Random Art.

as much as i love autumn, im giving myself to ashes.

This is entirely random and thoughtless.

me. in a lost galaxy/face on a milk carton

I sometimes peruse my documents and find gems like this.  On a sidenote, if you find my nose, please return it.  Holy saturation. 

3 a.m Chronicles

I've always enjoyed the quiet that the after midnight hours afford me.  That is when I feel my most creative.  I often paint, or write, or ponder at that time, easily slipping into a pattern of silence charged with frenetic energy.  That aside, it's when I feel the least vulnerable.  I suppose this pattern started for me when I was little, because I had an unhealthy obsession with zombies.

It wasn't an absolute love.  It was a love filled with abject terror.  It was a fascination that always led to me hiding under the stairs of my basement, clutching onto my Teddy Ruxpin doll (which I would subsequently chuck out of my hiding spot, because that thing was fucking terrifying too) and hoping that my supply of ecto cooler wouldn't run out before impending doom.  However I could not stop watching zombie movies, or thinking about zombie attacks, or in more bored times, pretending I was a zombie.  I spent many hours perfecting the Thriller dance (because my love of dance would obviously allow me to join a street gaggle of zombies who inevitably broke out into rehearsed numbers) and watching every Romero vhs I could get my hand on (procured from my brother's friend who rode a purple scooter and convinced me that he was Prince).  As I got older, the zombie fascination continued, only it took a morbid turn.

I had an apartment off-campus during college, and it was directly across the street from what seemed to be an abandoned cemetery (this would also indicate the first in a long line of homes I've lived in that is situated within a block of a cemetery).  We were far too hip to invest in curtains, so I spent every single night sitting in the front room, paralyzed with fear as I could barely make out the figures of a dragged zombie two step heading towards me.  I would come home at night (usually smelling of menthol cigarettes and bad decisions), collapse on the couch, and then inwardly panic that I would awake to see a decomposing face staring back at me.  When an upstairs apartment was finally vacated, I breathed a sigh of relief as I was able to move to an upper floor and surely zombies couldn't scale walls.

Well yeah.  Tell that to Hollywood who then began to churn out zombie movies in which the zombies were not only in shape, but outwardly aggressive and would rip your fucking face off given the chance.  Wonderful!  This brought a whole new set of horrors to my life, as I spent my nights pondering what, exactly, I'd do in the event of an inevitable invasion.  This continued on in home after home, and would have ended until I moved into the condo I bought.

You see, we have an underground heated garage.  Which is wonderful in the Chicago winter as I never have to heat up my car, or scrape the ice off the windshield, or any other things that make the winter mundane and less magical.  However, this lair has it's downfalls.  For one, running the perimeter are storage units for each of the condos, which are fenced in.  Cool, right?  Except there is a large enough gap to crawl over, so you wouldn't be totally protected.  Second of all, between the parking spots are these odd recessed minicaves, that could totally hide an emaciated zombie dripping with blood and gnawing on a spleen.  Of course because I live on the top level and have a double unit, my parking spots are the furthest from the elevator, so when I exit my car (if I'm alone) I sprint to the elevator and try to act normal in case anyone sees me.  However if I'm with someone else, I go into immediate warrior mode and play the part of the bad ass chick should something pop out to attack me.

I'm not sure when a zombie attack will happen, but I know it will. And when it does?  I'll be ready.

a typical night in khan castle

Today is the dumbest day ever.

And because of that, I'm going to listen to David Bowie to make it better.

Update.  After watching this video a few times (yes, it's one of my favorite Bowie performances, but mostly because as a kid I always wanted to be on Soul Train.. or Solid Gold) I feel slightly better.  But this day still pretty much sucks balls.  Is it summer yet? Summer is sure to be much more fun. /angst

A Darling Idiosyncracy

Everyone has bizarre habits.  For example, I know a toenail biter.  This guy who shall remain nameless habitually bites his toenails.  Why?  I couldn't tell you.  Perhaps the enticing aroma of sweaty socks and toe fuzz is just too delectable an entree to pass up.  Perhaps he is so hardcore into his vegan-ism that he feels organic and unadulterated foot sweat is his only means of survival.  Or perhaps (and in what I think is the most plausible scenario) he is just an odd bird.  I also know a girl who breaks her food into baby bites before she eats it.  No matter what it is, it is subjected to torturous mutilation and furtively stuffed in her mouth like a chipmunk.  Victim of a strange cultural ritual, or just a strange habit?  You decide.

