Bloody, I mean, breaking news!

If you drink wine out on your porch, fruit flies will fly into it and die a glorious, alcoholic death.

If I could die listening to Danielson's "Bloodbook on the Half Shell" (Ninja turtles, anyone?) it'd be worth it.

"while we are stacking, organizing, filing!
piling, way up high-and rising!
dewey-dusty-decimalizing!
sorting, tracking, systemizing!
can't believe we found this vintage!
we now have such great advantage!
great they'll look in our library!
let's get goin', and let us hurry, now ,now."

Ships, man. Man. Listen. I'm obsessed.

Also, for anyone who cares, I went on my first for-pleasure bike ride since the stupidity-inflicted injury. Luckily I was mildly drunk so it barely hurt. Except when the gear fell off, jarring my ankle, and I had to stop and sit down on the curb because I couldn't see from the pain. Also-also, my ankle is now the size of a kiwi instead of the size of a grapefruit (my normal-ankle-size is apricot-ish, maybe a large cherry. Also-times-three, I'm going to take this bracket opportunity to say, for the record, that I generally hate plants. Sure, they're tasty to eat and all – but I see plants the same way most people see cows. I don't want to fucking water them, I want them to be ready for my harvest. It's mostly because I have a brown thumb, I think, and kill every plant I touch. But also because people who garden are crazy. Man, I need to get a life. Or drink less wine. Or something.). So, yeah. Now you know.