AGAIN.

WHY I WANT A PET CHICKEN.

I really... REALLY... want pet chickens in the future. Why, you ask? Simply look at these pictures.

Chickens are obviously friendlier than one would assume, and are becoming popular pets.

This girl(boy) loves her(his) chicken. That MAY be a rooster. They can relate to each other, obviously,

in their lack of sexual dimorphism. 

This man REALLY loves his pet chicken. Look at that expression of bliss. I'm jealous.

This sign is obvious proof that chicken owners love their chickens. 

Not only is the owner's chicken MISSING but the owner plainly states that they are

"MISSING [their] PET CHICKEN."

No questions asked?

Here's a question... Why do I not already OWN a chicken?

This man loves his chickens so much, he's using them as a bra type cover up. Chickens are

thus loving AND concerned about your stylish wellbeing.

Some chickens are stylish enough on their own. 

This strapping young chicken has grown itself an impressive beard, undoubtedly 

to fit in with the indie culture that appreciates pet chickens so much...

Look at this dude struttin his stuff. Would you fuck with that? *I* wouldn't.

Chickens are in fact SO stylish, that some people have taken to imitating them. 

Victoria Beckham is a a *repeat* offender.

This chicken has been cross bred with a poodle, and thus 

makes a very stylish carry-around elitist pet alternative to 

tiny dogs.

She even goes so far as to give it a matching outfit. AS IF that chicken

NEEDED accessories to be stylish. 

We'll let this one slide. It's obvious that people just LOVE pet chickens. 

And I obviously need to get one.

The Case of the Furry Car Demon

There are a couple things you would never want to happen while driving at 80 miles an hour.

• For example, as a motorcyclist, you would never want to hit gravel while going 80 miles an hour.

• As a driver in Atlanta, you would never want to pass a cop on I-285 while going 80 miles an hour.

• And in case in the nightmare hearts of your wildest feverish fears you could never even conceive of this situation, let me fucking tell you that you do NOT want an irate snarling weasel to burst out of a cardboard box and fling itself onto you while you're driving at 80 fucking miles per hour.

PISH POSH, you may say, YOU WOULD BE DEAD IF THAT HAD HAPPENED.
Pish posh THIS you people, IT DID HAPPEN. And it was awful. And I'm going to relate to you this horrific tale.
It was a thousand degrees that weekend.

I remember because when it got hot enough, all the tourists would start to smell like baby powder. It is an odd thing to walk behind some gigantic beastly man and realize that he permeates the air with BABY AROMA.

Somehow, through the heat, I had loaded everything into my car. When you move between home and college over the years, lugging around all the SHIT you've accumulated and all the 'nice stuff you want to keep' which is actually just SHIT also, packing your vehicle becomes a lot like a high stakes game of Tetris; whatever you can't fit into your car, you have to leave behind.

I know this for a fact (Jen will probably start laughing) because my Mom and her strange friend Linda were pretty pissed BEFORE we even started packing the car sophomore year (after a parking ticket fiasco, angry Nazi 'traffic monitors' and the typical why-didn't-you-pack-all-this-up-BEFORE-I-got-here and what-the-hell-even-IS-all-this-stuff-and-how-did-you-fit-it-into-a-dorm room-the-size-of-a-coffin arguments).


My three book shelves, printer, flameless candelabras, and art supplies were doomed from the start.

• They were not something Mom would get arrested for if she didn't let me keep (like clothes, medication, bedding, shoes).
• They were not something she had INSISTED I own (a flat screen TV and DVD set, 400 dollars worth of my classes' textbooks, and a 6x8 fabric wall tapestry).
• Lastly, they were not something I had pilfered out of her very own closet there for she did not WANT to throw away (beach chairs, Ralph Lauren pillows, a space mattress topper).

Here's a pie digram to help you understand how things are categorized to fit into the car: 

I heard a lot of swearing when she looked over at the last stragglers of belongings. They weren't going to fit. Not with her 10 dollar 80's beach chairs in the car, anyway. Sentimentally speaking, they may as well have been 10,000 dollar beach chairs, judging by the way she has held onto them over the years. I'VE JUST HAD THEM FOR A LONG TIME, OKAY? People could say the same thing about a half formed twin jutting out of their neck. That is NOT an excuse. WELL I'VE HAD A LOT OF GOOD TIMES WITH THOSE CHAIRS, NICOLE.

 this is always what I picture:

I mock the chairs mercilessly. I probably shouldn't. I was probably, like, conceived in one of those chairs. So I drop the issue, and let her convince me that she'll buy me a new printer next year (never happened, Jen will attest to that. 

5:30 in the morning: "Jen can I borrow your printer?"

