pastiche and irony

I want to rant. I want desperately to yell and scream and talk about how rude and disrespectful and invasive and none of anyone's fucking business it is. But I am really just tired of all of it. I'm just going to say one thing: why the hell is this still a thing in 2023?

So. How about that weather?

There's been an awful lot of talk about the future lately, which has got me thinking: why does it seem like the adults of the world are so eager for us to leave our youth behind? And why are we buying into it? There was only one reason that I could come up with for the former question: misery loves company. Adults are telling us to make sure we figure our stuff out because someone told it to them when they were young and they regret it, so it's only by perpetuating that cycle that they feel justified in having thrown their own youth away.

Tell me, what is really going to happen to me if I don't get an internship with such and such department or a spot as a Healer-in-Training, or what have you? Freedom, my friends. Freedom from the fear of failure and freedom from the wretched gears of societal 'musts'. And that is what they don't want you to have.

I have been remiss! I failed to wish you all a Happy Texas Independence Day yesterday! On March 2, 1836, Texans declared their independence from Mexico and formed their own country. And thus began nearly 200 years of feeling superior and entitled to cheap construction labor. I probably should send an apology card to Mexico for my state. But I will be happy to make some guacamole. At least I can't burn that.

Happy Texas Independence Day!

Warded to Salem and Brennan [written in very shaky handwriting; messy ink drips everywhere—aka, she is already wasted writing this]

Ahem. Today is my seventeenth birthday. Now as we all know, normally that is a shit birthday, but fortunately for me, being here in the UK (it is fucking cold here, by the way, I do not like it) means that it is a Significant Ordeal. I have been given a fuckton (yes, Alex, that is a very precise measurement) of alcohol, and I even have a decent amount left. Katja sent me a birthday pinata that essentially a keg of tequila, and there is at least half of it left. Katja is a really good kisser, by the way, not sure if you knew that. But ANYWAY, I fully expect each of you to do me the courtesy of at least ONE birthday shot with me.

By the way, this is not a request.

Warded to Katja [added a few hours later]

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE PINATA, IT IS AWESOME.

Hey, you know what we did a couple of weeks ago? Can we do that again?

I am honestly impressed right now. That damn commercialized day of red and sickly sweet hearts is next week and no one has made a mention of it, except to guess who won't still be together when it comes around. At Salem, it's all I would hear about for at least two weeks before. So good on you, Hogwarts.

Katja.

So.

Who here knows Cosmo? My little sister very thoughtfully owled me the latest issue, and it has this gem of a quiz in it.

So which of you would like to know "What Kind of Sexy Are You?"

I have no idea how you were raised, but in Texas we consider insulting a team after you soundly pulverize defeat them rubbing salt in the wound, extremely rude, and unsportsmanlike.

Salem.

Sorry.

Riley.

You owe the entire team an apology, but me most of all. If you ignore me, I will be even more pissed off.

Warded to Katja Vos.

So. Did you all enjoy the pinata?

As the poem gently reminds us, Christmas is a time for family, and so we all ought to be thankful for the time we spent with them. Let me tell you a story in this spirit.

My poor sister, bless her heart. She is simply so stressed out from all of her wedding preparations that her hair is turning dull and lifeless and completely unable to hold any sort of volume (non-Texans, we have a saying, "The higher the hair, the closer to God," so you can imagine the terrible tragedy this was). My mother then swept in to save her eldest baby girl from such a fate, declaring that all five Wilder women were going bridesmaid dress shopping on the day after Christmas in order to take full advantage of sales. After a short tantrum from the maid of honor (Miss Wind Turbine 2022 herself) at the prospect of putting a "cheap" dress on her sanctified body—mollified by the promise of manicures and pedicures after a job well done—we trudged out of the house at 8:30 AM and proceeded to visit no less than six different bridal parlors. Yours truly somehow received the distinguished honor of playing living mannequin, since the maid of honor didn't want to trouble herself to put on any dresses but those that she really liked, and the youngest Wilder is apparently too young to do it (Mom: Ruby Grey, I don't want any of your attitude today, now you get up there and be sweet. It is your sister's day.). Apparently when you're a bride-to-be, every day gets to be yours until you actually walk down the aisle. Then, of course, your days are his days.

Do you have any idea how many shades of pink there are in existence? Or how many options for dress styles? Well I must have tried on at least half of them and heard talk of the other half, and I still have no idea. Also, that thing they say about when you find it you Just Know? I am here to lay that rumor to rest. You will Just Know about twelve different times until someone (usually the very picky maid of honor) points out something about the dress that you didn't notice before, or until someone flippantly says something to the effect of "Oh won't you just upstage the bride herself in that, you look stunning!" (even if you look like you are being swallowed by shiny fabric). But fear not! A dress was finally agreed upon before the end of the day, ordered, and my radiant sister has very fortunately gained back the gleam to her locks (and picked up a Bump-It or two for the next time things get so stressful).

Here is precisely what I am going to be wearing on June 23, 2023, the day that has gone down in the history books as the Most Important Day of Willa Rae's Life: ( spellotaped picture )

Warded to Friends.
And to top off all of that fuckery, they insisted that I wear a pair of chicken cutlets.

I say, I have had the most marvelous idea for Christmas jollies.

Some of the most frightfully awful sweater jumpers in existence have been created in the name of the holiday, and I for one think it only proper to celebrate the poor blighters whose wives stuffed them into the horrid things for a spot of tea at the neighbours'.

Therefore and accordingly! I hereby propose we all put on our most unfortunate-looking Christmas jumpers Monday at supper. Someone impartial can choose the most unfortunate among us, and the winner will receive something jolly good.

Well pip pip, all! Hop to! Some ugly jumpers to be located!

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Two questions.

One, what exactly is the purpose of a Christmas cracker?

Two, why is it called Boxing Day and why does it need a special name?

Warded to Salem

I have so many ideas...

I'm starting a new journal series. I'm calling it "Texas-ism of the Day."

I understand many of you poor critters (that's not exactly a Texas-ism, more of a general southern term) have never had the pleasure of traveling to our great Lone Star Nation, so I have resolved to bring it to you! Of course we have the nicest people on God's green earth, who just happen to have some of the most colorful colloquialisms ever—and entirely confusing to the outsider. So here I am, at your service!

Texas-ism of the Day, Wednesday, November 30, 2022:

You can put your boots in the oven, but that don't make 'em biscuits.
Translation: You can call it whatever you want, but that doesn't change what it is; OR A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

And here we're talking about good, fluffy, fattening biscuits (and I miss my Granny's like none other), not cookies for you Brits. My daddy says this to some of his workers when they're trying to give excuses for why they were late. I personally like the mental image of someone trying to cook muddy workboots.

And there you have it! Proof that the Americans, too, speak a different language.

Sadly, in search of, but one step in back of,
Themselves and their ( slow-movin' dreams. )