Perhaps we could hire a muse...

Remember in our early days when we were looking to fit out a van for metablogging and we spent all that time on eBay? Maybe it's time we went back there for a muse.

Here's an auction we missed:

Let me be your fantasy imaginary psycho girlfriend for a month. I am 29 years old, 115 pounds, with natural purple hair and a fascination with death. I am certifiably insane (copy of certificate available upon request). The details of this auction are listed below... [Link]

Misreading: I think Musie still wants to blog

There are unreliable narrators. Then, there are unreliable readers. In this case, I think we have been unreliable readers in our readings of the 5th Muse's so-called last post.

There is enough ambivalence in her latest (and perhaps last) to drive a truck through. The woman is dying to blog. When Musie says she is "leaning towards elsewhere", can't you all see that she just wants some reassurance? She wants us to beg her to keep the narrative going. Just as I would want all of you to beg me to keep blogging if I ever threaten to take it off-line.

But, this isn't about me. It's about Musie. Let's talk about the negativity. All the great bloggers out there have encountered it. Remember when Dwarfie got slammed by Lana and Minty? That took the wind right out of his sails. The lcp took quite a few knocks, too, at one point. And, Musie herself weathered some harsh comments and commentary. She says she wants to protect R and the Chinchillas from the negative energies of cyberworld. I think she just wants to protect her happy ending. Sure, turn off the comments if they are nasty. And, we'll delete anything too nasty over at this end and reactivate the ethics committee.

There will be plenty more happy endings to look forward to. I say, blog on, hon!!

Healing Well

The news is that Agatha's finger is doing well. She has her stitches demurely covered with a bandaid that made me jealous until she gave me two.

Aggie is good with sharing.

She would have given me more, but I don't cut myself often, and there's no sign of any more rat moles.

Speaking of the rat mole, I now have a tidy anchor-shaped scar on my forehead.

When it throbs, I know that Lana and her minions are plotting something.

Addio, buona fortuna. . .

Our Muse has broken her silence to say goodbye. She says it's time for a new narrative, and really, she's right. A fairly classy wrap, I think, all things considered. So long, ma'am, and good luck...

Sign of the times

Turn right at the fallen statue
Past the spent shell casings
That litter the flats
Till you see the charred bones
That don't seem real
Until you smell
The unmistakable smell
Of burning flesh
If you reach an olive grove
Stroked by the sun
And hear the quiet cooing
Of those who sleep without fear
You have gone too far