Apparently The Brit thinks I am weird as fuck though.  I'm not sure why, as my life is relatively normal (save the copious amounts of sugar free popsicles I consume, or the fact that I don't drink water and instead unsweetened barley tea or that I cannot stop bouncing my knee because I have so much pent up frenetic energy) and it's not like I'm a toebiter or anything.  While I do have weird food habits, I would say that the one thing that bothers The Brit the most is that I'm a hoarder.

No, not in the animal hoarding sense.  Or the "I can't see your floors" sense.  I hoard money.  It's a habit I picked up when I was little.  Growing up in a house with an older brother and sister in which my sister, the protector, was often gone out with her friends.  My brother, the torturer, used to tease me mercilessly (including one time when he was stoned with his friends, and offered me a dollar for every egg he could crack over my head.  Five year old me stood there patiently while I dripped in egg goo, and to date I have never received payment for the 9 eggs!) and somehow, a thought stuck in my head that he would steal my loot. So I began to hide it.  Not in large amounts, maybe a dollar here in that book, or two bucks in a china tea pot.  I ended up carrying this habit into adulthood.

It served me well in college, as I always had beer money, or money for new books at The Strand or money for falafels ( I haven't yet pontificated my love for these little balls of heaven, but I'm sure that blog will come soon) and it served me very well in my early 20's when I needed tattoo money.  Now that I am 30, I find it still serves me well but the dollar amounts are higher.  I funded a new pair of Alexander McQueen booties without tapping into my bank account or credit card this way, as well as a random spa weekend in the same manner.  However The Brit thinks it is bullshit (but to be fair, I think he is more than a little jealous.  He can't even hold onto a dollar in his pocket).

It was late last night/early this morning that I truly found out how much this does, in fact, irritate the living shit out of him.  It was circa 2 am and I was a wandering drone around Chateau Khan, waiting for the Ambien to kick in.  I have a tendency to meander, wraith-like, around the living room so that if someone were to be walking outside, they'd think some bizarre ghostly creature was appearing in all the windows (#funshitidowhenimbored).  But I quickly tired of that, so I decided to look around and make sure all my hidden money was where it was supposed to be.  I should mention that I do that obsessively, too.  Moving right along, though.

I walked into the kitchen, hoisted myself up on the counter, and grabbed the box of Special K.  Looked under the cereal. And staring back up at me was a Post-it with a smiley face hastily drawn on it.

Now I admit.  I began to panic.  Not a full blown, all out scream fest, more like the feeling you get when you hear your parents begin to discuss sex, assuming you are adult enough to handle that type of psychological warfare (spoiler alert parents: your kids want to assume the last time you had sex was when they were conceived. and thats it).  But still, I figured maybe I had taken the money before my trip to New York and totally forgotten about it.  So I moved on to the next hiding spot.  I crawled army style through my living room (this is 100% true), snagging my already sore shin on a safety pin that had apparently made its home pointed side up on my carpet.  I yelled louder than I should have (but I had to have some sort of theatrical effect) and continued to crawl, convinced I was going to hemorrhage to death wearing an old Garfield nightgown that I got when I was 12.  I pondered my impending obituary as I checked underneath my wall unit for the DVD case to Prenom Carmen, hoping to see the familiar envelope of cash.

NO FUCKING DICE.  Instead in it's place was another menacing Post-it.

Replacing your cash with my molester smirk

Now, I may be scatterbrained.  I may be neurotic.  I may be melodramatic.  But stupid I am not.  I grabbed the phone, confirming it was only slightly after midnight in Los Angeles, which meant The Brit was either closing in on being drunk, or asleep.  As it turns out, he was asleep which worked in my favor, as he was more apt to tell me what I wanted to hear rather than act like a dickhole and lecture me.  

Me: Where's my money? (I may or may not have spoken in a Russian Lady Accent)

Britty McBritpants: What money? (Definitely in an English accent. No fun)

Me: You know what money (Taking obvious cues from Law & Order: Sumi K edition)

BMBP: Did you check all of your.... spots? (said with such disdain)

Me: No. What did you buy? 

BMBP: Check all of them, then call me back.

