Liz (doing a celtic cross): "Hm, I keep getting the Hanged Man reversed, like 3 times in a row. Is it trying to tell me something?" Bob (smoking): "What's the significance of the Hanged Man reversed?" Liz (reads definition): "Oooh."
If anyone else can wander into a midterm completely unprepared and stoned off their ass and formulate a working philosophy of mythic subjectivity as a outgrowth of magical realism that forms a cogent framework for postmodern fiction, BRING IT ON.
I have come to the conclusion that I really, passionately hate cleaning. It's such a wretched Sysiphean endeavor, same thing every day, can't quite keep up with the tide of chaos from a creative two year old and several de facto roommates. Clean clean clean.
Bob and I and Sandy and Abi went to Rock Bridge last night to go ghost hunting. Abi and Sandy chickened out early, so it was just Bob and I wandering around. There is something seriously weird about that cave. I got the impression of a woman with long dark hair, who walked through the cave and along the streams. The energy of the cave itself was
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I have the flu from hell, and Anaya is so wide awake and perky. I'm sitting here in a daze and handing her millions of strawberries and she's eating them ALL maybe she'll go to sleep soon