Filled too many sample vials in an unventilated room. Truly stupid. Feel dizzy.

::|:| neo-imperialism |:|::

I can’t seem to motivate to do the yard. I’m burning daylight, so I need to get into it, but the last 6 pansies that went into the ground felt… half-assed. So I sat down here with another cup of coffee and came across this:

::|:| Homeless for the Holidays |:|::

Yet another punch in the psyche that helps me put life in perspective.

::|:| Yes, Virginia, there is a Cthulhu… |:|::

A million thanks to arisbe for this. =D

Ugh, I had to post something here just to get that fuchsia off my screen. Not that I’m not a big fan of the color itself – it just clashes so godawful badly with the rest of my LJ setup that it was giving me a twitch.

This afternoon’s card:

Hm. Something to think about.

Though I’ve been up since 8am, I’m not awake. I felt an energy lull hit me about an hour ago, and I can’t seem to snap out of it. I’m starting to think that perpetual fatigue is a Piscean trait.

I need to pack up orders, go to the post office, do some Christmas shopping, squish some herbs, and finish planting my Pansy Madness section of the garden, but I can’t seem to pry myself off of this chair. I’m hoping that my triple black eye will shock me into coherence.

The final card in response to a reading regarding a question I had about an esoteric choice I’m in the process of making:

Excellent.

Ok, because of that and a trillion other little things, I’m happy again. Damn moody Pisces.

With the exception of being dragged back into the office kicking and screaming, everything has been going fairly well. I think I’ve simply been a little overworked, and I don’t have the emotional capacity to deal with shipping fuck ups right now, especially with the holiday season in full swing. The weekend’s shipping drama was a catalyst for this wretched funk, but it seems to have finally passed.

Several banishings and a wad of fudge later…

I did a little Lab work today, mostly labeling and filling sample vials. I got rid of the bulk of my negative energy by weeding the buhjeezus out of the yard. I planted about 30 pansies, pruned the roses, repotted two herbs and one of the pond lilies, and planted a pink jasmine near one of our fences. I’m out of potting soil, so I get to make a pilgrimage to Sunset Nursery tomorrow… which will inevitably result in my spending more of my Christmas funds on plants.

I need to stop procrastinating cleaning out the closet. I have a shitload of clothes that I rarely wear any longer — mostly DeMask rubber items, old [vintage, if you must] Lip Service from back when I still worked there, and a few corsets that just aren’t me anymore — that I really should sell, but I can’t seem to find the energy to pick up the digicam and get them listed. I’ve got quite a few pairs of slutty pumps, too, that I’ve neglected in favor of sensible platforms. Those can go up on the auction block, too.

Hm.

I’m going to answer some emails and then settle down on the couch and watch Monsters, Inc. Nothing restores my sanity and happiness quite like Disney.

Which reminds me… I really should post the Disneyland pics. Bah. Tomorrow.

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

– – –

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?

You are Charles VI of France, also known as Charles the Mad or Charles the Well-Beloved!

[I’m flattered!]

A fine, amiable and dreamy young man, skilled in horsemanship and archery, you were also from a long line of dribbling madmen. King at 12 and quickly married to your sweetheart, Bavarian Princess Isabeau, you enjoyed many happy months together before either of you could speak anything of the other’s language. However, after illness you became a tad unstable. When a raving lunatic ran up to your entourage spouting an incoherent prophecy of doom, you were unsettled enough to slaughter four of your best men when a page dropped a lance. Your hair and nails fell out. At a royal masquerade, you and your courtiers dressed as wild men, ending in tragedy when four of them accidentally caught fire and burned to death. You were saved by the timely intervention of the Duchess of Berry’s underskirts.

This brought on another bout of sickness, which surgeons countered by drilling holes in your skull. The following months saw you suffer an exorcism, beg your friends to kill you, go into hyperactive fits of gaiety, run through your rooms to the point of exhaustion, hide from imaginary assassins, claim your name was Georges, deny that you were King and fail to recognise your family. You smashed furniture and wet yourself at regular intervals. Passing briefly into erratic genius, you believed yourself to be made of glass and demanded iron rods in your attire to prevent you breaking.

In 1405 you stopped bathing, shaving or changing your clothes. This went on until several men were hired to blacken their faces, hide, jump out and shout “boo!”, upon which you resumed basic hygiene. Despite this, your wife continued sleeping with you until 1407, when she hired a young beauty, Odette de Champdivers, to take her place. Isabeau then consoled herself, as it were, with your brother. Her lovers followed thick and fast while you became a pawn of your court, until you had her latest beau strangled and drowned.

A severe fever was fended off with oranges and pomegranates in vast quantities, but you succumbed again in 1422 and died. Your disease was most likely hereditary. Unfortunately, you had anywhere up to eleven children, who variously went on to develop capriciousness, great cruelty, insecurity, paranoia, revulsion towards food and, in one case, a phobia of bridges.

I adore seraphimsigrist. His posts are unfailingly inspirational, and always help me put things in perspective.