Uh, happy Valentine's day.

So this morning, before descending a large brick staircase and admiring massive flowing steel sculptures somewhere in Arizona, I had my skull cut open in a beach house in Maine. Apparently I had stimulated the production of plasma around my brain by scratching my head too much, so the visiting doctor cut the top of my skull off and turned me over so that I vomited vast amounts of clear, pinkish fluid out of the top of my head, and onto the shoes of my boyfriend's sister. I guess that was the best thanks I could give her after serving me pink frosted fetus cookies earlier that day.

Then I rode the furriest horse imaginable to a grocery store where my search in vain for a suitable sketchpad resulted in the purchase of a green cashiers booklet and a bottle of riesling.

Finished my charcoal self portrait...

SO BAD. SO, SO TACKY. I DON'T EVEN CARE. WELL SORT OF.
I only put six hours into it, at most, which is about a third of the time that I would usually spend on something like this, and it shows. I think my subconscious desire to be a Hot Bitch came through and finished destroying it.


Kate sent me this.

She didn't actually give it to me, but I'm going to pretend that she did, because in my book there is nothing more touching than a Carl Sagan Valentine, complete with maroon turtleneck.
So, thank you, my dearest Kathryn. You have my heart.