Gosh! It appears it is the eighth of December already. Where did the time go? It vanished! POP! Gone! Incredible that is, time, it always appears to be rushing by when we need it, and then when we're aware of it being there it's slow and gooey. What a spot of bother we twirled ourselves into when inventing time - or discovering time, I suppose (that would be more accurate). I could write something witty here, or something that could put a smile on your face for the rest of the day. Afraid I can't really think of anything to write - except that I saw Hairspray today, and it almost gave me a facelift because I almost threw up and so my face was upside down most of the time.
I still think Cristopher Walken is cool though, it is compulsive, I suppose.
by
Omg snow!! It's so pretty and christmassy and you know, all that.
Eve worked in a large shopping mart. Every single morning, when the sun was still a pinkish haze through the pollution -she drove the short route through the concrete maze and parked in front of the neon-flashing chaos that was the liquor store. With the click of worn, cheap shoes she strode over the vast parking lot and around to the back of the mart, where it smelled rotten and fishy. The following bit she never remembered, because she was usually too tired. But before she knew it she was seated beneath the penetrating ceiling lights of Shop Smart Super Mart, bipping groceries past the cashier and watching people fumble for their wallets.
”This swamp is disgusting!” she hollered to nobody in particular. She stood to her knees in the semi-yellow, slimey substances that covered the surface underneath the low ferns and the stalked flowers enveloping the misty wetness of the planet Schloorg. With much difficulty she managed to haul herself up from the sucking mass that bubbled with mysterious appetite. Small insects whirred and zoomed in and out of sight in the clampy mist. The sky was grey and empty, though still – mostly wet. Her shiny spaceship stood parked some way off, she had managed to steer it down on a patch of ground that didn’t immediately sink into the muddy masses below. Her cook, Flatch Estavado was unsuccessfully attempting to pick an eggplant-like vegetable from through an open window in the ship. -“Captain!” He shouted, though the fog seemed to devour most of the sound. “Captain! The- what is that?- Eew! –The roasted Uqail is ready!” He tried to shake off the pink slime that had covered his arm when the eggplant had exploded without warning.
It was at the dodgy end of Begonia lane, the lane edged with pumpkin patches and old, crooked oaks. The worn down, muddy street in the district of continuous autumn, where the crisp, dry leaves from the trees always flutter aimlessly in the wind.
In a little dip between the fields lay a brick house. It was surrounded by blooming roses, purple and white lilac and some little scarlet begonias, all this foliage, the fuzzed, uncut lawn and the house were confined by a low stone fence. A warm June sun embraced this ripe summer afternoon and covered the landscape like golden drapes. The brick house was what by size I assume you’d call a small villa, or a minuscule mansion, because it was quite a pleasurable rust red size to it. You could tell from outside that most of the wobbly old windows had white lace curtains on the inside, and traditional, clean shutters neatly bolted on to the exteriority. All in all it was a very delicious countryside home, all heartily and delicately luscious. 
