not labeled for individual retail sale


rumors about the tooth faerie

Two days ago the world started raining just enough for me to get scared, but it turned out to be a pathetic drizzle. I actually fled with my laptop during the peak of the storm - you know - when you could see a few specks of water land on the concrete and start turning the whole floor into a really ugly shade of dirt gray? Well, yeah! Now I can say "I've been through that once in my life before!"

It was muggy and hot and fucking uncomfortable throughout the rest of the day (I ran to the Chula Vista library again, they had air conditioning), which leaked into yesterday, and now today, but the night is making me impossible to stay angry at the weather. jet was right; that time I told him I was logging off because my tummy hurt due to unwise ingestion was, in fact, a normal part of being a girl. I didn't find this out until I actually came home. There is a reason for my bitchiness that is evident throughout this post, and I do apologize in advance for such an eyesore. At this point, I feel like arguing with everyone, even if they said cos^2 theta + sin^2 theta = 1. Try it. I'm sure it would make a hilarious Adium log, and you can probably walk off shaming me and spreading hideous rumors about how pig-headedly ignorant and incoherent I am.

Just remember, I gave you permission.

I woke up and realized that I had been floating about seven feet off the ground. This was surprising, because I didn't know our ceiling was even built that high. Go Cambridge Apartments! Way to build tall dwellings for such petite humans as myself! I applaud you, and would gladly pay extra rent this month. Not that I pay it anyway.

I walked onto the carpet without my flip-flops to grab a large dark-green suitcase in the adjacent room, and before I knew what I was doing, I was packing. I sniffed every article of clothing to make sure it was clean (you cannot believe how awful the washers are here for a buck a cycle; sometimes scent alone can't let you to separate the pile accordingly either), and folded it neatly before I headed outside near the gate to practice my wireless again.

I came back sometime really soon. I didn't like the outside for algo razón, so I think I contented myself by curling out on the couch provided by CA and reading chapter 11 of The Half-Blood Prince. Suddenly, through the wooden windows that connected to the kitchen, there was an eccentric popping noise that mimicked (poorly) of popcorn being heated. My head shot up, my hands reached the two gold knobs and pulled the windows apart, and I saw our rice cooker trembling slightly in place. Mother promptly lifted the lid to reveal an unnecessary amount of steam. I looked in. The water around the rice was just beginning to boil.

"Oh dear," intoned Mother. "It's broken."

Damn right it's broken, after 15 good years of wearing use. I wondered how we would have our meal now that what we had depended on for so long finally crashed and bled out. (Seriously, I didn't even know that inanimate objects could contract Ebola). Mother took out a huge, stainless-steel cylindrical pot that she and I had picked out at the local 97 cent store (that's right, ninety-SEVEN for all you pedants who think it's 99). Her fingers barely scorched as she pinched the sides of the container and flipped the rice elegantly over into the pot. By now, I have made into the kitchen and was standing by her side. The heavy waft of Jasmine was merciless to me and drifted lazily into the air. The contents looked so silly and vulnerable. This was a huge pot. It took... a mere 1/20 of the space. I wonder if sweet nothings were being exchanged now, as they neared their death and consumption. A last minute goodbye? A hasty kiss on the cheek - no time for that passionate tongue action? Or do the laws of physics - shut up, laws of physics!

"You start with an intense heat," she explained, while adding some tap water from the faucet, "and when all that water evaporates, you bring it down to a low simmer so the rice within can suffocate and mature."



By then I went outside again, not willing to look at that reflective pot in the face. Do pots even have faces, anyway? Well, whatever. As long as the Jasmine rice turn out to be just as excellent as before, I don't give a damn which method you employ.

For now, you can all call me the tooth faerie.