You've done it again Rolling Stone!

I've been looking for a high-quality male chastity garment. My good friend Billy Idol is modelling the ideal leather chastity belt adorned with shiny but tasteful crosses that appeal to my Catholic heritage.

Things are coming up Toni.

Job! Interview! Tomorrow! I'm going to pray that I don't come off as a braying moron. It's office work which is PERFECT. Oh man. I have to remind myself that it's just an interview. Still!

Nothing coherent or amusing to say, just EEEEEEEEEE!

In the same vein as this by the lovely Jowie.

It's rather hard to convince your stepfather that you're in complete control of your mental faculties and, more to the point, a mature adult that deserves his respect when you go outside in your pajamas to try to take pictures of the moon. Unsuccesfully.

Brian: Was that you outside taking pictures?
Toni, wearing the camera around her neck: Certainly not. *Dramatic Pause and Sigh* Nobody understands me and my art.

History nerd.

Samuel Pepys' diary is online! A new and exciting way for me to while away the hours. Pepys wrote during the 1660s, such a turbulent time. Restoration! Closeted Catholics! Parliamentary intrigue! Billy Crudup! Oh, that was the movie Stage Beauty and not, in fact, real in any sort of historical sense.

Pepys was in the movie though! Writing stuff down! That crazy duck.

I really miss school right now.

It's happened again.

Maybe you heard about this Nun Bun* before. Apparently it's world famous. Seriously World, is there not other things that could be famous? Things that are not cinnamon buns or Paris Hilton?

Maybe they didn't capture the right angle or something, but my untrained eye can't pick out Mother Teresa in the Nun Bun at all. Either that or Mother Teresa had an exceptionally squishy face without a discernable mouth, set of eyes or any human features.

Sidenote: Nashville, in the future you might want to display your priceless artifacts a little differently. Take a hint from the Louvre who, the last time I checked, don't use Christmas lights to light their exhibits or crushed velvet in magenta as a background for any of their famous works of art.

It gets worse people. Not unlike the Sacred Tuna Fish, the Nun Bun was STOLEN. Now some banana head is demanding ransom for the Nun Bun to the tune of $5, 000.

What. The. Shit.

I wouldn't pay $5 000 for a cinnamon bun intact let alone one that has been shellacked and has been rendered inedible. No dice Nun Bun thief. Sorry.

I'm thinking of devoting this blog solely to religious imagery in food. Nay, I'm going to devote it entirely to religious food that's been STOLEN. Make it my mission to get this food back where it belongs!

Seriously, how much do I like writing Nun Bun?

* Link totally gakked from the Bad Astronomer, by the by.

Sisters are doing it for themselves.

Duped into doing the bidding of my evil landlord (also goes by the name stepfather) I decided to make the best of my weekend with Deanna and, more importantly, my digital camera.

To prove to the world that I'm not a sad spinster who stays in the house all of the time, we went on a walk and then hit the local mall. Full of old people and punk teenagers and people I know from highschool but would prefer not to acknowledge. Magical!

I'd have you note the little tuft of hair sticking out on my sister's forehead. Apparently there was a piece of hair there bothering her one day and instead of tucking it behind an ear or parting her hair differently, she cut it off. Yes, she's left to her own devices quite a lot. I've heard at least two stories now about how she nearly set the kitchen on fire. So now we're left with an odd tuft of hair but I guess we should be glad she still has her eyebrows.



On our walk I made Deanna crouch behind some greenery. You can tell by the look on her face that she was ultra impressed with big sister playing at photographer.

After the mall we went to the park where Deanna immediately made a friend. Maybe I was hyper anti-social as a child, but never seemed like it was that easy to make friends. Within five minutes Deanna and this kid were trading life stories, like how many teeth they'd lost and who could swing higher.

Deanna's new friend was also kind enough to say that she thought I was Deanna's mom. It's not that I haven't got it before, but at least it made a little bit more sense when Deanna was a baby. Now, at 22, I apparently look old enough to have given birth to an eleven-year-old. Guess it's suicide again for me.


Finally, I give you a pineapple. Doesn't really fit in the narrative, I suppose, but picture me and Deanna in the grocery store taking pictures of produce and laughing at ourselves. Amusing non?


Over the Hedge tomorrow. Deanna and I are slaves to the Disney/Pixar machine.

