Good writers borrow, great writers steal.

I have been accused, lately, of being a blogger-slacker. But I think I might be more of a slacker-blogger. I'm a bit of a slogger. Honestly. Welcome to my slog.

And in my defense, well, I don't have a defense. Does a blogger need a defense for slacking? I hope not. My brain has just been elsewhere: TV writing, killing spiders, trying to save my suicidal plants, eating chips on the futon, cleaning up the crumbs from eating chips on the futon, watching Friday Night Lights, etc. It's a busy life. Mondays, in particular, are busy. So, I feel compelled to slack again, because I can't think of anything new to say.

That's not entirely accurate. More accurately, I don't have anything appropriate to say. I've got something kind of inappropriate I want to say. But one of the greatest challenges in my life is determining what is appropriate and what is inappropriate, and more difficult even, is deciding how inappropriate it is acceptable to be. So I think I'm just going to put a pipe in it. This time.

IN THE MEANTIME, I encourage you wholeheartedly to visit this blog to see pictures of more cute hipster puppies like Chuleta above: hipsterpuppies.tmblr.com. (I was trying to describe "hipsters" to some Idaho friends, because hipsters abound in my hometown, and I mostly just kept saying they were "ironic." Not in word, but more in deed. As in, "They drink PBR, but ironically. They wear vintage Nikes, but ironically." I think hipster puppies are so funny because dogs can be many, many wonderful things but they are entirely incapable of irony. God bless them.)

Well, really, this is a whole lotta nada.

Yesterday, I got so caught up in my anti-platform platform, that I forgot to say, "Greetings from the Spider House!"

This is a picture of the outside of it, and as I write this, I am inside it, sitting at the little window in the upper right hand corner. Can you see it? That's my window--my desk is right inside.

Maybe it is not fair to call it the Spider House, because I have only seen two Hobo spiders (but both in my shower, just about to gun for my vulnerable toes), and only a few other spiders besides that, but one of those was behind one of my pillows, so I think it counts for several spiders.

But, really, Spider House feels right, because it is a little bit webby, a little bit broken-down, a lot bit old, creaky, lean-y, and there are several dark corners where I fear to tread. Crooks and crannies for days, really.

It feels good to be back! When I first pushed open the front door after three weeks away, I imagined finding 1.) hundreds of spiders, making dinner, lounging on my futon, watching my cable, and looking up sort of surprised to see me, like, "Excuse us, but who are you?," 2.) a terrible smell made by whatever is hanging out with the tortillas behind the fridge, or 3.) that my bedroom had finally fallen off the leaning house, and was waiting for me in the backyard.

What I actually found was: just a pile of mail. Catalogues full of stuff I can't afford, Christmas cards from friends who had their shit together this holiday season, and overdue bills. Bor-ing. In fact, life has gotten a little bit less eventful now that I'm back. I spend all morning in my pajamas, paying bills and organizing for the upcoming semester (and yes, okay, YES, checking Facebook) (and, yes, today I watched some Jersey Shore, but just to make sure Snooki was okay after she got snooki-punched). Then, I go to the gym (last updated 1987), which is such a ridiculous, smelly, shaky place that I wish I could take pictures of it, but I think gym-people would not really love that. Then, I get hungry, and today, that meant that I had to do what I hate to do. What I really hate to do.

(this may be one of the most American photos I've ever taken.)

WINCO. Winco is cheap. It is also huge. It is also designed to make people who grocery shop alone feel really, really bad. It does this by: a.) staging the store with actors who pretend to be part of really sweet-faced, young, coed couples, or young parents with cute babies that smile at you while you're picking out soup; or, old, slow-moving couples that make you think, 'oh sweet J, please let me have a grocery partner when I'm that old,' and b.) having you bag your own groceries.

The panic--the pure panic!--when I'm trying to bag my groceries, not over-loading any one bag, or crushing the bread, or cracking the eggs, etc., when the cashier, who is so fast, has already filled up the conveyor across from yours with the next customer's groceries, so he begins sending the third customers down onto your belt, and everything is backing up, and it's all your fault, and it's so hot in here, plus you've banged your funny bone on the edge of your cart, and you can't get the orange juice to fit in any of the bags so you'll just have to carry it separately...

I'm still not over it.

Luckily, I invested in twelve cans of diet coke, and I've cracked the first cold one, and I've got it sitting next to me in my creaky, droopy, Spider House, and a 30 Rock re-run is about to begin, and it's pretty nice, overall. Even if everything I've eaten today tasted a little bit like soap. Which has been weird, but manageable. I'll solve that mystery tomorrow.

Disjointedly yours,

Kendall

Oh my god. Blogging is ridiculous!

Oh my god. Blogging is ridiculous! I thought at first it would be like exercise--something you do for thirty minutes a day to keep yourself sharp. Like Jazzercise.


Now I am realizing a blog is more like a pet, or a child, or a super demanding philodendron. It has to be nurtured! You worry all day about how it is doing! You wonder, is it developing normally?

Last night, I couldn't fall asleep because I was trying to figure out what I would write about today. Then, today, I realized that my entire inner-monologue had shifted. I am now a blog-oriented thinker. A BOT. As a BOT, one never stops asking herself, "Am I interesting??" A BOT goes about her day storing up items she might eventually discuss in her blog like a squirrel stores nuts.

I spend ten minutes on an exercise bike right next to my ex-boyfriend's father, and I don't say hello. (Neither does he. We just sweat together, side-by-side not speaking, peddling to nowhere.) Is that blog-interesting?

I buy a bunch of groceries willy-nilly (I am mysteriously drawn to kale--a vegetable I've never even touched), and the total is $61. Even. Not one cent more or less! The check-out girl says, "That never happens!" Interesting to me, but as I drive home, I wonder--is it blog-interesting? What will I blog about?

These examples are inane, but it gets more serious.

I go to climb into my shower and find my 2nd deadly Hobo spider in the tub. That doubles the number of deadly spiders I've found in my shower. And, the moment after I ascertain it is a Hobo spider (on account of the dangly balls hanging from its head--actually fangs, for the irachnophobes out there), I think: perfect! Something to write about in my blog! Then, as I bring the shampoo bottle down over its poisonous little body, I hesitate, just for a moment, because...if it happened to bite me...wouldn't that be blog-interesting?!?! At least a week's worth of material, so long as I don't let it bite me on my blogging hands and I seek appropriate medical care.

All of which just goes to prove that blogging is as dangerous, as self-destructive, as I've long suspected. And, as usual, now that I know it is bad for me, I'm hooked.