Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.

Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.

Thursday, March 13, 2003


We are in the process of The Big Move.

If you don't hear from me for a few weeks, never fear.

I'm either:

A) ... rotting in a jail cell for strangling DG and beating his head in with a spork while hoping someone will post bail before my new roomie decides to make me her new bitch.

B) ... still trying to figure out where to hide the body.

C) ... or sitting on a beach in Brazil sipping fruity alcoholic beverages and being fanned by a very muscular mostly-nekkid cabana boy named Raul whose only English phrase is "How may I serve you?"

If C) turns out to be the case, please. Don't send help.

(PS: Ann, got a big bag of clothes for you to go through.)

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