RIP snakey Spike.

J-Lo, what are you wearing? That is not flattering.

Then they took off the little robe? And it got worse.

Aaaaand now we've added a gold corsetybubbleshirt thing (via our dancers) and we're still. not. good.

No! Spike is still alive! Living wild in the half-dug basement!

That was a big part of the careful word-choosing. In my attempt to make him feel better, he replied with "Great, X amount of money is now lost in the basement." I must have gone through five drafts of how to make it not a money issue and give import to Spike's status as a valued pet, and that Spike's livelihood, even if apart from him, in the half-dug basement, was more important than the cost of the pet.

Hotel Rwanda was good, but heavy and hurty.

Oh, dear -- I jumped right to reading "losing" as euphemistic, rather than reading it as, well, losing. Either way, good on you for talking your bro through the crisis.

So Spike the Snake is not an ex-snake, but an escaped snake. Hey, he might come back. Basements are chilly. He might show up for a saucer of milk if the basement is mouseless and he's hungry.

Consider the cost of freedom, Brother Snake!

Heh, yeah, the snakes, they are wiley, and manage to escape the commercially patented escaped-proof tanks a bit too often.

This is escaped snake, and escaped SPIKE, number 2. I don't get snakes. I don't get his love for them, other than the cool gross factor. But at sixish months old Spike was able to tourniquet my hand pretty well, at only three-quarters an inch in diameter. If I can't hug the pet, or have a pleasant sensation petting it, Do Not Want.

But I remember when my cat got stuck inside the roof after playing in the crawlspace of the top floor, and I almost threw up over images of her rotting inside the walls, and got no sleep, and it may not be the same thing for him, and I may not understand the love, but it was his pet, and he lost it, and is probably feeling really shitty because it's the second time. I'm sure he's beating himself up enough about the lack loyalty in snakes, and I'm sure my father is too. (Not unlike the time he fell down the slippery stairs we have, and the first words out of dads mouth aren't "are you okay?" but "were you drinking?".

I want to clarify that the original reason I posted this is because of the warm fuzzies my brother gave me in his final send-off. I smiled so big it hurt and made me want to cry.

There's this poster up at work encouraging coming out at the workplace. It has thumbnail pics of people that did and apparently felt better. The men are identified as gay, most women as lesbian, one queer, one transgender, and one as a lesbian evangelist. Which just sounds weird. Like she's trying to convince women to be gay. I'm assuming she is about convincing women to come out. But either way, it's a strange sexual/gender identity.

Sara, have you seen Hotel Rwanda before?

Newp. I knew the story, though. Still ooof.

Even if I don't share your love, losing hurts. All there is to know is there is grief. A warm I'm sorry is a balm.

Need to go to bed, don't I?

Like she's trying to convince women to be gay.

Yeah, that's totally what it sounds like.

You know, if I could get some of the random shit out my head, god knows what I could get done. I'm watching a random ancient L&O, and recognize the little kid who played the kid on New York Undercover later.