Botheration.  I went spot to spot, looking for my purple envelopes, only to find, yes, the rapey smile goading me at every turn.  Unfuckingbelievable.  I was pretty pissed at this point, but not really acting on it as the Ambien was starting to kick in and I was moving as if through quicksand.  I finally gave up on my game of Cloak and Dagger, and called him back.

Me: What the fuck (At this point, sounding like my mouth was stuffed with marshmallows)

Him: Right bedside drawer, white envelope.  Good night and you're welcome (a few kissing noises that I hung up on because I had mere seconds to uncover this mystery before this episode ended).

I tiptoed into my room and checked my bedside drawer.  Tucked underneath a copy of 1984 was a plain envelope which I promptly tore open with my teeth.  Inside was a letter that said the following:

You Dear Girl,

I leave home for weeks at a time and I do not like the idea of you holing money around and telling everyone about it.  We know some shady people so for your protection I have deposited it into your savings account.  You can thank me when you don't get raped and robbed.  I love you.

And included inside the note was a deposit slip, dated the day he left.

Some may find this sweet, but I was infuriated.  The whole point of this game was to have money for an emergency, and if I were in a situation where I was robbed and or raped, I'm quite confident a potential burglar slash rapist wouldn't think to check my cereal cabinet (and a note to potential burglars or rapists: I only have cereal in my cabinet now, so unless you really want some Special K with red berries, you are out of luck) and I also have a pretty advanced security system (which totally includes a war cry that I have perfected.. and a secret hidden cache of weapons procured from my psychotic ex).  Now what would I do if I needed to buy something spur of the moment?  Rather than having that Christmas morning feeling of opening money envelopes, I'd have to be a regular boring adult and use my credit card, or worse, go to the bank. While I appreciate the fact that he doesn't want me raped, he basically stole all of the joy out of my life.

Update.  As of noon today, the dollar amount in my savings account mysteriously dropped back to the same level it was the day before my boyfriend headed back to Los Angeles.  I may or may not have also bought a new box of envelopes.  I've also found some new hiding spots.

Sumi: 1. Brit: 0.

A Cautionary Tale to the Egocentric Beings of the Universe (and a long winded ramble on my behalf)

Last night was spent reminiscing on a period in my life I don't often talk about.  Not for any reason other than during that time, some bad shit happened.  But looking back, I was pretty happy back then.

I'm referring to my early 20's, a time in which I was in a relationship (though how committed it was is still up in the air, as we both relentlessly remained unfaithful while swearing we were) that allowed me the freedom to follow my own sense of wanderlust. I had finished college and returned home to Chicago, settling into my first self-paid for apartment.  Life was good.  For the first time in my life, I had little responsibility and a whole lot of free time for fun.

I should also take mention that technologically, this was right before Facebook hit it big.  Myspace was just beginning and really was a place for musicians.  Since there weren't many people who had heard of it yet, it was relatively easy for musicians to network to their fans.  The scene at the time was "nu-metal" and Chicago (as always) was a great place to see shows.  I quickly became friends (and yes, I stress the word friends here, for those of you who like to assume things) with a bunch of musicians who all achieved a substantial amount of fame and or notoriety.  Some I was closer with than others, some were central characters in a few debaucherous nights, and others became people I still think of often, even now.

One friend in particular, will always hold a special place in my heart.  I was going through a rough patch, and he was always there for me despite the fact that he had a ridiculous touring schedule, a new album that had dropped, being signed to a new label.. and you get the gist.  However whenever I was feeling down, I'd get a random telephone call from him, or a video call of him sans stage gear, playing with puppets or some other random trinket.  However this didn't last longer than a year, as towards the ten month mark we began to drift off (his schedule was constantly being overwhelmed by groupies, and obligations, and the excitement of being catapulted upwards and onwards) and after we drifted off, I had already established myself into the next phase of my life so there was no room for this lanky boy of a man to be standing stage left, barking at me to pay more attention to him.  I had enough on my plate at the time.

I need to stop because I realized it sounds like I'm talking about someone who died.  Quite the opposite.  This man lives on, villified by the fan base he once accrued as his life took a nasty turn somewhere after we lost contact.  I'd like to say that after "shit went down" I was there for him, but I wasn't at all.  Not for lack of want, but because what he did was something I had always warned him about and yet prophetically enough, it bit him in the ass.  However once you hit a certain level of fame or celebrity, it is quite easy to lose a sense of yourself.  And that he did.

