A damsel with a dulcimer.

Waterloo in 2.

I like rain. It makes my hair curl and always brings on an epiphany. It's watering my herbs for me - catnip included. It makes the sky my favorite shade of grey. It rationalises laziness and sadness, and provides puddles for self reflection.

Or splashing.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, a stately pleasure-dome decree, where Alph, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man. Down to a sunless sea.

Quite some time ago, I decided that there were three kinds of people. Kumquats, strawberries and olives. I now believe there is a fourth kind of person, the artichoke. Artichoke people are mysterious, and very interesting. They're alluring people, the kind you really want to understand. Artichoke people are rough around the edges and hard to get at. They're woody and down to earth people. When you start working away at an artichoke person, the outer leaves reveal very little about them. They're uniform and similar. However, as you work your way in, it becomes apparent there is another side to them. The leaves become softer and less obscure. Finally, once you've worked down to the choke, a fuzzy side is revealed. You're almost at the core of who they are. The choke is the questionable moments, their secrets, their unfavorable traits. It's enough to deter the inexperienced artichoke unveiler.

At the bottom of all the leaves and the choke is the heart. It's a part unlike any other in the artichoke world. It's completely unique and set apart. The heart is the fundamental, interesting person, beneath much of the same. The heart is the person within the dry expectations.

However, the heart is not an inner person. Because inner people do not exist.

I am proud to say I know an artichoke. He goes well with lemon juice and rosemary.

I just spent 20 minutes trying to photoshop my face into the marriage photos of Stephen Hawking and his first wife. I looked like a boy. I am so disappointed.

I want flowers.