My tattoo is itchy.

It is day 4 of new tattoo. Fret not, oh dear ones, I shall post a photo soon... But for now, GOD DAMN is this tattoo itchy!

For the life of me, I cannot recall how I dealt with this the first time I got inked. It was much bigger, too, and on the back, and I just don't get why this one is so annoying!

Work has gone from good but, "All Quiet on the Western Front" to good but, "Apocalypse Now". I mean to say it has become rather busy, hectic, chaotic, (pick one!) in the last week. I think I want a vacation. I also found out today, quite by accident, that my clinic nurse is taking her three weeks vacation starting next week. It was like an awkward break-up when I cornered her by the fridge in the staff break area. (I will call her Nancy because this isn't her name and I'm in a Nancy type mood today.)

Me:"Nancy?"

Nancy:"Oh! Princess of all that is Awesome (this is my offical work title. Shut up. It's my story.)! You startled me. I... I didn't see you there."

"Mmm hmm... Nancy... What's this I hear about a vacation? For three weeks?"

Nancy avoids eye contact and makes a non-committal grunting noise.

Me: "Were you ever going to tell me about this?"

Nancy: "Well, yeah, I just.. It just... It's not like that!"

Me: "Was I just supposed to guess? Like, doo dee doo dee dooo, oh hey, Nancy hasn't been around for awhile and my world's goddamn well falling apart but that's okay!?!"

Nancy: "That's not fair."

Me: "Oh really? No, Nancy, you know what's not fair??? Sixteen, sixteen goddamn sticky notes telling the physician where to sign, what to sign, and what queries to answer, and having the goddamn forms come back blank! I mean, for Christ sake, they've got like, seventeen degrees! Weren't any of them in basic comprehension!" {break down in tears, sobbing on the coffeemaker. The Tim Horton's tin starts to get damp.}

Nancy: "Ssshhh... It's only for three weeks..."

Me: "WAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!! I NEED YOU NOW!!!!! OH GOD DON'T LEAAAVEEE MMEEEEEEE!!!!"

Nancy: {bolts for the door. And freedom, glorious freedom}

Me: {commences Operation: Eat Cookies}

Is there something wrong with me...

That I think this is very, very well done? I mean, yes, it's not something I would get to decorate my child's bedroom or anything, but the historical accuracy! The attention to detail! The scarcity of spelling errors! I'm so torn between admiration and unsettled right now.

Chapter 14:Squirrels with Quarrels

Sir Nutkin Cutecheeks edged cautiously out of his burrow. The magpies had been silent for half an hour now, but did that silence signal their defeat on the blood-soaked battlefield, or was this some sinister new turn-about in their plan for neighbourhood domination? Sir Nutkin did not know. Nor did he care, for Sir Nutkin had been granted some things by nature that those insidious fiends, the magpies, had been denied by their creator.

Little tiny squirrel fingers that could load and draw a crossbow. Little tiny beady black squirrel eyes that could lock on their target from 50 yards. And a little, tiny, four-chambered squirrel heart that was filled with hate.

A few more inches... Sir Nutkin's foot grazed something warm. He froze. Looked down, into the glazed eyes of something that was once... His best friend Lazlo Pine Nuttington. Who had a squirrel wife and three squirrel children waiting for him back in the forest.

"You b*****ds," Sir Nutkin howled, hot tears of rage leaking out of his beady, squirrelly, little hate-filled eyes, "YOU B******DS! I'LL KILL YOU ALL!"

What do you think... Be honest. Too much for a children's book?

Baby... It's 2 am...

And it's bloody hot in this apartment...

Of course, had Matchbox20 gone with these lyrics, their album probably would not have sold as well. It might have, though (all rights, copyrights, last rites, etc. property of me). Just saying.

I'm actually not complaining. Granted, it is warm, and my troglodytic frathouse neighbours appear to be having a shouting contest, ("HEY!" "WHOOOT!" "HEY!" "DUDE!" "WHAT?" "DUDE!" "HEY!") because they are scintillating conversationalists, but it is also Friday (Hooah!), and I spent a lovely evening watching Battlestar Galactica with my brother. If there was ever any doubt as to the depths of nerddom that I will sink to, I believe I dispelled it tonight. Possibly while pawing at the television screen at the close of the Season 2 finale, while whimpering to M, "Chris has the third season, right? RIGHT?!?"

In other news, I may have inadvertently roped myself (please excuse the pun) into riding a mechanical bull at a notoriously rowdy bar on Saturday night. Updates to follow. I'll be honest, apart from a few obvious exceptions (head, neck, spine, teeth) I'm really not too concerned about breaking something. I'm overdue anyway, considering the number of stairs I navigate in a typical day at the hospital. I'm hoping for a non-writing arm, or possibly clavicle, because I think I'd look good in one of those arm slings. "That's right, work that cast, awww yeah, now pose! Good! Just like that! Grimace! I like it, I like it!"