So last night I thought about this guy.  Heard from someone close to him that he has picked his life back up and has gotten what shit together that he could.  Even saw a picture, and I had to laugh as tidbits of a past conversation peppered my ears.  I could probably manage to get his number again, but what would I say?  So here's my attempt at what I should say, and I hope it's worth more than just the guillotine.

I'm sorry I was a shitty friend, but you were shitty too.  My mistakes do not absolve you from some of your prior actions.  That being said, if you searched hard enough, you'd find out how to contact me.  I'd never refuse a phone call.

And a bit of advice, take it for what you will.  No matter how high you are, you can always crash down in a nanosecond.  You'd do well to take this and hold it close.

xo.

team sumi_zoomi, duckfacing before duckface was cool and then uncool. 

A full on immersion.

I have never, ever in my life denied being an ABCD (for those too lazy to urban dictionary this bitch up, an ABCD is an American Born Confused Desi- or someone who is of South Asian descent, and does not at all pay homage, if you will, to their homeland).  There is a very good reason for that.  My parents arrived in the States in the late 60's and never looked back.  Do I blame them? Not one bit; my father had done his obligatory tour of duty in the military only to be held as a prisoner of war for two years, and in those years he was beat mercilessly and has the scars to prove it.  Before this gets super serious, I will just say that my parents never forced any form of religion on me (nor are they ultra religious themselves) and we never had a place within the islamic community.  So for all intents and purposes, my closest experiences with the desi community has taken place on vacations, or in restaurants.  That is, until last night.

The desi family is a complex web.  Any type of cousin (or remote cousin) is considered a brother/sister.  It's close knit.  It's clannish.  And everyone is nosy as fuck.  Weddings bring people together in a million day long ceremonial procession that basically dictates you spend a fuck ton of money on clothes that you will never, ever, wear again.  And as far as the time spent putting into this?  You're lucky if a 7pm wedding starts at 10pm.  But this is all background noise, really.

Long story short, my dad's sister has three sons who live in Virginia.  We received a call from her that her husbands nephew (so basically, my cousins, cousin) would be getting married to a girl in Chicago.   I had met my cousin's cousin twice; once when I was 10 years old and in Karachi on vacation, and once when he stopped by my house this past fall to have lunch while he went to meet the soon-to-be bride's parents.  Basically, this week my house became wedding central as my aunt and uncle flew in, along with the groom and his mother, and my parents.  We all communed while I acted like a slave, cooking these banquet style dinners and keeping my pretty face on at all times.  My escape? The gym, running hills and dreading when my workout ended (and if you know me, you know there is nothing more I loathe than running hills.. yuck).  Soooooo this all ended last night, at the wedding.

First off, my outfit was specifically tailored.  So I spent the week running to the seamstress while doing everything else.  Second off, my grasp of Urdu isn't as strong as I thought it was.  Thirdly, I have come to realize that I am quite possibly the ONLY person of Pakistani descent who is ever on time for anything.

So the wedding itself.  The groom looked bored and exhausted, the food was good, the bride was hidden in a back room until 2 hours after the time printed on the invitation.  Oh, and I found out that because of my relationship to the groom (remember how I said cousins are considered sisters?) I was supposed to sit on a stage next to the groom's mother, who sat next to the bride and groom who sat on thrones. THRONES. It was like I fell into a warp world of sequins, silk, and really loud voices complaining.  How mortifying.  Of course, I forgot my camera though somehow I snapped a shot of my dress while sitting in the car, waiting for the entire wedding party to arrive (Yes, I was on time.  Yes, they were all late).

I'm obviously a fantastic photographer.

Dinner was a buffet, where I was left out of options because everything on the buffet had meat, or a meat by-product in it.  So I basically stuck to some naan (a flat bread), chutney(a dipping sauce), and some cucumbers.  Which was fine because I was too busy making sure I was camera ready at all times, because the amount of flash bulbs were ridiculous.  Mind you, I've been at premieres and seen secondhand the type of renegade style photography happens, but this was ridiculous.  I'm hoping I don't look like an alien in all the pics, but that remains to be seen.  Dinner ended around midnight so we left, and I bid the groom farewell and a promise to show him around Chicago. Sans sequins.

A big long clusterfuck of recapping.

Okay.  I know.  I get it.  I procrastinate.. a LOT.  But I honestly have a good reason this time around.  Today marks the night before I attend a wedding, and I have family in from out of the country.  How's that for super iron-clad excuses?  Yeah, I thought so.