Blog Birthday

I've been writing in this thing for a year. A YEAR. Have I made a worthwhile contribution? Probably not. Was it mostly something to do while I was avoiding other things? Yes.

But here's the deal people, you've been reading for a while. Why don't you just keep on reading? And I'll keep writing stuff that is marginally to mildly amusing. That way everybody's happy and nobody gets hurt.

Oh, and I'm going to continue to occasionally threaten you in a very vague manner. Hope you're down.

I was going to include a celebratory picture of myself giving the thumbs up, taken with my new digital camera, but morning Toni is not pleasing to the eye. Why didn't anyone tell me before? 10 Stanley, I'm looking at you.

Update

Upon further consideration, I enjoy spamming this blog with pictures and prefer to have only the one blog to update. Thus my incredibly brief foray into a blog strictly dedicated to photos is at an end.

I give you Grass. Not that kind. Oh man, if only!

World Cup

I was on the BBC yesterday, shockingly, and came across this picture of a contact lens that's part of Germany's World Cup madness.

First of all, I'm horribly jealous of anyone even remotely involved in the World Cup. I'm one of those horrible fans that doesn't follow football until some big event happens. There's a terribly unflattering picture of me cheering for England, with a body flag wrapped around my neck, during the Euro Cup that Jo and I got into while we were in England a couple of years back. There's probably more than one. Oh the humanity!

Second of all, how much promotion does the World Cup really need? Didn't the tickets for this World Cup sell out the second that the last one was over? Yes, I think they did.

Finally, this picture freaks the crap out of me. There's a friggen' football on her eyeball. THIS IS NOT ATTRACTIVE. You better watch out Germany, people are going to think you're crazy.

If you give me some tickets, both of the game and airplane variety, I might be persuaded to tell the world that Germany is, in fact, entirely sane. Let's see if we can't make a deal hmm?

Confusion.

Now, I'm not saying that this isn't an awesome picture (of Rufus Wainwright, I presume) but I've been wondering why this album art comes up on my iTunes whenever his song from the Brokeback Mountain Soundtrack plays. For the uninitiated, neither Brokeback Mountain nor the song "The Maker Makes" calls to mind fake butterfuly wings or shiny purple underwear, lovely though they may be.

One of life's great mysteries.

"Does 22 feel any different than 21?"

Before I left Mississauga this morning, I told Jo that at least one person in my family would ask me that. I get the same question, variation on a theme, every year.

The family's like Old Faithful. First my grandpa asked. Then my grandma asked. Then my dad asked. Then my head exploded, so I didn't really get to enjoy very much of 22. The answer to your oft repeated question, pater familias and company, is no, 22 doesn't feel much different than 21. Is this a surprise? The last time I checked, by definition, you'd all had many more birthdays than I.

And, sadly, 22 doesn't open any legal doors for me. 18? You can vote and gamble. 19? You can drink. 20? Well, you can still drink and vote and gamble (all in the same day if you're lucky). 21? You can drink in the States. 22? There are no new morally questionable activities that are available to me now. Unless...You don't think they let twenty-two-year-olds knee people in the groin do you? Not even once a week?

Dang.

The only thing that genuinely feels different is my head. I think it's swollen to twice it's natural size. Not due to the alarming number of compliments I receive on a daily basis, alas. I'm afraid it has something to do with this mystery illness I've been fighting since I moved. Things have escalated, my body and the illness have both taken up arms. Goody. I've heard that prospective employers tend to hire people that are sneezing and hacking up a lung and moaning "It's too late for me, save yourself!" right?

Don't worry, I've got it covered. My financial horizon is already looking brighter.

Advent of birthday celebrations.

That's ironically turned on. Just so we're clear. Jo Travo, even young and posing in such a sexy manner, just doesn't do it for me.

Just started celebrating my 22nd year with an awkward dinner provide by my mom's side of the family, the side I see twice a year. Did I mention that it was awkward? And a little boring. I love them all, but I don't really know what to say to them.

Example: Grandma was all, "Well, now you've got some spending money maybe you can get some socks or knickers or whatever."
My standard response would be, "I'm going to blow it all on coke and hoookers." Maybe not an appropriate response, but my other grandparents would laugh. But I never see my mom's side and not to be too teenaged about it or anything, but they don't really know me.

I'm off again for a couple of days. Birthday celebration with the girls. If you hear about three girls causing a ruckus in Downtown Toronto, don't alert the police. Just bring booze and hookers. And, let's face it, cash. 'Cause we're all broke.