Three years ago, that was the story.  NOT THIS TIME. I was determined to pack EVERYTHING amazingly. People who passed by on the sidewalks would write BOOKS on how well this car was packed.

But a new task this year, was fitting my ferret, Archer into the car comfortably. 

I had allotted precious space for him in the passenger seat. Now, needless to say, his gigantic victorian mansion of a cage would not fit next to me up front, so I disassembled it into the back and had found a suitable medium sized cardboard box for my furry partner in crime.


This was to be his home for six hours!


I was so worried that he wouldn't like it. I remember carefully cutting out triangle shaped air holes and port holes and seeing holes fantasizing that he would curiously watch the clouds pass across the sun shiny windows .. and sit there and... drink cognac or whatever. I put food and water in some little dishes, and even an ice pack to keep him cool in the  100 degree heat if I had to turn the A/C off to get gas.


This thing was the fucking Ritz Carlton of boxes.

I gently taped the box shut with a small strip of duct tape, knowing that he would be asleep for most of the ride but nonetheless eager to be able to check on him / refill his water at rest stops.


I turned down the speaker on his side of the car -- I didn't want to disturb my poor ferret with my crazy techno rave tunes I listen to on road trips.


And then I was off to fill up my gas tank.


If only. I. Had known. What would happen.


The first sign of trouble -- probably a WARNING FROM THE GODS that I should have taken more seriously -- was when I was paying for my fuel at the Hess station right next to my apartment.


Though he had sat calmly in the duct-taped box for the first 10 minutes, I casually looked out the window while at the cashier across the station, and saw a certain weasel-ish face poking up out of the top of the box in my car, staring at me through the windows.

My eyes bugged and I muttered something about my ferret getting loose (to which I'm sure she did not give a shit, there pretty much has to be blood shed in order to get a rise out of a gas station cashier) and then I quickly ran to my car.


My car was filled with half of everything I'd ever owned. Things that I didn't want a ferret to get into. Toxic painting supplies, electronics, sharp things, heavy books sliding around, and lastly, a few articles of clothing that were EACH worth more than the SUV I was driving.


Weasel teeth shredding into a designer lamb skin jacket ain't no joke, y'all. I was not about to let that happen.


 After taping it shut, again, I placed a heavy text book on top of the box. No worries now, I thought.


And then we off to Atlanta, six hours away.


The tunes were good, the skies were sunny. I was in a good mood. I didn't even get phased when the people behind me wanted to go 90 instead of 80 like all the rest of us. I just moved on over, let 'em pass.
I smiled at the old guys on motorcycles. I love doing it becuase A) They ALWAYS look in to be sure SOMEONE sees how 'cool' they look on a motocycle B) They all have their little gestures, like a salute, a nod, or a grin, they give to women that smile at --


Suddenly, there was a ripping noise and then --

AIYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! HOLYFUCKINGSHITOHMYHOLYFUCKINGCHRIST! I swerved into the other lane which was thank GOD empty.


I WAS UNDER ATTACK.


Archer, unbeknownst to ME, had been meticulously slashing his razor sharp claws at one of the 'air holes' I had cut for him on the other side of the box. He had a crazed fiery look in his beady black eyes.


He did not like this car. He did not like this music. He did not like this swaying and bumping.


And he did not like that box. One. Fucking. BIT.

My sweet innocent ferret was now a device specifically engineered to make me crash my car; he ripped at the seats with his claws, tried to crawl on top of my head, and then lunged between my feet, curling like a viper around the brakes and gas pedal.


I was screaming at him, I couldn't open the box to because of the tape. I wrenched it onto it's side, with one hand, holding him in the other, to expose the hole he'd ripped into the box. I tried to shove him back into the box.


He wasn't having that. Like some type of furry Rambo ninja, he tore a new escape in SECONDS and burst through the cardboard like the alien from the man's chest in a sci-fy movie.


Cars were surrounding me, I couldn't brake because I was being tailgated! I had already slowed down to about 65 and people were pissed.


I have never been so stressed out in my life. I stopped twice during the trip, desperately trying to fix up the box with anything I could to keep him enclosed.


I even stopped at a gas station looking frantically for duct tape, but found none. After flirting shamelessly with the attendant behind the counter, one of the largest men I've ever seen, I convinced him to give me his manager's roll of packing tape.

I taped it up, for twenty minutes. Nothing worked. I was screaming at him, tempted to strangle his little furry neck. I was in the middle of NOWHERE, only an hour and a half in to a six hour trip and I was already hyper ventilating. I had tried letting him just roam free, but he was moving like an angry electron, circulating the whole truck, screeching and ripping at what ever he could.


