Stuff Heather Thinks is Super Great

Hey, look what I’m doing, isn’t this nostalgic and comforting?  Look what I’m doing when I should be practicing for my burlesque show on Monday.  Ah well, will practice immediately afterward.  I already listened to the song like eight times today.

Onward, to things I like!

The “Victorian Cream Corset” from Voluptupuss.  This is the third corset I’ve ordered from them and it arrived in the mail today.  It is softer and more comfortable and even beautiful-er than I anticipated, and I am wearing it right now.  I may take to wearing it under all my clothing.  Like a real Victorian.

The other day the State and I tried to gain entrance to a local massage parlor, but were turned away in a rather sketchy manner; we later discovered (thanks, Internet!) that it was only a “massage parlor” in the sense that they gave you a massage before boning you.  Yeah, we unwittingly tried to gain entrance to a brothel.  This story will live forever, cats and kittens.  I will live to tell my grandchildren this story.  My great-grandchildren!  I will come back as a ghost, just to tell future generations this story.  I will construct the tale from misplaced items (e.g. massage oil canisters, Asian good-luck cats, empty potato chip bags) about the house.

Hey, Kurt and Blaine did it.  Alas, not while they sweetly sang the refrain from “Teenage Dream” to each other — how nice that would have been, so self-referential — but still, two gay kids losing their virginities on television feels like a TV milestone.  Let’s get drunk to celebrate.  Let’s get drunk, period.  It’s almost the weekend!  There’s a great wine store by my apartment.

Riding the train.  Mundane and boring it may be, I enjoy that half hour commuting from home to work every morning.  It’s quiet and comforting and I get to read.  On the ride home in the evening, I get to be social with a bunch of people I work with.  It’s one of the few instances when I enjoy the actual process of traveling.

Something I wrote was included in the Rumpus Readers Report!  It’s the last one, way down at the bottom.  400 words of aw yeah.

The Art of Fielding, Chad Harbach.  Full disclosure: I hate baseball novels.  I hate baseball.  There was a time — 1994 — when baseball was my life, but no longer.  That being said, I can’t put The Art of Fielding down.  I’m 300 pages in and I started it Monday.  I mean, jeez.  Chad Harbach, I doff my hat to you.  Not even Michael Chabon could get me to read his baseball novel, and then you came along.

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