3 days until the real thing people. When next I write, it will be as a 22-year-old. Jealous? You're jealous.

Jo Travo

Well, I'm both frightened and turned on. Again. He's so shiny, it's kind of hypnotic. I wonder who had the shit job of buffing him to a fine shine and making his hair look nice and wet before the shoot. Also? That loincloth is literally hanging on by a thread. Only the collective will of humanity is keeping it up. Look at him though, he doesn't care. He's going to punch anyone that doesn't like his loincloth. Punch or pose menacingly.

A Faint Odour of Awesome.

I know, it's been months since the federal election. Turns out, I still despise Steven Harper. Also, this was far too amusing to pass up. Harper as something from hell? Brilliant.

Example:

"When asked what he plans to do with his free time, Harper answered “Really get busy living. I plan to travel quite a bit. I’ve always wanted to see the Vatican from the inside; maybe meet the Pope. You know, find out what we’re up against.”"

Just Go. Now.

Sacred Tuna Fish

Exciting news! In the fine, time honoured tradition of discovering religious images in food, like Jesus in a potato chip or Mary in a waffle or beans that look like the leader, a tuna fish was caught in Mombasa, Kenya that has markings on it that apparently look like a passage from the Koran.

Supposedly it said, "You are the best provider." Methinks the fish market will be booming in Mombasa. Crazy Hakim's Fish Stall will have the following advertisement "Tuna fish is the best provider, Allah says so, get yours here!"

Personally, if I were God (and someday, if everything goes as planned, I will be) I would write something different on my message fish. I mean, "You are the best provider?" LAME. I'd write something along the lines of "What the shit is have you been up to?" or "What happened to all the dinosaurs? They were way cooler than you humans."

The best part of this story? Someone's stolen the Sacred Tuna. Bet those guys in the picture aren't so happy now.

No, it's true.



For the record, I included both a Simpsons and Aladdin reference in that blog. Just sayin'

Wish List!

If one of you could manage to get me one of these in the next five days, you'd make it the bestest birthday ever.


Called a Velocipede, not Old-Timey Bike like I'd originally thought.

Oh Rolling Stone, you and me are going to get along just fine.

Remember when you were rooting for John Kerry and so was I? I knew right then that you were more than just a pretty face.

And now, you come along and acknowledge the intelligence and awesomeness of my fellow historians:

"Historians do tend, as a group, to be far more liberal than the citizenry as a whole." No reason to include that here. It's true on a couple of levels though; history mixers aren't all cardigans and corn cob pipes like you, the uninitiated, might expect.

"Many historians are now wondering whether Bush, in fact, will be remembered as the very worst president in all of American history."

Historians, including this one, aren't wondering friend.

Somewhere a while ago, when the war in Iraq didn't seem the huge festering pile of pus that it is now (it was always a horrible idea, but it spiraled from horrible to unspeakable somewhere along the way), I was watching some television program where someone on TV said that no one would remember all the (valid) arguments against the war in Iraq, that all history would remember is that Bush brought down Saddam Hussein.

I have to say, with a fairly informed opinion (my degree says BAH History, after all) that History just isn't that dumb. History doesn't have it's head shoved up it's ass. It's going to remember the lies (Iraq) and the inaction (Katrina) and the religious conservatism (everything) and the outright contempt for the intelligence of...well, everyone that wasn't in the Administration.

If I ever write a history book, even if it's about hats in 18th century Pompeii (that one's for you Jo), I'll find a way to work it in.

Communism: Brought to you by National Brand toothpaste since the early Twentieth Century. Part 1?

Why part 1? Maybe I'm going to write a series about it. You don't know. This is my blog and I run it like a dictatorship. In the fine tradition of North Americans who are too busy to say two words when one mangled one will do, this is a Blogtatorship.

Watched a great documentary on PBS last night. Yeah, I’m 79, so what? I did other fun things early in the evening and if I want to tuck myself in with a documentary about North Korea, than that’s what I’m going to do!

As an aside: why is so much awesome television on at 3 in the morning? I mean, you've got some great lectures on TVO, great documentary on PBS and if you get bored of that, all the phone sex options that one girl could possibly want!

Ahem.

The thing is, every time I hear something or read something about a Communist regime it sounds like sunshine and daisies to me, at first. Aside from the scary reverence of that funny looking short guy that runs their country, Kim Jong-Il, North Koreans used to get a lot for what they gave up. Everyone ate, everyone had a place to live, and their wages could be spent on extras (like hookers or not-hookers, whatever they thought was best).

