I've met some lovely people. My internet friends. It's twitter and working alone. If you can imagine being able to choose your colleagues, that's more or less what it's like.
Deciding to harass Dr Ben with a question about his taxidermy or the handling of the human dead is my equivalent to finding a reason to visit the stationery cupboard where Gladys sits, so we can have a giggle about what a turd we think our boss is. Except I don't do it to break up the day. It's more. You see? I'm tired. I don't think I'm explaining myself very well.
I keep trying to write this post and I end up getting stuck. People are nice, is all. And I've found myself in an odd sort of gift exchange. It's kind of weird, to express an interest in something and then to have someone ask for your shipping address. You feel grabby giving it, but don't want to piss on such a nice gesture. And also, why not? It's fun. I try to reciprocate, but my efforts are put to shame by comparison. It's fun to send people things - but it's turning into a challenge; something you want to get better at.
My latest parcel really surprised me. And it made me realise how badly I need to blog about these things. It got me thinking about the assortment of oddities that have turned up and I think they each deserves a post. I'll have to start working my way backwards, but to start here's what turned up in a box with cherry poptarts and mint girl scout cookies. It was the best day.
From Brad in Nashville:
The very real bones of a hand and Dolores, the once-squirrel.
I've always wanted a skull.
Leave a comment