At one point, though I do not remember this in the blindness of my fury, I called mom, who was supposed to meet me an hour later in some weird little town, and screamed at her to bring a gun an a bullet for his "fucking little brain which I would splatter on the windows at point blank"


Y'all know I love my ferret more than anything. He's my baby boy.


BUT AT 80 MPH, HE WAS A FURRY CAR DEMON STRAIGHT FROM WEASEL HELL. He tore apart some CASH, pissed on my 100 dollar suede laptop cover, tore a hole in the carpeting, and shit on my leather Gucci satchel. After nearly crashing the car about three more times, running off the road TWICE, I made it -- nerves fried -- to civilization where my Mom waited. I had survived, somehow, without killing myself or anyone or anyTHING else.


We went to a dollar store, purchased industry strength duct tape and some plastic-mesh laundry bins, and taped them together, with the ferret inside. He was freaked out, de-hydrated, and exhausted, but otherwise fine.
I had refilled the water dish he knocked over and fluffed up his little fleece blanket, and he immediately went right to sleep, peacefully.


My baby boy, Archer was an angel for the remaining three hours of the trip.


Being attacked by a frantic weasel in an enclosed space is not something I would EVER want to endure again.


And certainly not while going 80 mph.

Random things!

1) Are you currently in a serious relationship?

Never.

02) What was your dream growing up?

I knew that one day I'd be able to reach millions of people through creative endeavors. 

03) What talent do you wish you had?

Oh GOLLY, I really wish I could fortell the future and read peoples' minds like books~! That would be SWELL!

04) Drink of choice?

Jagermeister

05) Favorite vegetable?

Artichoke

06) What was the last book you read?

In the middle of about 100 right now. 

07) What zodiac sign are you?

Cancer! woo!

08) Any Tattoos and/or Piercings? Explain where.

Just my ears; no tattoos...YET. 

09) Worst Habit?

When I'm stressed, I become self-destructive.

11) What is your favorite sport?

I could play basketball well as a teen. I've never liked sports. I, of course, enjoy sporting *fun* like Capture the Flag, climbing trees, hiking, spelunking, mountain biking, running, mud wrestling, and catching fish with my bare hands. 

12) Do you have a Pessimistic or Optimistic attitude? I'm a practical Idealist

14) Worst thing to ever happen to you?

My heart was broken once. I collapsed that night while trying to shower to get ready for bed. I sobbed so hard I could barely breathe, and I wanted to die. I remember screaming through tears and steam. It was by far the worst moment of my life.

15) Tell me one weird fact about you.

I have a selectively photographic memory.

16) Do you have any pets?

Archer!

19) Do you think clowns are cute or scary?

Clowns KNOW when they're being creepy. 

20) If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be?

I wish I had long slender, pretty hands. I have tiny lumberjack sausage hands. 

21) Would you be the crime partner or the voice of reason? 

If it was worth the effort and risk, I'd probably be the one planning the whole thing. 

22) What color eyes do you have?

Auburn

23) Ever been arrested?

Nope

24) Bottle or can soda?

Bottle. I like being able to close a soda and carry it.

25) If you won $10,000 today, what would you do with it?

Use it toward down payment in an apartment in NYC. 

27) What's your favorite place to hang out?

Alone by the water, as emo as that sounds. 

28) Do you believe in ghosts?

Phhht. Of course. 

29) Favorite thing to do in your spare time?

What is this thing called "spare time" of which you speak?

30) Do you swear a lot?

Indeed.

31) Biggest pet peeve?

Narrowminded people.

32) In one word, how would you describe yourself?

Lucky

33) Do you believe/appreciate romance?

I don't know. I love romantic moments when they happen inadvertently. If someone laid out a trail of rose petals I think I'd find it cheesy and weird. I like REAL romance. Not store bought bullshit. I want a guy to kiss me on the forehead and hug me for entirely too long. That's romantic. A guy giving me expensive earrings is not romantic... That's a materialistic homage to a stereotype that I *don't* fit. 

34) Favorite and least favorite food?

Favorite: Black Bean vegetarian burger   

Least Favorite: Pork chops are the fuckin' nastiest *shit* you could ever put in your mouth. 

Yesterday's Goddamned Disintegrating News

And so it was, that I found myself in PetCo, shopping for litter to put in Archer's litterbox. I had been using something made from recycled newspapers crushed into pellets, adorably marketed under the name, "Yesterday's News." 

It should have been called, "Hahaha FUCK YOU! I Will disintegrate at the slightest drop of moisture and will  magically transform into disgusting GLOOP that you'll have to scrape out of the bottom of the box with a chisel!!"

So, naturally, I was like, "Hell no, I'm not buying THAT again." 

My options, for ferrets, are: silica crystal litter, pine pellet litter, and fiber puff litter.

