This card is one I am considering for a tattoo.
There are so many to choose from, though, and I am so broke, that the likelihood of this happening is slim.

There is a bunny rabbit hopping around my feet, Katie is rousing in the other room, the ants are amassing on last night's dinner dishes, and all seems well for the morning.

I finished the riot grrl essay and am planning to send it out soon.  I must reread it.

The bunny is football-sized.

It's a few days until Christmas, and I'm in San Diego with my parents. It's 6:40 am, and I'm awake, the rats, even, are sleeping. I brought them down here, the cage bumping around in the backseat, as finding a rat-sitter in LA at Christmastime was a difficult proposition.

Oh. I just announced I wasn't in my apartment. If anyone wants to break in, watch out for the cockroaches, they may have opposable thumbs by now, in fact, they may have a manifesto by now, and they are ORGANIZED.

I like to anthropomorphize things. I also like to coddle my rats until they look at me with those little beady eyes and say "put me back in my cage now, I'm bored, and there, there are walnuts."

Strange times. Interesting times. I went in a Mervyns that was going out of business a few days ago, and it looked like a riot was taking place.

The empire is falling. Taste the fruits of empire while you can. Before it's all gone gone gone.

I did a tarot reading this morning and drew the tower, crossed by the ten of swords.

Okay, the first rule in compulsive overshare is dreams.

The Sarah Palin mania (for all that I voted for obama) was triggered by a dream involving her and...ice cubes. Y'all can let your dirty mind work on that one.

However, I had an especially poignant dream last night, actually, two.

I dreamed that I had a pack of tarot cards and could make so much more sense of the world with their guidance.

This involved some hovering around my room with images from the major arcana blazing from my desk lamp and walls. (much like this Sprawl flyer)

Then I had this very sad dream about looking for a halloween costume in my grandmother's basement and mistakenly finding a dress worn by an young woman at Manzanar, the japanese internment camp which we recently visited. This was highly disturbing. For some reason I was compulsed to put it on, pale yellow with black trim, it fit perfectly, including the hat.


I started to cry.

I don't know if this is my fear of getting hospitalized on Friday, or the ache that comes from a poisonous reminder of human cruelty.