"La nuit de mai"

I'm really into these two lines from Alfred Musset:

La bouche garde le silence
Pour écouter le cœur.

ICY (/I see/) ICICLES

Next door neighbors' haus. Guys, it's cold up in here.

A Study of Shrooms

Because neither the internet nor myself believe(s) in privacy...

Guess who just found a journal entry while browsing about her old email? This guy! Sorry in advance to everyone who feels uncomfortable with the word vagina, cuz you're about to experience a day in the life of mine circa June 2009. Enjoy!

It's worth mentioning that this document was labeled "Why not to tell your mother jack." I couldn't remember who Jack was, so I decided to investigate. Shortly thereafter, I learned that there was no Jack, but rather jack shiitake mushrooms.

Two days ago, I discovered a bump on the outer gate of my lady garden. Concerned, I mentioned to my mother that I might be growing a tumor. Although I wouldn’t consider myself a hypochondriac, I would consider cancer “just my luck.” Mom, seemingly unconvinced, insisted that my mysterious lump was “probably just an ingrown hair or something.” And while she first showed indifference to my peeved-off pore, it soon became her favorite subject, especially while in the company of others. 

Today is Saturday. My mother and I have discussed my “situation” at least four times already. It is three o’ clock.

Our last conversation sounded as such:

Mom: “JESS, COME HERE. I HAVE SOMETHING YOU CAN PUT ON YOUR-.”

Me: “MOM, STOP.”

When I reached the top of the stairs, she’d adjusted to her inside voice, your average outside voice. 
- “It is still there, right?”

- “Yes.”

- “Well, in a few seconds, maybe go dab a little of this on.”

- “Mom, Look. I appreciate the offer, but I refuse to ‘dab’ anything on my business.”

- “This is the stuff I use on my pre-cancer marks. It’s great. Pulls the stuff straight out of your-.”

- “Mom.”
I wasn’t interested in pulling anything out of my vagina, whether it be white rabbits or bacteria.

- “It isn’t in your vagina is it?”

- “No, I told you. It’s on the outer lip of my...” I stopped.

- “Well, you know, there are two sets of lips to a vagina. Is it on the labia min-.”

- “MOM, STOP. I REFUSE TO CARRY ON THIS DISCUSSION. ESPECIALLY NOT WHEN DAD IS SITTING RIGHT AROUND THE FU-.”

- “Exactly,” my dad chimed from the den.

- “dging corner.” 

I applied the salve later that night. 

SIPs are for suckers

So I think the title of this post says most if not all of everything. I only say most, because I would much rather it be about sloths, instead of ohyouknow my life, self and SIP (Senior Individualized Project a.k.a. wannabe thesis). Oops! But seriously though, can I just quit college and go wrangle those lil' cuddle bugs?

Here's the thing. While I may not have any experience with animals - does being a dog whisperer count? - I have all the love in the world for these little guys. What's experience to love? I'll tell you. Jack-poodle!

In the meantime (during which I will not being reading or writing about neofascist movements in France), I'm going to buy sloth valentines day cards for my loved ones and continue to collect sloth photos from all over the internets and beyond. My plan, as for forever, is to intern at the one and only sloth orphanage in Costa Rica. This is one of those situations where they may not want or need me there, but that's not going to stop me from coming to see, snuggle and soothe them sloths over summer. I'm thinking graduation present to myself?