Though the days are few they're filled with tears...

So, while Betsy's been working along as usual and got some fresh mid-range red and off-white white to work with for her stripes and shit, she was given a moment away from her stitching to actually chat with another human being in the intarnet!

Betsy made an instant internet friend in one of her favorite flag-weaving chat-rooms in the alt.binaries.erotica section, and began a-chattin' away with her. We talked such lovely things about yarn and such. Needle holes, too. So much chitting and chatting, I just have to share some of it with you (left out all the stuff about George W., and how he's reallly fucked up the economy for life down here in the cellar and so on; must be those big wodden teeth of his fucking up his judgement... I sure hope we get somebody older than him next election time boy do I).

...but, apart from a delightfully sweet little dream that made my reality all-the-more pleasant to wake up to in-and-of-itself, there's also a snippet at the end there which highlights all the fun i get to endure living on the corner in this lovely little cul-de-sack of the world (in the span of half an hour, on a Thursday):

BETSY ROOSH (9:37:47 PM): i just had a dream that all this nonsense was over

BETSY ROOSH (9:38:07 PM): it was kind of heavenly

OMG BETSY HAS A FRIEND (9:39:20 PM): haha

BETSY ROOSH (9:42:20 PM): like a job, and everything

BETSY ROOSH (10:44:45 PM): theres like 400 drunk kids out on the street

BETSY ROOSH (10:45:04 PM): and the people upstairs have been moving in for the last 3 weeks, every hour of the day

BETSY ROOSH (11:10:22 PM): haha fuckhead blew a tire right outside

BETSY ROOSH (11:19:16 PM): good god i have to get out of this fucking apartment

Isn't life just like heaven!

here's a picture of a poodle:

there isn't much light in this dungeon

and Betsy's brother is an udder psychotic:











who the fuck are the Knudsens, anyway?

Who the fuck are the Knudsens?

       BLOND MAN
The fuck is this?


       DUDE
Obviously you're not a golfer.

there isn't much light in this dungeon

i am feeling soultastic.

good day sunshine...

(good lord, i need some moonshine)...

So, today Ms. Betsy was awoken to the sounds of smashing and hammering of tools, the breaking downs of doorways in the upstairs main house. Seems they're adding on another room while i'm toiling away down here with no hot water...

BUT, every downpour has its aluminum siding, and today i was given as my morning supplements a withered old and barely toasty bagel. It was handed to me by some hippie of a manservant, looking so withered it looked like a damn 90-year-old scrotal sack. Bland as a motherfucker, too.

LAST NiGHt we had some fun, tho. Me and Ms. Szintilla, the Finnish maid-servant woman from Finnland who sometimes brings me my vittles, we had played the dress-up as we drank some Schnapps. She's quite a hottie in the dress i made for her:



then after that we munched on some carpet until i was woken by more harrowing dreams and some unpleasant hammering.

good morning, good morning...

they're at it again...



...since when did i move to the fucking suburbs? those Foundering shitbags took me from that pleasant plantation location to a fucking suburb. i can hear these motors' hemming, hawing, motoring, and chomping from all the way down here in the cellar.

i was up all night working on the damn flag, then twisting and turning in my sleep cause a some stupid dreams, and i wake up to resume my stichings and a minute later i gotta hear this damn racket of a machine?!

it's getting me all kinds of flashbacks, fucking left and right.

i would even go back to AMsterdamn. with this kinds of waether...

take me back to olde Sanduskie...

Betsy wants to go back to Brooklyn. Betsy misses certain things about Brooklyn...