Antiques stores smell moldy and they activate my asthma, but I can’t get enough of them.
I want to buy everything inside them, the creepier/uglier the better. I want to surround myself with these hardscrabble discards. We would form an army that eventually overthrows the system.
When my husband vetoes my selections, I photograph them so I can always remember them.
Here are 2017’s top 5 did-not-buy antiques:
This little Gloomy Gus got left behind in the Rapture. Look into his cold eyes. He knows something we don’t — something unspeakable.
This fella has the distinction of being the Mayor of Jaunty Walks.
This is the first of two horse items upon this list. Take a moment and just admire the normalcy of this horse, constipated as it is.
WHAT THE EVERLOVING —
I deeply regret not buying this.
And finally, the boobie portion of our show.
This “plus-size” mannequin reminds me of the Venus of Willendorf, in the best way possible. I don’t know where I’d put her, but I definitely would never clothe her. She deserves to present her glory all the time.
At some point, I’ll have to inventory all the stuff I did buy, which is an equally long list full of almost-as-preposterous crap.
My impulse control only goes so far.
In 2017, I want to take photography more seriously.
My Instagram, though bitchin’, isn’t exactly a shrine to nuanced composition — but I still took a lot of snaps I loved in 2016.
Here are my top 5:
1. Love graffiti. I found this waterproof optimism just when I needed it.
2. Washington, D.C. The Mansion on O Street‘s hyper-saturated gallery walls give me life.
3. Cute cat + retro tile. The star of this photo is Loki. He’s a Stage Five Clinger.
4. Black Dog Salvage, Roanoke, VA. This salvage store and flea market has gorgeous stained glass.
5. An obligatory Willie photo. My muse is a hilarious disaster.
What skills do you want to improve on in 2017, Internet?
Death, disease, tumors, and pustules peppered my family’s dinner conversation as I grew up.
“Pass the salt,” my parents said, as well as: “you wouldn’t believe what I found inside a body today.”
And also: “honey, never go into medicine.”
I only dabble in the macabre on weekends.
My latest morbid jaunt was the National Museum of Health and Medicine in Maryland.
The museum was chock-full of samples, specimens, illustrations, replicas, prototypes, and tools. The most beautiful and horrible things hopscotched across the line between medicine and torture.
Life-sized dolls that look like diseased humans.
Flash cards of skin lesions.
Orderly rows of scissors, saws, syringes, and knives.
Don’t forget tidy kits for exsanguination.
I didn’t become a doctor, but I have a stomach of steel.
Bring on the corpses.
Up until two weeks ago, I ate mostly peanut butter sandwiches, Doritos, Reeces cups, and Diet Coke. My DNA strands were comprised of sugar and caffeine, held tenuously together by delicate strands of aspartame.
Woefully, the time has come to stop treating my body like a trash can. So I’ve cut back on sugar and processed foods.
Considering this total about-face, I’ve been surprisingly un-murderous.
I daresay saintly.
As of this posting, I have received neither medal nor monument.
My new diet looks like this:
When this thing inevitably flies off the rails, I am going to get ridiculous on something chocolate and melty.
What’s your guilty pleasure food? I need performers for my Circus of Terrible Ideas.
Yesterday I mailed a letter to Germany that had ink on it and embroidery inside. I also forgot my phone at home.
“No cell phone? And a pen pal? What is this — the 1990s?” a friend asked incredulously.
“I wish,” I replied wistfully.
That evening, I noticed a Delia*s tag on my friend’s jacket.
“I’ve had this for about 10 years,” she said.
I miss the Delia*s catalog.
So does Buzzfeed, as is evidenced by articles like 31 Things You Desperately Needed From The Delia*s Summer ‘96 Catalog and 19 Reasons Why You Miss Getting the Delia*s Catalog.
There’s still a dELiA*s site, but it sucks. Don’t go there. You’ll be depressed by the modern age.