i’m typing this with my good arm

I am hopelessly addicted to apples. Seriously. I eat them like it’s my job, and if I could get paid for doing so, I would be a rich, rich woman (or at least a woman better able to support her habit).

My love of apples is such that I devour them in their entirety—core included—as to waste any part would be blasphemous, indeed. And often times, I’ll even affix the pretty, PLU-numbered label to my person or my satchel (see: ginormous bag of literary paraphernalia permanently attached to my body) to christen the act of consumption before the first bite.

In most cases, these apple-adorning stickers are all about facts—apple variety, place of origin, organic certification—but once in a while, I encounter a more creatively conceived of sticker, complete with colorful design and cleverly concise message. Like Saturday, when I enjoyed a brilliantly decorated apple, its label displaying a solitary word outlined in red against an all white background: “Purity.”

I attached said label to my otherwise unadorned shirt and wore it proudly around Peet’s, until crossing paths with Saren, who laughed at the mere thought of my claims to purity and gave me a look that said no one was fooled.

I tried to dispute her amusement and defend my supposed innocence, but my recently sustained bedroom-related arm injury told the real story. In light of this development, pretending myself pure was no longer a possibility.


(Note: injury (and impurity) aside, it was totally worth it.)

pretty boy

This weekend I attended the most perfect of parties, a Please Help Me Celebrate My New Bakery Location By Eating Delicious Vegan Pastas and Pastries Party, a party thrown by and in honor of the amazing Amanda, maker of dangerously tasty treats of which I have shamelessly consumed more than my fair share, rationalizing my indulgence with a self-deceptive and altogether inaccurate claim of the inherent good-for-me nature of anything vegan.

After sampling a small selection of awesomely animal-free food items, I secured myself a mini cupcake to be saved and devoured later (or, you know, on the walk home) and approached the party’s host to offer thanks and a good-bye.

At that moment, a beautiful, blonde, impeccably dressed gay boy made his entrance, demanding the attention of everyone in attendance.

“He’s so pretty,” Amanda (a girl who likes girls and is, in fact, married to one) remarked, “I wish I was a boy who liked boys.”

Classic.