Right, I think to myself, I knew it. Communism is the way to go. Screw Capitalism, I don't need 15 kinds of toothpaste (especially the ones trying to show off) I’m moving to North Korea. My grandma will freak out, but she freaked out when I mentioned moving to Toronto. My cutting response, "It's Toronto Grandma, not Bosnia." Sorry Bosnia.

But I was hasty. So hasty! Yeah, it's all sunshine and daisies and collectivist farms at first but then there's always some horrible twist. Turns out that from 1995 to 2000 there was a massive famine in North Korea and because they were a communist regime they didn't get the same support as another country would have. Food was brought in, but not nearly enough and a large number of North Koreans were forced to eat some sort of ground up hay mixture that had no nutritional value but made them feel full. Horrifying!

Thanks for killing the dream communist North Korea, thanks a million.

On Lube.

In an effort to stave off madness and the Crazy Cat Lady Syndrome (I'm definitely in a high-risk category for that) I took my sorry butt out of the house to enjoy the splendours of the great outdoors. Or a four lane street and a mall. Whatever, there were trees.

I made my way over to the local Shopper's Drugmart. Many a glorious hour have I spent there making fun of make-up and the vast array of moisturizers with the roommates. Turns out that Shopper's isn't nearly as much fun when you're depressed and alone. Surprising.

I amused myself by perusing the "intimate" area of the store. Was particularly struck by the Personal Lubricant section. There was every single kind of lube you could wish for. God Bless you Capitalism! First you've got your flavoured lubes, my favourites were Passion Fruit (how apropos) and Strawberry Cheesecake. Gotta say, the Strawberry Cheesecake seems slightly unsexier than Passion Fruit but I guess there's no such thing as Strawberry Sexcake. Either that or Strawberry Sexcake tastes horrible.

Then you've got the lubes that make the big promises. There's the lube that'll make men last longer, the tingly lube that adds to your pleasure and the warming lube. I, personally, don't understand how lube can do all that, but that's probably why I'm not getting paid the big bucks.

So the next time you're looking for to give a gift to that special someone, forget the fruit basket, forget the wine and cheese basket. Make it a Lube Basket and you won't regret it!

Because it's what I do.

Water. I loved the movie. Of course I have to post a picture about it. It's my thing. Consistency, it's my middle name.

Toni Consistency Bank. It rolls right off the tongue.

Picture? Kalyani played by Lisa Ray, who's too good looking for her own good and Narayan by John Abraham, who would get such a licking from me if ever we were in the same room together.

I would like to dip my feet in that water. That? Also my thing. Dipped my feet in every body of water I came across in Wales.

Dare I mark up my body?

So the issue of tattoo-ery has arisen. Us Ten Stanley girls wanted to get tattoos. Susan has already taken the tattoo plunge and already knows what she wants. The rest of us, however, are a little unsure. Jo knows that she wants: (an increasingly elaborate) smiley face on the bottom of her big toe. It's a tattoo you'll never regret people. You'd believe me if you'd seen the trial run done with pen and then sketched for Susan on the table at Jack Astor's.

I'm torn. I know I don't want my tattoo to be a butterfly, skull, nudie girl, dolphin or anyone's name. You're just asking for trouble if you get someone's name tattooed to your body. I was thinking about something that would be appropriate heritage-wise which leads me to the ever popular Celtic tattoo designs (I never claimed my background was unique or interesting). Aside from the fact that the Celtic design is a common one for tattoos, I don't want to be thought a neo-pagan/wicca or Charmed fanatic. I'm many things, but certainly not that.

I want something I won't regret and I want something I can justify to my family. Like he's psychic or something, my grandpa brought up the subject of my dad's tattoos after he picked me up from the train station. It's one of those family stories that gets told over and over again. My dad came home one day with tattoos on his arms, showing them off to the family and my grandpa made a show of excitement:

"Oh those look great Steve."
"Really dad? Thanks."
"Yeah, so great that I think you should get one more, I'll even pay for it. Get 'stupid' tattooed right across your forehead."

So that about sums up my family's stance on tattoos. I'm prepared to take crap, but it better be for something more worthwhile than a butterfly.

All those places I got found.

