I fucking love Life cereal

Box model babies-
smile like you want adoption.
This is for winners!

"If you have these, you can play fun games and stamp on ants."

Crutches. If your feet feel terrible and you have heart situations with poor circulation and 1919 means you need crutches, you can use the crutches to kill ants.

He and I were phenomenal JB Fletcher fans and he used to be decent about laughing at the creepiest of my weird drawings. So we share some good similarities. You all would not recognize me if these genes had not been handed down.

He says that when he can't sleep because of his feet or heart or anything old, he will take out a flashlight and swirl it around all the framed pictures on the walls of his bedroom. These pictures are like a thick wallpaper and everywhere in them, we have on crushed velvet sweatsuits, leggings with stirrup feet, my dad's huge Wallaby shoes and some ridiculously honest smiles. My hair went down to my rib cage and I had to wear glasses in water fights. My sister had legs like toothpicks and she once sent herself a summer fling with a half-assed mullet. My brother used to look only perfect and always adorable. I knew that even back then when we hated each other.

We loved eatings hamburgers and junk food from AM/PM and there's a picture I always stare at when I visit because it shows an old bag of Doritos in the basket of a bike. I really like the old style of Doritos bags but I guess snack chips get to age in reverse. That's an odd way to do things.

I will be (hometown) home for awhile.

I will see your damn movie just make it all stop

"But why?" said http://www.weddingcrashersmovie.com/crashthistrailer/ . "I am so awesome and we're having such a super great time."

Addictions are bitches. Mine just also happens to be so, so beautiful. Thus far, I've pasted a king's army of faces onto the bodies of Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn. I'm pretty interested in quitting, but here are the highlights of some pairings:

- Powder and Terry Gross
- Ted Danson and Gjurg
- Powder and a meerkat
- me and a meerkat
- a meerkat and another meerkat
- Owen Wilson (on Vince Vaughn's body) and Vince Vaughn (on Owen Wilson's body)...this one actually wasn't very cool
- some uncles I have on my dad's side
- Ernest Hemingway and my cat
- Feigner and Bea Arthur
- me and the face of me from a picture taken when I was maybe seven or so

That last one was probably inappropriate. Somehow. Can't talk, coming down.

Game over, man

There has to be a polite way to decline your brother's invitation to watch all the Alien and Predator movies. I just don't know the lay of its exact words.

More worrisome: Apparently there's a vicious slip in the universe that, along with letting Earth keep poisonous snakes and Bill Paxton's mom, allowed Bill Paxton to be in both "Aliens" and "Predator 2." As Private Hudson and Jerry Lambert, respectively. If we're gonna give them sequels, said the men, we will require Paxton.

I guess if I ever have a child that I think I might hate, I'll name him Mr. Hudson Lambert Private Jerry. Then, I'll go to county fairs and talk to him loudly until somebody recognizes the honor of the names and whatever makes that connection, wins a child. To sweeten the pot, I'll throw in some corndogs. Until you do that, "Free Baby" feels creepy.

That honestly is all I have to say. Class dismissed. Do your homework. It's called "nectarines." You will be tested.

this shit is a summary, S-U-M-M-A-R-Y

Three things.

1- Pendleton is hot. As in, "boilermakers are spraying me with blowdryers while I get dermabrasions in Hell," hot. But honestly fun at the same time? How to convey, how to convey. Riddle me this, LongDistanceIsNotThatBadman.
b- Totally excited about Harry Potter 6. I also like kittens and Ryan Cabrera and text-messaging my BFFFFF. No. Holy smoke, no! (Only about the last three, though. About Harry Potter? YESSSSS.)
trois- I actually do like kittens.

Hidden Track- Things are good. Excellent, even. Contacts are indulgent, nectarines are ridiculously in season and family reunions at your parents' house mean leftover pies and pies and pies. So much abundant, fresh, homemade, "everybody is sick of it and there are still seven more pieces" pie I could give the stuff away to orphans. Orphans with diseases. But I won't.

snack cakes and handshakes

The aforementioned playdates are making me a little better around so much future. I talk and look steadily into eyes, my professional grip is feminine and classy and strong, and I've been spending quite a lot of time in lobbies and conference rooms with my feet crossed at the ankles. I think that's the polite way to yell "integrity." So say the lady manuals. Also my scary-ass piano teacher. And the charm school everybody went to in "A League of Their Own." My body (language) is bangin'.

I had to visit the Koin Center yesterday. It's about the only stand-out building in Portland's humble skyline, hopefully due in some part to the tower's little blue hat. This is the building you see as an eight year old on a bus, field-tripping to the Civic/Keller Auditorium to see "The Wind in the Willows" or some such culture rape, and to eat a superspecial lunch (read: superspecial means there were Hostess cakes involved) on those fountain steps across the way. Deeelicious.

Anyway, on the way to the 18th floor, my little eight year old Sarah completely took over and got way too excited (Blue hats! 18 floors! Jeff Gianola!). So excited that she would not leave and I not only was childlishly amazed by everything, but also acquired a fierce hunger for processed baked goods. I didn't want this big-eyed, small-town monster to possess me straight through my meeting, so at the end of the elevator ride I had to scare her away with memories about playing with cigarettes and losing my viriginity. This worked and everything was level, informative and one safety step away from funding my life plan with tricks and happy endings.

Too bad about that Smoke-Free Class of 2000 business, though. I know I can't be the only 23 year old who let down a jaundiced-looking younger version in an oversized T-shirt. It's adorable how adamant I was. In addition to the shirts, my 3rd grade classmates and I enthusiastically wore red mesh trucker caps. I guess those caps should have been the first hints of failure for all involved. So it goes.

Pendleton: more Sarah-friendly than previous reports reported

I miss this mug:
,
that's why I wanted my weekend to happen. There were also some dancing Indians in a million separate colors, a nice British lady, assassinations on Smartfood bags and one Happy Birthday America spent wading through the liquid plague of Napa Valley. Someone (me!) had some wine and somebody (this is also me) hates Robert Mondavi and all he has created.

So hey, that was Pendleton. Mile post 209. Jetty down away from the green parts, tip your cap at this panicky sign:
,
and go see a nice young man make sweet life out of dust and a quiet demographic. Yes, yes, I might honestly go to see the initial takeoff of young journalism, but tourists who don't pull that kind of emotional cache should still consider a day trip because the Pendleton Safeway has not one, but TWO (all caps and bolded and italicized!) bins for her gummi-worms:

(They spell them "gummy worms," but that's not how I think it's done...very odd when you consider how hard I fight daily against the joie de vie of alternative spellings.)

I have never been anyplace where a community offered two bins for gummi-worms. But there they all were, the peak of my sales pitch, waiting nakedly like thin, gelatinous virgins. It makes me guess I'll have to come back again later. To Pendleton. Too damn hot but two bins for gummi-worms.

We have an abbreviated victory.