Haaaanyway.  Thursday was 30 Seconds to Mars.  Mind you, I won those tickets unexpectedly (to recap, I have officially won tickets to 16 different shows on my lifetime, 6 this year alone) and had zero plans to even go.  But really, could I have turned down a chance to stare at those soul stealing baby blues set in that handsome possumface? IDONTTHINKSO.

To recap: 30STM on stage is amazing, however it was cut a bit shorter because the drummer guy was sick, so he was either in back getting a blowie or Jared Leto just wanted a few more moments to talk/get all the girls panties wet.  But Show wise, it was spectacular.  However I felt like a fucking sardine, as the band commanded everyone to press in, and up, and together, and jump, and sway, and twist.  At some point, either an errant boner or a pocketed phone was pressed into my ass which made me feel utterly uncomfortable and yes, OLD. That being said, I got to look at this. So I won't complain too much.

Hello crazy eyes.  I would most definitely have sex with you.

That night I pretty much had my entire household up in the air as my procrastinating ass hustled to pack. I didn't get any sleep, but I did devour many a popsicles.  The next afternoon I had an uneventful flight to NYC, with the familiar sense of trepidation in my heart.  I arrived at the hotel before The Brit (that's how he'll be referred to from now on) and immediately dug into the hotel mini-bar.  The Brit arrived a few hours later, looking like he had jumped into the East River while wearing a snowsuit.  Plus #1: he had a beard!  Now, I knew that in our time apart he had been growing one, but I thought it would be scraggly.  However this was full on mountain man.  Made a mental note to forget about possumface. Below is a quite accurate drawing of my beloved. 

I look like a british uni-bomber!

Remember when I said drawing was not my strong suit? Yes? Okay good, because this looks nothing like my boyfriend, but more like a serial killer who stole jared leto's eyes. Sigh. Sorry, Britboy!

So after he cleaned himself up a bit (but not much, because well.. he is a british hobo) we headed out to one of our favorite New York bars.  It's small, it's cramped, it's hidden enough to be considered hip, but not.. well, you get the gist.  On our way there, a homeless man gave me a drawing of a cat.  I honestly haven't scanned it or taken a picture of it yet, but I definitely need to as it was probably the most hilarious drawing I had ever seen, mostly because it was almost as good as one of mine.  At the bar I proceeded to drink one too many whisky shooters and immediately demanded The Brit do the robot with me.  Sad to say he did not join in on my robot love, which lead me to believe that he has been lobotomized.  Double sigh. The night ended with me demanding a shake from Gray's Papaya and dumping it accidentally and totally forgetting about it.  

The next morning I woke up to... A BEARDLESS BRIT.  I had a moment of absolute panic, thinking I had somehow misplaced my dear hobo and replaced him with someone else.  That obviously explained why he didn't do the robot with me, y/y? But alas, he just wanted to look all nice and cute. /fancy story

We spent the day lolling around, sitting in the hotel lobby and making fun of people (the best quote by far came from The Brit as he decided an old man's name was obviously R.C. Puffypaint).  We ventured out to buy books, shakes, and the sweet little Brit warmed my heart by bringing me falafels.  We ended out the night bar hopping (or as The Brit eloquently called it, Pub Grubbing) and I definitely drank my weight in whisky.  

Sunday morning.  Water for Elephants premiere. Ruh... roh.  I had witnessed some of the fans lining up when I walked by the theatre on Saturday night.  I was scared.  I was worried it would completely stampeded upon by Twilight fans.  Now, let me take a moment to just say.  I do not have anything against the people who have vaulted Robert Pattinson's career (as I was one of them, holla!), however there is a certain CREEPY BREED OF TWILIGHT FANS who just will not go away.  They are a bad rash on the baby buttocks of the Robert Pattinson fan-world.  (Any of you who have ever forayed into this world know the exact type of fan I am talking about.  The one with the Twilight bed spread.  The one with the Twilight pillow.  The one that bows down to Stephenie Meyer.  The one who has Edward's creep face tattooed on their lady parts) But I digress, the women I encountered were really nice and seemed to sincerely care about The Pattinson's career, and not just asking him to bite them.