So I've been visiting my beloved Jowie for the past few days, interspersed with visits from Linds and the always delightful Subutron. I feel like an adult again, despite the fact that a good deal of our time is spent jackassing around. On top of that, I don't have to take care of anybody here, and that's liberating. I'm still not employed, leaving the city you live and plan to work in is generally counterproductive in that respect, but spending time here makes me feel like I have prospects again.

Watched the movie Water last night with Jo. Beautiful. Just like we thought it would be. Deepa Mehta is a genius. Another in a series of heartbreaking stories out of India for me and Jo though. Perhaps you'll recall Born into Brothels? Also, I own a couple of books by Rohinton Mistry and Jo borrowed Family Matters. Love Mistry but his books are sure to destroy a little part of your soul. We really need to watch a traditional Bollywood movie, where the couple ends up together and evil characters have funny mustaches to twirl and where it's all set to music.

Jo and her parents have cooked up a life scheme for me. It involves a masters degree and lawyering of the human rights variety and John Travolta, somehow. Also, getting laid by hot celebrities and having famous back up dancers (Jo and Susan) while I teach at what is presumably a prestigious university. It's a cheery if muddled vision of my future. And I'm fairly certain that Jo's parents didn't have much to do with the scenario past being a human rights lawyer. Unless...

I was thinking I might just be a photographer though. Check out the brilly picture of Jo on her roof. The pretext was that her window keeps coming off its track or something. The truth was, Jowie just wanted to go out on the roof.


Home tomorrow.

A Very Special Blog. For Jowie in honour of our reunion tomorrow.

Dear Mr. Porter/Canadian Idol,

My friend Jowie is interested in having intimate relations with you. She is convinced that you're not a girl and, more importantly, that you're not a muppet.

She would like you to know that she's quite violent in her lovemaking. You should probably strap yourself in and feel the gee's.

Love,
Toni

Made of 100% recycled material.

I want to post. Really I do. Can't think of anything good to write about. I don't have a job and I'm not in love with where I'm living. There. That's all that's going on.

To amuse myself, I've decided to post proof that I'm a big ol' pervert in training. Talking to Jowie on Googletalk and Subu on MSN and within the space of five minutes the following occured:

Jowan: you're like a horny 14 year old boy

Susan: but if you get the top, you won't have access to my sweet sweet can
Toni: AHAHAHAHAHA you're killing me
Toni: bringing your 'A' game tonight!
Toni: my game rates a 'P' at best
Susan: P for perverse

YES!

To prove I have the mental age of a 14 year old:

Toni: YOU'RE THE UNCLEVER ONE AND THE SMELLY ONE
Jowan: speaking of smelly, something smells down here, but I have yet to find the source
Toni: did you check your butt? AHAHAHAHAHAHA. I'm on fire.

Toothpaste: An analytical approach.

So I bought some toothpaste the other day, as those of us with teeth tend to, and as I was brushing my teeth tonight, I was struck by two things:

Thing the first: My toothpaste (that claims to whiten my teeth) has little specks all through it reminiscent of the sparkly, bubblegum toothpaste of my youth. Felt like I was six years old again. An overgrown six year old who gets to stay home on her own and has access to as much naughty material as she likes.

Thing the second: My toothpaste isn't mint. Or, it's not just mint. It's Extreme Herbal Mint. This puzzled me. The thing is, I knew that mint was an herb before they threw it on my toothpaste bottle, as I'm not a complete moron. It's not like with this new toothpaste they just shoved some mint leaves in a bottle and told you to squirt some out and chew; ultimately still highly processed. (Note to self: invent new leafy toothpaste. would probably appeal to the hippies. Who I have the utmost respect for.) And seriously, what exactly makes my new, herbally toothpaste so extreme? When it's not cleaning my teeth is it out snowboarding down the Himalayas? Now THAT would be an impressive toothpaste.

Why this day didn't completely suck.

Too lazy to write an actual blog. Still want to post something. I'm pretty sure the sign says Toni Bank, so everybody else can just get screwed with their pants on.

Uh. Sorry. Come back and read my blog please. And if you're in Guelph, feel free to shout Toni at the top of your lungs, maybe I'll hear you all the way over here in Stinkbug Town.

-plans for next week!

-bought both battery recharger and Vanity Fair magazine with my friend's 10% Wal Mart discount (I'm not wrong in thinking that's the worst employee discount around right? Wal Mart's motto? Be Evil. Seriously, they make more money in a year than Poland does. That's just not right. Okay, I'll stop now.)

