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Picture, if you will, me. Clad in black boots, pink & white striped tights, knee-length black bloomers trimmed with white eyelet lace, and a black MCR fitted t-shirt. And pink and black gardening gloves. Oh, and clutching a giant pair of hedge clippers.
You see, Audrey*, our giantshambling climbing rose bush that crouches in front of the house, had been enthusiastically reaching for the front stairs, the power lines, and anything else she could find. After nearly being entangled in her clutches coming home last night**, I decided Enough Was Enough, and stomped outside to trim her back.
In the pouring rain.
Have I mentioned gardening is not a skill of mine? Anyway, Audrey has now been trimmed, and I can now dink around the interwebs with a glow of having done a chore I dislike.
---
Last night I attended the White Wolf Club Succubus party at Heaven. Which, Back In The Day, was the Catwalk, one of THE goth/industrial clubs of Seattle. The party was a huge amount of fun! I was able to catch up with people I hadn't seen in AGES, dance a bit, and watch people twirl fire. Also, there was an open bar. With absinthe. I am one of those odd people who doesn't just drink absinthe for the Goth Cliché Points, but because I genuinely like the taste of it. Unless it's that dreadful Czech brand Hills, which tastes like gasoline mixed with NyQuil. Ew.
*Yes, this is a Little Shop Of Horrors reference. You aren't surprised by that, are you?
**The nearly being entangled in Audrey's grasping tendrils had nothing to do with the absinthe. Absolutely nothing.
You see, Audrey*, our giant
In the pouring rain.
Have I mentioned gardening is not a skill of mine? Anyway, Audrey has now been trimmed, and I can now dink around the interwebs with a glow of having done a chore I dislike.
---
Last night I attended the White Wolf Club Succubus party at Heaven. Which, Back In The Day, was the Catwalk, one of THE goth/industrial clubs of Seattle. The party was a huge amount of fun! I was able to catch up with people I hadn't seen in AGES, dance a bit, and watch people twirl fire. Also, there was an open bar. With absinthe. I am one of those odd people who doesn't just drink absinthe for the Goth Cliché Points, but because I genuinely like the taste of it. Unless it's that dreadful Czech brand Hills, which tastes like gasoline mixed with NyQuil. Ew.
*Yes, this is a Little Shop Of Horrors reference. You aren't surprised by that, are you?
**The nearly being entangled in Audrey's grasping tendrils had nothing to do with the absinthe. Absolutely nothing.
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