I know what I’m wearing this Halloween: my pumpkin shirt arrived today, and it’s the cutest thing I ever did see. You should all head over to Diesel Sweeties right now and grab your own - you can still order for Halloween delivery! The skull shirt kicks some ass, too.

Since I have to be in Manhattan on Sunday afternoons anyway to meet with my “affinity group” for Linguistics (heaven forbid anyone refer to it as a recitation), Spencer and I decided to make a Halloweeny (or Halloweenie) sort of day out of what would otherwise have been a supremely frustrating commute. We stopped by the Illuminations store, despite Spencer’s best efforts to the contrary, knowing as he does that once I’m there we aren’t going anywhere for a good half an hour. Do you not understand that I need to smell these pumpkin pie-scented votives one more time? Have you not seen the little cast iron haunted house with spots behind the windows for tealights? The only downside (from my perspective) is that being there does make me miss Colin (who should come visit soon) very much.

There were several other stops on Emma and Spencer’s Grand Autumnal Acoutrements Tour Of Lower Manhattan, and some refueling at our usual Mexican place. The weather was perfect; as Octoberful as it gets, never mind that in a day or two when it actually is October, it’s supposed to be quite a bit warmer. But after a thoroughly successful journey around the village, I’ve not only done my Linguistics work for tomorrow, but I arrived home with skull-shaped shot glasses, fer chrissakes. If that doesn’t make a good day, I really don’t know what does. Well, maybe the little plastic coffin candy holders. Or the glow in the dark skeleton Pez dispenser, even. It’s hard to tell.

And last, but not least: a Very Happy Birthday to my big brother.

I’m looking for a particular mp3 that absolutely nobody seems to have, which is actually pretty rare given the nefarious folk with whom I tend to associate. If anyone happens to have Libitina - Gothic People, would you mind letting me know where I can grab it? Normally I’d just give in and buy the album, but it’s for a particular purpose and I can’t wait for shipping.

Adium users should check out this set of Domo-Kun Adium icons. I like Adium a lot, but most of the default icons are a little on the oogly side. And really, it’s hard to compete with Domo.

Well, it finally happened, and it was just like everyone said it would be! I was a little nervous at first, but it turned out to be sort of fun and not nearly as messy as I feared.

Yes, that’s right: I tried sushi for the first time. It’s been one of my dirty little secrets that I managed to reach nearly twenty two years on this earth without ever eating it; every once in a while someone would find out and I’d have to explain that it’s not that I’m against sushi in and of itself, I just wasn’t sure that I was ready to take such a big step. I don’t think it’s wrong that other people eat sushi, but is sushi really right for me?

So when there began to be talk of going to get some sushi last night, I was timid at first but everyone assured me I didn’t have to go straight to raw fish if I didn’t want to. I could start slow. The sushi would be tender and compassionate, understanding of my needs. And that’s how it came to be that after a little fumbling around with the chopsticks and wasabi, I ate my very first cucumber roll. And I liked it.

I apologize in advance. Between the fever and the decongestant they’re making me take (not for a stuffed up nose but for the sheer volume of crap in my throat), I’m feeling a little not-completely-here. It was one of those mornings, today, when the alarm goes off and before you’ve even managed to make it shut up you’re already trying to come up with any possible rationalization that will allow you to just say fuck it and climb back in bed. In theory, I could have skipped my classes today. I have an official Health Center Thingie and I couldn’t really be penalized for it - except that I had a lab and two tests that I really, truly didn’t want to miss. Not that I enjoyed taking them, but there is nothing in this world more frustrating and futile than trying to make up an in-class grade in a university environment.

So I did go to my classes, and although I’m sure my Punnett squares were a little off and my fevered mumbling and/or snoring in Linguistics might have been slightly distracting for the rest of the class, I did in fact make it through. I’ve given myself permission to miss a non-essential early morning lecture tomorrow so that I can get more than six hours of sleep and, if this penicillin seriously starts kicking some ass, be fit as a fucking fiddle in time for Programming in early afternoon.

It’s a theory, anyway. For the moment, however, I’m not counting on anything beyond another cup of tea and crawling back into that bed I so reluctantly evacuated in the prehistoric hours of this morning.

I suppose it’s one of life’s little delectations that the morning after I finish rereading The Plague, I wake up with the worst case of tonsilitis I’ve had in a year or two. Although I usually don’t realize it’s not just a cold for at least a couple of days, I’m getting pretty used to the symptoms and headed straight to the UHC after my first lecture. I plopped my ass down in Urgent Care, so that someone could fondle my lymph nodes, shove an overgrown Q-Tip down my throat, and give me some penicillin.