SO moving right along.  Sunday morning I got my nails did, my hurr did, and shook my head and tsktsked in disappointment as I stared at The Brit's clean shaven face.  It was HORRIBLE (please read that in Mary Katherine Gallagher's voice) but still, he is cute so I'll keep him.  My dress was pretty fantastic, and if I could I would wear it everyday as it was just that comfortable.  So.. we headed to the theatre.

I know the movie comes out tomorrow, but I feel like I need to post this spoiler free, with a little forewarning.

I loved the book, Water for Elephants.  I read it a few years ago when my goblin was having hip surgery.  It took me a day, as I could not put it down and it completely swept me away into the circus world.  It helped me avoid the sight of honeychile all morphined up and sadfaced.  So the book was really something I hoped the movie people got right. 

I would just like to say despite the few slight deviations from the book, the movie was what I wanted it to be. Every detail was beautiful, and the animals were extraordinary.  Tai, who plays Rosie the elephant is a majestic creature with wise eyes.  She stole the movie (and my heart /cheesy line) and that is saying a lot, considering she played along Christoph Waltz and Reese Witherspoon.  To digress slightly, Christoph is the craycray August, and he does such a magnificent job of portraying a man that's steeping in turmoil.  Reese, who I have never really been a fan of (I was forced to sit through back to back to back viewings of Legally Blonde by a 7 year old I was babysitting  and it made me suicidal) was beautiful as Marlena.  She was vulnerable with just a hint of noble strength, and I do not think they could have cast anyone better fit for the role.  As far as Roberto Pattinson goes, wow (WOW MIKEMIKE, WOW). He is so ruggedly handsome in this movie (especially when you see him alongside the animals and doing manual labor.. thoughts of Will Farrell as the lumberjack in StepBrothers comes to mind..LOLJK) that it's hard to believe he was ever the constipated Edwardo Cullenz.  After the movie ended, I had to take a moment to just breathe, because I was so caught up in the story that I lost track of everything around me (and that says a lot, considering the company inside the theater).  The only thing that bothered me is I knew that despite Witherspoon and Waltz, this movie will get unfair shit talk because of Pattinson. Bleh on the couch critics of the world!  

After the movie we skedaddled off to the after party where I marveled at the gilded birdcage, drank some champagne (not champale, because I am a classy broad), and secretly took off my shoes and slid on my awesome Dr. Scholl's pocket flats (those things saved my damn life, as I was blinded by pretty shoes and did not realize the severe uncomfortability of them).  After the after party, we played pool while I played shitty songs on the jukebox just to annoy the bar patrons (playlist included: 'I wanna know what love is'-Foreigner, 'I swear'-all4one, 'I wanna sex you up'-Colour me badd, and "The Thunder Rolls'-Garth Brooks) but in my opinion, if a fucking jukebox has those songs even available, it would be an absolute travesty if I -didn't- decide to play them!  We ended the night in our hotel room watching an infomercial about the bender ball. 

We flew back Monday morning much to my delight, as I had a million goblin kisses to give an adorable goblin.  We won't have another one of these shindigs until Breaking Dawn: the apocolypse, but this one was beautiful and perfect.

By this time on....

Thursday, I'll have seen 30 Seconds to Mars and Anberlin (I won the tickets in an absolutely unfair facebook thing).  I may have screamed out, "I LOVE YOU JORDAN CATALANO".  I also may have pissed off some quasi-goth girl by doing this.


Friday, I'll have landed in New York, and reunited with my boyfriend in the same old hotel we always stay in.  I will have already brought up to him that we should get wasted beyond repair and he will oblige me, because he is fantastic.

Saturday, I'll have nursed a hangover.  Eaten and subsequently thrown up some street food. Done the robot at some point (or multiple points).  Bought some books.  Talked to a homeless person.  Reminisced over my college years.  Gotten a piggy back ride.  Eaten at the ninja castle.  Cried because I missed my son.  Listened to some Lykke Li and spun in circles (okay, maybe not).  Gone to Central Park.

Sunday, I'll have seen Water for Elephants.  I'll have praised the hell out of my boyfriend. Inadvertently tripped over my own feet.  Felt socially awkward.  Hidden this by drinking too much champagne.  Done the robot again.

Monday, I'll have arrived back at home.  Hugged the hell out of my little goblin.  Sat on a plane next to someone who smelled funky, or talked too loud, or cleared their throat alot.  If I'm lucky, I'll be next to a cute Brit.

This should end up being an interesting weekend indeed.