Considering that the only thing I know about silica is that it comes in new shoes as little packets that say stuff like FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT EAT THIS YOU WILL FREAKING DIE, and the fact that I really don't know WHAT a fiber puff is other than it's a really ugly maroon color, I opted for the 'pine pellet' litter. 

The tiny pine pellets are made from super compressed saw dust. 

It's about six bucks for a ten pound bag. 

And it smells like pine wood!

The real question would be if Archer would use it to do his business. 

Had he grown too accustomed to Yesterdays News? 

Would he be revolted at the pine scent?

Did he have something against environmentally friendly products?

I bought a bag and returned home, curious to see how he'd react to it.

THE MOMENT OF TRUTH...

At first, he was weary of it. 

After he casually stepped into the pan, I was beaming.

But then, an entirely unforeseen reaction took place.

He was absolutely OBSESSED. 

He rolled it. 

He jumped in it.

He tried to eat it. 

He dug in it. 

He threw it all over his cage and my floor. 

He did everything....but poo in it. 

To him, this was a grand gift from the heavens. A new toy, sleeping area, lounge area... a source of entertainment.

...

Not a bathroom.

And so, I'm going to have to buy 

the dreaded Yesterday's Goddamned Disintegrating News

Fwew! Well. Portfolio's up and running and everything seems to be in its place. *tentatively looks around*


I feel like I'm hosting Christmas Dinner; it's that last twenty minutes before guests arrive, so you run frantically around your home trying to check for random disasters you've overlooked like, "HOLY SHIT I totally forgot this family of possums was living in the liquor cabinet" and other things like that.


I don't really have another post, other than to say that you should look around and comment, but I do have a diagram to share with you. It's called,"Why I either need a weekly tetanus shot or a new pair of shorts."


Click to enlarge this impressive schematic!

WHICHEVER ENDEAVOR.

What's up, kiddies? I spent a lot of time today organizing my portfolio. One of the most important things ANYONE in the creative field can do is make sure that it isn't difficult to readily explain who you are and what you do. That means having:
a readily available business card at all times.
a one liner that you can throw out in conversation so people understand and REMEMBER what you do.
the audacity to be a relentless self-promoter.
the mindset that not everyone is going to appreciate your unique perspective -- and you can't let it hinder your unique ambitions.
Talent.
Christ. If you suck at art, don't become an artist. That should be common sense but it's not so I'm going to remind you: destiny will offer you clues toward what you're intended to accomplish in life AND it should make you insanely happy while you're inching closer to it. But once you figure out what it is that you want, never stop moving. Yeah, I get it, you'll be worn out sometimes. Boo hoo. Drink a red bull, go to a hipster café where you'll feel like an idiot if you aren't toiling away, put your goals in gaudy red sharpie on your HAND so that if you reach for that remote your own SKIN is mad at you, too.

 Now I'm not telling you to burn yourself out, but if there's something you greatly desire in life, working nine to five at a job you detest isn't going to help you stay optimistic about your future...unless it's a temporary way to save up for said future. Temporary. TEMPORARY. I personally hate backup plans. If you have enough faith, you don't need one. God isn't going to screw you over if you take a leap of faith, I can promise you that.


But enough about that stuff. If you want to read more about that stuff, I suggest you read 'The Secret' and  'Excuse me, Your life is waiting.'

I've been working toward goals for a long time, and, no, it isn't easy. I remember wheeling a suitcase behind me into class because I'd just arrived back to school from a representing my company for a few interviews and distributors at a conference. I remember sleeping in the back of an SUV with my best friend because we knew we had to save profits to invest and not splurge them on hotel rooms. We ended up accidentally stealing showers from a truck stop that weekend [not my FAULT: I didn't know it was 12 bucks to get an elusive key for a stall that didn't have a key in the first place].

This past year, I've been telling myself that I needed to focus on school and not international creative endeavors, even if they WERE landing me media attention [free advertising + audience] and amazing opportunities. But school's going to be OVER in a few weeks. Say it with me, now:

School is going to be OVER.

And thus my brain is tempted to sew seeds of panic. But I'm not going to let it; I replace said temptation to panic with a furious work-ethic.

Recently, I've designed new, up to date business cards. They're going to have a link to my portfolio on them because -- as I said before -- you need to make it easy for the Universe to guide you, and cover all YOUR bases in recognizing what you want before fate can step in.

I've also contacted a few potential clients, and I need to follow up with them.  I also need to get my new online portfolio up and running.  But here's how it's going. I'm going to LAY IT ALL OUT THERE lol, so that when I talk about these things you understand the backstory. Sooo.....

Click Here to see my Creative Endeavors page.