Yes. SMRT indeed.

My apartment... She smells!

It may be time to move. Loathe as I am to utter such a soul-crushing, heart-wrenching statement, I am starting to think a move would be easier than dealing with the utterly indescribable smell the lobby has achieved since "The Great Flood" occurred on Thursday night. It's... kinda... like... if you took a wet dog. And soaked it in mold. And poured urine over it. And there's kinda this chokey, gaggy sensation you get while you're sprinting through this, like when you've just inhaled drywall dust and it hurts to breathe. Ah, well. It was good while it lasted. And home can be re-created (with variable results) anywhere, right?

On another note, it is currently Stampede time in mine own faire city. For those lads out there, I hate to disappoint, but hooting and hollering at young ladies (me) who happen to be minding their own business is not the proper way to make friends at this time of year. (Because normally this would send me into fits of writhing ecstasy and make me want to spring, Tawny Kitaen-like, on the hood of their (pimped-out) automobile. Yeeeah. I don't really see it happening.) All in all, apartment issues aside, I had a lovely weekend. Saw the lovely and talented Neuba, hung out with "mah boyz", saw my mum... It was good. Oh, and got some more art supplies. Got me a bendy man. I have named him Gregoire, and he shall help me realize the potential of my new sepia pencils. Good luck with the Mondays, all. I must to sleep.

"That's where I'm a viking!" - Ralph Wiggum

A break from the manifesto....

For an epiphany. A wonderfully horrible epiphany. (Incidentally, Chapter 1: or, "Special Squirrels Need The Most Love" is going well. Many revelations about emo squirrels. New emotional depths. Depths that haven't been explored in a while. Depths that probably should have been left alone to their own squirrelly devices. Depths with acorns. And chittering.).

I thought I was getting an ear infection at work today. Much localized head pain, tenderness, and my balance went total shite on me (No, I wasn't drunk. I was high. Kidding....officer). Also could have been the stilettos. We'll never know.

I tolerated it as best I could (whining incessantly and pawing at it like a cat wearing a novelty hat), got home, found a waterfall in my front lobby, and promptly forgot about it. OH MY SWEET BABY JESUS, was that a nightmare! I am not, nor will I ever be on the condo board, and yet somehow I ended up calling the property management, turning off the taps in the flooded laundry room, and talking to them about fifteen times that evening. I cannot stress enough how surreal it is to try and convince somebody that water pouring through the ceiling is worthy of an emergency plumber visit. Not to mention the floods of water pouring down the stairs and soaking: the laundry room; the apartment next to the laundry room; the hallway; the alternate staircase that provides a detour from said flooded lobby. All routes of escape are blocked by putrid-smelling H2O.

I spent the remainder of the evening cleaning the apartment in a frantic bid to discourage the Hellenic army of insects and other vermin that will shortly descend on our damp, warm, frat boy infested apartment complex ("Tonight, we dine in HELLOooo... Is that pizza?".

There was supposed to be an epiphany here somewhere... Right. I just put some ear medicine in, and bloody Hell, is that a disgusting feeling. I guess Mum's little dog isn't as slow as she pretends. The last time I tried to administer her ear medicine, 10 pounds of fluffy adorable dog got the better of me. Now I know why.

What's a good word that rhymes with chicken, and means "deadly projectile"?

I'm writing a children's book.
It's not going well. Sales wise, I don't think this will be on a par with J.K. Rowling and her "mildly successful" series.

I need a manifesto.

I have made a momentous decision (see title). There is, of course, a glaring flaw in this plan. I do not have any strong political motivations. I had lunch today with one of my work colleagues, and she asked about my political leanings. "Well," I replied, "ideologically, I would have to say I have liberal tendencies, although I have been fairly impressed with the federal conservative actions so far. But I voted Green in the last election. Because I like the colour." (note: while I actually said this, the colour (so pretty!) is not the real reason. I like their platforms. I also think that a fundamentalist Christian snowball wearing a placard that reads "Demons suck" has a better chance in Hell than the Green party does of being elected to federal leadership. But a girl can dream.)

I digress. My manifesto will not be about political ideologies. There are far, far too many people who believe that other people give a crap about what their political ideologies are. Those people are fools. Because what the public really wants is a manifesto on insomnia, the best snack treats, road rage, and lazy, lazy stalkers. Also gardening, dogs, suicidal squirrels, angry crows, strange relatives, dysfunctional families. Not to mention graphic novels and how they're better than 99% of the shite that comes out on the "BEST SELLER LIST". Seriously, Dr. Phil. Seriously, Oprah. How about a little more zombie on that list, yeah?

I will call it, "The Super-Mega-Awesome-Neato-Cool Manifesto" (note: this is a working title only, okay? No being all judgy and stuff. Write your own damn manifesto).