“So what,” you ask, fundamentally fed up with all this stalling, “do you need such a whacking great tank for?

long aquarium with black sand and live plants, half full of water

Would you believe I just want a nice space to grow new plants?


To fulfill a promise made to itty bitty me.


Basically, it’s very expensive therapy.[1]


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Perfectly Reasonable


It’s not, as you’ve probably guessed, a baby shark.


For one thing, I’m not an idiot and I know that baby sharks grow into adult sharks[1] who deserve way more space than I’m prepared to provide.[2]


But leaving Offspring guessing about what I was plotting here while he nobly battles red tape and ignorance in support of… whatever it is we’re doing over there.  I’ve honestly forgotten.

clubhouse/lounge in Bagram hanger, made of "tactically acquired" pallets and bits of wood, covered with a tarp. Strung with Christmas lights.

So have they.


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Meet… My Anxiety


Let’s talk about Anxiety.

animated letters spell ANXIETY surrounded by squiggles and scribbles and arrows


First of all, as successfully evolved humans, we all have some.  That’s why we’re alive and the unsuccessful models that preceded us are not.  When a strange silence fell over the forest, our ancestors tensed and slid into the shadows just in case; we are the descendants of those who, when confronted with a new thing, let someone else try it first in case it was just a fancy new way to die horribly.[1]

Have a problem? Overthink it! No problems? Overthink 'til you find one! (by tijanac)


What we call anxiety is just our poor highly-evolved brains trying desperately to keep us alive in a world that’s not actually trying to kill us anymore.[2]


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Fur is the New Black


I just checked my stats this week, and I’ve got some bad news.


Statistically speaking, we are not friends.


I mean, obviously I love you because you take time out of your day to come here and read about me—my favorite topic in the world, thankyouverymuch—but there’s no denying that I don’t know and have never met an estimated 99.993% of you.*


Woman concentrates while equations flash

Math.  Not even once.


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I’m Probably Already Dead—That Would Explain a Lot


I’ve said before that if you ever see I’ve skipped a post you should assume I’ve been killed by spiders—because it is 100% reasonable to assume it will be the spiders that kill me someday.  I know this because they are out to get me; yes, I have proof and no, I don’t want to talk about it.  That’s not what we’re here for today.

(IT Crowd) Morris Moss pulls out bucket of popcorn and blue soda, excited for story time. "Ok. Ok... GO!"


It turns out, I was wrong. 


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My Unexamined Life


Okay, this is the last moving-related post.  I swear.  And it’s barely a moving post, since I’m not going to talk about the boxes that are the bane of my existence or how I still haven’t found my shampoo.  It’s cool, I’ll just buy more.


It’s just… remember the brain crabs? 


The ones we killed off when I, you know, found a place to live and totally pulled off this move even after everything went pear-shaped at the last fucking minute?


Turns out they’re armor-plated and radioactive. 

Glowing, radioactive cartoon crab with laser cannons for eyes

And they’re mutating.


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We’re STILL the Worst


My brain, normally full of ferrets, is now filled with pinching, angry crabs all screaming the same thing.



masses of red crabs marching across the sand and forest in their annual migration

“You know what the problem is?  You’re too picky!  And you’re looking on the wrong sites!  And you haven’t tried ALL the paid services!  Oh, you’d better check zillow again—it’s been almost five minutes!”


Fucking brain crabs. 


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