Here's a little irony for ya: In all my days and miles as a dumpster diver, I never adopted anything to put trash in. Weird. I have a recycling bin and a trash can that a roommate bought new at a real store. Full price. 
Among the hickish elements of my Maritime upbringing was the weekly local newspaper. Take a minute. Think about it. It came out once a week. It was a big deal when it moved from Wednesdays to Tuesdays. Hell, that was probably the cover story for three weeks running. 
I'm pretty good at rhyming couplets. Here goes: 
My affinity for the absurd manifests itself without warning. Lately, it's been preoccupying me with the idea that I'm going to move to New Zealand on January 1, 2012. Don't know why. Don't know what I'm going to do there. Hope it involves farming sheep and toes in the Pacific. I also want to know what words sound the strangest to New Zealanders in my Canadian accent. 
We don't call the cat Fattie for nothing. 'Bout 46 hours ago I was busy launching balls and heaps of yarn in her direction, with the hope of inciting something akin to chair aerobics for seniors. If only I were so lucky. She spent the next few hours laying on the rug with a hunk of ivory wool dangling between her eyes . . . too lazy to even brush away the obvious obstruction. 
I have this meta-fantasy about owning a monster drafty farm house on the Atlantic, with rocking chairs on the porch and freckled coffee drinking. Complete with a paint job finished in the '50s and salt stained windows. No landscaping. In the morning I'll have to shove three or four large stinky dogs out of the way to get to the door knob. My herd. Black labs. They'll all be friends and swim, of course. Me & the Fatster (who will be about 23 by now) will play with yarn and books. Thinking & making. 
