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Today I pre-ordered the new Greg Rucka novel.

I told about three people that I'd preordered the new Greg Rucka novel, and instead of asking "Who's Greg Rucka?", as I expected, they all asked "What's it about?", which I don't even know the answer to.

Update: It's about guns and stuff. Of course. Thanks, Amazon.com!

Everyone is all "blah blah, comic con, blah blah" and I'm kind of getting sick of it. I've never been, and from what I heard this year, I don't want to go -- unless being crushed to death by a mob of sweaty guys in Green Lantern t-shirts is now considered a noble geek death.

I'm going to start Girl Comic Con. Where girl comic book fans / sci fi geeks meet to discuss why "Enterprise" was a worthy show (and not just because Connor Trinneer took his shirt off a lot,) why the Timmverse is so totally on board with a WW/Bats ship, and whether or not we should crown Gail Simone "Leader for Life." There will only be like 300 of us in the entire world in attendance, and we all know how to accessorize. And there will be tacos. And drinking.

On second thought, I'd bet money there's already a Girl Comic Con somewhere. Goddamnit.

Man, it's hot out.

How hot is it?

It's so hot, at the local 24 hour grocery store, bums have begun walking around with carts full of bologna, pretending to shop just to get out of the heat. (The heat at frakkin' MIDNIGHT, I might add.)

I also noticed several open/drunk bottles of vitamin water laying around the store, which may or may not indicate guilt on the part of the bums. But maybe some other person has been stealing the Glaceau. Let's not be hasty about hobos, people.

Remember when you made your first ever appearance, a couple of years ago when Golfwidow came to visit me? Remember how horrified I was that you chose to show up right as I had houseguests to impress? Remember when I vaccuumed you all up with the Dirt Devil?

Well, we've had some fun times since then. I've tried to smush you, you've been too small to smoosh. I'd put out ant traps, you'd just go somewhere else. I bet you thought you were super cute, didn't you, you teeny tiny monsters. You thought you could send lookouts one at a time to scurry across my countertops and confuse the hell out of me. "Where could they all be?" I had thought. "How come there's only one ant at a time out here?"

Little did I know that it wasn't ant reconnaissance hurrying around the kitchen, but sole survivors from a mass ant suicide. There they all were -- they'd somehow managed to get under the SEALED CAP of an UNOPENED BOTTLE OF MAPLE SYRUP -- a tribe of ants floating around in what I'm sure is Ant Heaven.

I marvel at your teeny tiny ingenuity. Fucking bastards. Now I can't eat pancakes. YOU WIN THIS ROUND, ANTS!

Awww, you're moving away.

I can't say I'll miss you. You were like larger, noisier versions of the ants. Big, bad techno-music-making, nuisances. Seriously, how could you not realize that the music you were "creating" was awful? And why didn't you figure out that other people could actually hear it? I'll take bad tejano music over crappy emo synth pop any day.

Also: I keep weird hours, it's true, what with me working until midnight and on weekends. But at least I'm respectful about it. It's not like I come home at 1am and decide to try and split atoms or anything. You, on the other hand, took to hammering on the walls at 4am.

I mean, I am normally wide awake at that hour, but it's not like you were taking a survey before you hung pictures, were you? You just did it because you felt like it.

Sincerely,

The person who doesn't leave her garbage can in the middle of the street, I.E., Not You

This weekend our three nieces came to visit. They are all under the age of 7. They are cute and not too obnoxious. And still, I felt like I needed a nap after about three hours with them.

By the third day of running around with small children, my sister-in-law asked: "So, are you two planning on having children?"

I think some people would be offended by how quickly we both shouted "NO!," but she has to live with these kids every day, so she just nodded her head as if we were the wisest people she'd ever met.

...to be fair, she could have said other stuff, too, but I don't remember because I was already napping by that time.

I have decided that a totally good idea would be to challenge myself and the few friends I have to try to write the worst, most embarassingly cliched romantic fiction they possibly can.

I've already written a good opening line: "She told me she hated ice cream -- I knew I had to teach her how to love. One day, she'd have fun again. One day... we'd have Rocky Road." The book's called Scoops Of My Heart and the cover is a dude wearing nothing but one of those triangular hats like they have at In-N-Out burger.