Dancing to the Beat of a Different Drum
or, Breathing Proof of Life After Death

So my brief (yet prolonged) state of metamorphases of pig human has ceased, more or less. Metaphorical oinking still happens every so often (coughing) but it gets less and less every day. Thank God Almighty I'm free at last, yo. Go ahead and envy me.
But I can't say my shakles are completely gone. The annoying thing is that once I was better (yes, I was better), people didn't believe me. I felt like Paul. I went through all this metaphysical troubles of being freed from my prison, and people didn't believe me. Either they were just way too happy, or they have a worse-than-Thomas log in their eye (not even seeing would make them believe), but either way I stood at their door and knocked and they came, looked through the peep hole, and ran away. I came knocking, and they did not answer. Oh well, I'll pop another cough drop and come calling next time, silver and gold have I none, but what I have I will give-- need a sugarless cough drop?

And so the beat goes on. Homework is out to kill me, NSA's own little mafia, but hey I hang out in allies and have friends in low places, and I will escape. Life is a bit altered, scheduling a bit more intense, and I have another wedding to go to on Saturday (hooray for holy matrimony) so my Friday and now Thursday will have to be more productive than they normally are. Pshaw. So people go dancing, I look at Latin slides. People climb roofs, I translate. People smoke, I read. It's how I roll, I dance to the beat of a different drum now. Make new friends, keep the old.

--Not many, but it's all the pictures I got new for you.--

Dont know if I already posted this. Me Becca Jen-- Baller Shock Collar.


Jen and me Picturesque.


Jen and me kickin it at Bucer's. Check out her face. Yah, tha's how we roll.