Je Ne Suis Pas

I don't like shopping.
You know it, I know it.
I loathe malls, and the pre/post holiday nonsense. Post holiday nonsense is worse. It's not only harried housewives leading their husbands and teenaged children round to wonder where and how they are going to hide their children's presents.
Post holiday shoppers are the worst. They are the anal-retentive, grouchy, primarily brainless women who can't decide whether she made a mistake returning that CUTE sweater for a pair of CUTE boots.
BUT I'll tell you one thing.
I've never had a bathrobe that wasn't red.
And, when you've got someone to send you a German Christmas carol sung by some castrata soprano boy, life is...tenable.
Anyhow, I'd like to tell you all about something fascinating and lovely, and life-changing, but the telly's going, telling me that Claritin relieves all my indoor allergies for twenty-four hours, and won't make me drowsy as well, and I wonder where I left my chisel. Which doesn't really matter, I suppose, because I use disposable palettes.
I guess someday I'll get back to the nice, organic way I used to have to scrape my palette clean after weeks of ignoring it. Last time I did that, I wrote a poem about it.
Speaking of pigments...have at. Linkature.
Also, ten things I only like sometimes:
1. Acrylics
2. Dante Alighieri
3. Very Femme Handbags
4. Dark lipstick
5. Zach Braff
6. Stiletto heels
7. Cardboard boxes
8. The French
9. Children
10. The Pixies
I do, however, always, always, always love Sir Anthony Hopkins, his big, earthy shoulders, coy smile, and steady gaze.