-non-offended friend.

-watched an episode of Veronica Mars (shut.up.everyone.)

-Winter by Josh Radin (still so good)

-job application submitted!

-This acrostic poem about pants:

Pathetic
Anti-good
Necrotic (as in dead tissue)
Troublesome
Sorry

Don't you hate pants? I know you do.

I'll throw in a picture for your trouble, how does that sound? Yeah, Jo's technically the one that found it, but I'm the one who's technically going to be introducing my fist to your stomach.

Seriously, what is with all the threats? I'm actually in a good mood. Maybe that's the reason. I'm very abstract, you see.

Addendum to the book throwing.

If I actually lose my mind (and god, all signs point to a big yes on that one) the following books will definitely be spared:

Stardust because Neil Gaiman knocks my socks off, even when I'm in a book throwing mood.

The Clash of Fundamentalisms by Tariq Ali because reading him in first year helped me articulate my hate for George Bush with bigger words and better ideas.

A Metropolitan Murder because it's set in Victorian London and I haven't read it yet. But if it turns out to be shite, I'm going to chuck it at the first person that looks at me cross eyed.

And finally (Finally!):

A History of Orgies by Burgo Partridge. Oh yes friends, it exists. And I fucking own it! So, for anyone keeping score, I have a book about the cultural history of the penis and the history of orgies. Just need one on vaginas and possibly of sex that is non-orgiastic in nature for the complete set.

Huzzah, I am the drinker of sugary tea.

This is the third blog I've started since I got home today. I want to be funny. I want to put the best of myself out 'there'. I want to to write about how I felt on Tuesday, like I could conquer the world with words, that maybe the possibilities were endless.

I still feel it. It's still hovering in the background. My mood will swing again. But I've watched a couple of emotional West Wing episodes and possibly offended an old friend and, slumped in my big brown chair, I don't feel like I could take over the world, probably couldn't even manage Switzerland right now.

Also, my step-dad may actually be a zombie. If I start writing about how I want to eat your delicious brains, you make sure to alert the presses, because it means he got to me, that I'm a zombie too.

Spending time with possibly offended old friend tomorrow, will either be resounding success or convince me for once and for all that I should brick myself into this room with a lot of tea and celery and spend my time throwing my many books at innocent bystanders who dare to walk past my house.

Just give me some of the sweet stuff and no one gets hurt.

Off (briefly) to Guelph to pick up some necessities that I left behind and then to the grandparents for a good meal. I need some sugar damn it! Went to make coffee yestereday afternoon, couldn't find any sugar at all. Fine, I say to myself, maybe they've started storing their sugar in some special sugar-holding vat, the location of which I'm not yet privy to. With that in mind, I asked Deanna when she got home. No vat, quite the opposite actually. We had 4 packets of sugar. That's it.

And this is where I start tearing my hair out people.

I'm without sugary products but I'm also without their caffeinated friends, coffee and tea.

So I'm going to go all "Please sir, may I have some more" on the grandparents and con as much sugar and food out of them as I can.

Chuck Norris Facts

You've probably heard some of these before. I've had the link in my bookmarks forever. It just kills me, so I thought I'd pass on a few of my favourites to tittillate your eyeballs.

-Chuck Norris doesn't have hair on his testicles, because hair does not grow on steel.
-Leading hand sanitizers claim they can kill 99.9 percent of germs. Chuck Norris can kill 100 percent of whatever the fuck he wants.
-Chuck Norris' cowboy boots are made from real cowboys.
-Switzerland isn't really neutral. They just haven't figured out what side Chuck Norris is on yet.
-Chuck Norris' sperm can penetrate 13 condoms, the birth control pill, a brick wall, and the 1975 Pittsburgh Steelers offensive line in order to impregnate a woman.

Link

Far, far away.

Inspired by my dearest Jowie, I will soon be off to sort through more of my stuff. In addition to the crap I brought home with me, Brian had a couple of boxes of stuff saved that he thought I might want. Goody.

Anyways, another picture in the grand tradition of Toni posting pictures of places she'd like to be. Wow, I should never ever talk about myself in the third person.

These arches are in Turkey, according to some random blog I was on (written almost entirely in another language, I might add). I want to be sitting under the second one, reading a book splashed by the sun and know that the wall behind my back is ancient, almost beyond comprehension.