I got all that, but I also got a referral for a throat specialist because of the truly absurd number of times I’ve had Bad Throat Stuff in the recent past. This is both good and bad. The good part, obviously, is that he may be able to fix my throat and/or the damage that my immune system incurred because of the Mono Incident. The bad part is that he may just tell me what others have been making noise about for quite a while - that it’s time to just give in and rip the little fuckers out. The tonsils, that is. I’m not a big fan of the whole surgery gestalt, although I’ve never actually experienced it firsthand. Hell, it might be all shits and giggles; I can’t really say. But I’m not looking forward to missing classes and having my throat hurt yet again. We’ll see.

It’s interesting to think about the fact that if it weren’t for penicillin and its friendly fungal pals, I’d be dead several times over by now. Sure, the first time I had strep throat - when I was maybe eight and stayed in bed for a week with my Ginny dolls and endless cups of broth - might not have killed me, but one of the other dozen times I’ve had it or related infections probably would have done the trick. However, I barely think twice about picking up a five dollar bottle of this stuff whenever I wake up with tonsils the size of grapefruit and a throat full of the most appetizing gunk.

I finally gave in and put up the Halloween decorations I bought last November during the various sales. Then there’s the pumpkin pie candles I picked up at the Illuminations store (thanks to Colin) and my apartment is all black-and-orangey. Qat and I were discussing haunted gingerbread houses and while Martha’s is impressive, what’s the fun in a kit that - aside from being $32 - provides all the candies and everything? I won’t be making one myself as my oven is bitchy at best, but my grandmother and I made a couple of the standard Christmasy variety gingerbread houses when I was little. I wish I had pictures.

I guess today was the official first day of Autumn, and it felt like it - a little on the warm side, but gusty and gorgeous. And by the end of the week, the temperature is supposed to be down to highs in the 60s. Absolutely delicious, I can’t wait.

Another landmark that’s surely indicative of something: last night, I made my very first noise complaint. Now, I’m usually not a big fan of noise complaints, really; having been on the complained-about end several times, I understand the seething frustration and blatant injustice so prevalent in such matters. Noise? The Smiths aren’t noise. I turn down This Charming Man for NO MAN, be he large or landlord or louder than me.

Seriously though, this one was merited. Honest. Cee and I were trying to read, but to no avail: it being after midnight and this being Brighton Beach, the sidewalk outside my house had been graced with the presence of half a dozen burly, enthusiastically inebriated fellows of the Loud And Russian persuasion. At first we peeked gleefully between the blinds and tried to guess definitions for the various Slavic expletives being hurled positively willy-nilly around the street.

“I think the short one owes one of them money?”
“No, that one hit on the other one’s girlfriend or something.”
“These men have girlfriends?”
“Well, there’s that chick sort of hiding behind a car over there.”
“I think she lives across the street.”

Eventually, though, it grew tiresome. Excuse me, gentlemen, but we’re trying to absorb some contemporary short fiction up here, could you please keep it down? We listened irritably and involuntarily for perhaps another twenty minutes, but the battle showed no signs of impending abatement. Drastic measures were considered.

“I think you should go down and tell them to shut up.”
“You go down and tell them.”
“It’s your building.”
“Which means those are my neighbors. What if they recognize me later or something? You’ve got immunity!”
“I don’t think they’re the mob, they’re just drunk guys.”
“They could be the mob. How do you know they’re not the mob?”

Finally, Cee took charge of the situation. Pushing the blinds aside, she wrenched open the window and shrieked, “ARE YOU GOING TO EVER SHUT UP OR DO WE HAVE TO CALL THE POLICE OR WHATEVER?” Silence fell, briefly, but then the yelling resumed - directed, predictably, at Cee and her various sexual proclivities and/or ancestral history. Full of righteous indignation et cetera, we rang up the 61st Precinct and after much um-ing and uh-ing, I placed a timid but definite Complaint Regarding Excessive Noise. We resumed our gleeful peeking at the window, but got bored and went to play some GTA3. Eventually, we realized the noise had stopped - presumably our friends had settled the matter themselves or had indeed been subject to a little chat with some of New York’s Finest. Either way, really.

I suppose we’ve now officially joined The Man. First noise complaints, then navy blue blazers and nylons with sneakers and before you know it you’re in the Young Republicans club. What can you do, really.