocket Ink! I just never get tired of writing about stupidity.

So! Go read:

Fox News Hacked, Hackers Prove Lame
Hackers tweeted from a Fox News Twitter account. It's either the most lame or most distasteful hack in history.

I Wish I Could Fit In Your Suitcase
Chica tries to sneak her husband out of prison in a suitcase. Shawshank this ain't.

Thanks for reading! I love your comments!

Getting into Hot Pants

Bet you're all wondering what's up with Mr. Hot Pants.

In short? He's incredible. I don't think he possibly knows how much. But this dude makes me so effervescently happy, I can't even describe. Totally happy.

AND? You know how I'm a lifelong insomniac? I sleep better with him in my bed than I do alone. How awesome slash crazy is that? He's like my own just slightly addictive sleep aid. Can't beat that.

He upset me for the first time a few weeks ago, and it's not even important why, but I share this for two reasons. One, because it was a bit of a relief to know he can do that. Like, you know that tension when someone is too good to be true? It feels good to let a little of the tension out. Second, he felt so badly about it that it was too freaking adorable. His face just made me melt. How was I to resist? The minute I saw his puppy-sad face, I lost any bit of upset I had left.

On the other hand, he handles my insanity quite well. Twice now I know I've acted like a complete banshee to him and he's just taken it in stride.

Once, when he took me (aka made me) play disc golf for the first time (first time for me, I mean) and from the depths of my soul came this terrified little kid who got made fun of for sucking at kickball (or any other playground sport) and I started crying. Like a crazy person. And the more I tried to stop, the worse it got. But he was kind and patient and I didn't die or humiliate myself (sort of).

Then this last weekend, I had a low blood sugar moment, which I don't think he'd experienced yet because I'm usually pretty good at keeping my feedings regular. But I could feel the cranky washing over me and there was nothing I could do to stop it until I got sugar, sweet sweet sugar, pumping through my veins again. And you know? He didn't freak out at all. I think he must have wondered where this insane woman came from and would she please go soon? One assumes.

What's also awesome is that though we do have a lot in common, we also have differences and I think it makes a nice balance.

As I told my 13 year old friend just the other day, the important thing I've learned when it comes to dating is to both be picky and realistic. You can't have an amalgam of the perfect dream guy. You can't pick and choose all the best things you want and wait and wait for some Frankenstein monster of a lover to come along. So you figure out the most important things you want and wait for those and you sort of let all the other shit go. Everybody's gonna have their own things and it's okay if you don't like all of it or enjoy all of it. You appreciate the best parts and then those best parts maybe even make you like the little things too. I truly believe that.

Anyway.

It's all official and shit, even on the facebook, which was quite the hit with all my friends. I don't know if it's because it's been years since I've put a relationship on the facecrack or because all my friends were waiting with baited breath for me to be in a relationship. Either way, it's all awesomeness.

Did I mention I'm happy?

Quit writing so you can keep writing

Today I am so honored to be guest posting over at The Red Dress Club. Really, so honored.

I'm writing about writing. How much better does it get than that?

Please go check out my post and I'd truly appreciate your comments over there.

Tattoo tease no more

I'm back, bitches! Did ya miss me?

I thought that for my first post back I'd share some exciting news. Just this past Saturday I finally got my panties out of my twat and got my fourth tattoo!

It's not even what I planned nor is it original artwork. My bestie Lynnette found this art and thought it seemed so me and I fell in love with it instantly and knew I just had to have it.

It's feminine and whimsical but also a little sassy and creative. I'm so happy to have it. It's just so me.

Now, I must say that it hurt like hell. People lied to me when I got my first tat and said it wouldn't hurt. It did. Like a motheruckingbitch. But it's worth it.

This time, the shoulder was THE WORST and I even had a little woozy, low blood sugar, almost pass out/barf moment. I didn't pass out or barf, but it was pretty embarrassing. But two juice boxes and ice packs on my neck later, I felt great and finished it up like a champ.

And see that little star on my neck? I also had the guy touch that up so it's actually a black star again. If you're thinking about getting a neck tat, I highly recommend it. It's been the easiest spot I've ever tattooed.

Speaking of my tattoo artist, I'm am loving Adorn East (in Portland of course) and I saw Ulyss, who I really, really liked. You can see his work is super awesome, but he was also super friendly and kind and totally listened to me and what I wanted. Just what you want in an artist. Plus he was so nice about my little woozy moment. It was a great experience and I fully expect to go back to Adorn for my next tat. 

This Week at Sprocket Ink

ACK! I can't beleive I forgot to tell you what I wrote last week at Sprocket Ink. It's a holiday weekend, so I get some forgiveness right? Awesome. You guys rock lobster.

Now go read:

I Heart Minnesota?
As New York votes in gay marriage, Minnesota introduces ballot to ban it. I say we can make Minnesota gay friendly. Hey, crazier things have happened...

America is Stupid, Reason #347
Fox News once again dominates the cable news rankings. I throw up from my very judgey soapbox.

As always, thanks so much for reading! We love your comments on the site!