Night of the Living Dead Aristocrat

I return! Well almost. I should (hopefully) get a new review out next week, presuming this week doesn't kill me first. And why, do you ask, am I so late in providing steampunk goodness? The reason is that I am, at the moment, fielding no less than FOUR heavy duty essays which are all due next Monday and two ENORMOUS research papers to be turned in at a later date, the end result being that if the workload doesn't cause me to spontaneously combust it means I've either achieved Nirvana or gained a super power. In the meantime, however, I'm a little nuts, and so instead I will simply provide some pictures of myself.


Me at Halloween. I was a Maenad. NO ONE knew what I was, even the girl dressed as Sookie.


And here I am getting ready for a night on the town and trying not to stare at my phone.


My cactus-that's-supposed-to-look-like-a-rock is blooming. Wait, what?

Today's forecast: Fair travel, foul weather, crops-blightingly-bad temper

Well I'm back from a lovely trip to Chicago to see the opera Macbeth at the Lyric Opera. Said trip began with me boarding a train and spending upwards of five hours on the thing, contemplating my life and going on a sort of vision quest to regain some of my lost vim and vigor. After a multitude of stops, starts, slow patches, and rattling rails, I was disgorged in the belly of Union station where I met up with my aunt and uncle, whose home I occupied during my stay. The next day we attended the opera (I wore full kimono because I bloody well could and because kimonos are easily packable, as opposed to full bustled Victorian gowns. One must
make allotment for small luggage), which proved to be decent but unremarkable, leading me to doze off as Lady Macbeth ranted about her unclean hands and I mentally suggested she just buy some damn Oxiclean already. Then it was off to dinner at an absolutely SPECTACULAR restaurant where I enjoyed the best meal I've had in months, all the while gazing on the Chicago water tower. Said tower is a portion of the cityscape that has been engrained in my mind ever since, while on vacation with my family at a young age, I turned a corner and was greeted with the sight of that gorgeous, gothic structure jutting defiantly out of the modern surroundings. My father then told me the story of the Chicago fire, relating how the town of my birth had been burnt to the ground, which lodged firmly in my imagination and has never left.

The next day, however, I was once again on the train and jouncing and vibrating my way back to Miskatonic. I was reluctant to leave, as you might imagine, but I took it all with good grace, unpacking cheerfully and savoring my memories of my time. These overall good spirits lasted till the next morning when a tornado alert led to my being yanked out of bed at an ungodly hour and having to throw on a robe over the gigantic t-shirt that serves as my nightwear. My compatriots and I were then bundled into the basement lounge where we spent an hour and half, doing absolutely nothing, all the while waiting for a tornado that never came. The most exciting thing that occurred during the time was when we were informed via walky talky that a group of students, deciding that up with this they would not put, escaped the confines of whatever bunker they'd been herded into and were triumphantly marching across campus.

And now, bringing us up to date, I am in a foul mood. After taking an art history exam that I'd studied hard for I treated myself to a meal at the school cafe. There was a bit of a line, so I queued up dutifully and waited, trying to ignore the stifling heat of the student union, which made me itch and perspire in my ornate clothing. Finally I was next to be served, a fact for which I was rewarded when the bimbo at the head of the queue slammed me with her enormous blue-patent-leather-hobo-bag-monstrosity that probably cost more than the whole of my outfit (and allow me to say that the money could have been put to better use buying her some clothes that weren't made out of sweatshirt material). She also did not bother to apologize or even acknowledge that it had happened, adding insult to injury while I suffered silently after having what felt like a text book or laptop slammed into my sternum. So, dear readers, I'm in a snarlingly bad mood, the sort that leads me to want to run home, turn out all the lights, curse humanity up one side and down the other, and then throw myself melodramatically on my bed with a hot compress over my eyes.

Books, bugs, and mysteries

Life moves apace, dear readers, and as per usual it's never simple. Exciting, yes, fun, sometimes, interesting, always, but never, ever simple. For starters, I'm literally drowning in books, both for pleasure and work. I've recieved a great many volumes from various publishers for my reviewing pleasure, which is fine, except for the small problem of these being rather large books. Combined with the huge amount of reading I do for my classes every single night the task of getting through any of them is more than a little daunting. I swear I will get to it, though. I just will have to take a bit longer than average, as after a certain point when I'm reading my brain goes into shutdown mode and refuses further input. *Deep, melodramatic sigh*


The bug life has also been making a nuisance of itself. The hallway of the Undercity - a collective pet name for the basement level in which my friends and I make our abode - is consistently infested with all manner of creepy crawlers. Assasin bugs, daddy-long-legs, centipedes (naturally), mosquitoes, and a host of unnamed monstrosities - all of which apparently have been using anabolic steroids because they are HUGE - regularly make us scream, run, and put our books to practical use as ideal bug killers. I chalk it up to the weather, as the dropping, autumnal temperatures tend to drive insects in doors, thus causing all manner of issues.

Also, the clanking pipes have finally come to a halt. That has not, however, brought an end to the late night noise. This time the sounds come in the form of a person, one who routinely returns to/leaves the building early in the morning, and opts to use the back door which is set to trigger an alarm if it's opened after 12 AM or before 6 AM. Said alarm has the power of a jackhammer and goes off till the door has been closed, usually by which point I'm disentangling my fingers from the ceiling plaster and trying to not have a heart attack. Who this person is remains a mystery, though I am busily compiling and correlating the incidence of the door's opening and hope to be able to bring this to a halt in the near future. Because either they cut it out or I feed them to my shoggoth. Their choice.

CLUNK. THUNK. BANG. WHACK.

That’s the soundtrack of my life, currently, or at least the soundtrack of my life in my dormitory. The exact source of this noise is the prehistoric plumbing system (which was probably installed by the ancient Minoans if the pipes’ crumbly nature is any indicator), and this racket has been nonstop for two days, following an alarming leak that dripped its way through the ceiling right in front of my door. As if all this wasn’t bad enough, now the original noise has been joined by the bumping and cursing of workmen, who seem no closer to fixing the problem. Below is a photo of said problem, take that as you will.



Of course the big issue from all this is the fact that I CAN’T SLEEP. As I write this, indeed, I’ve spent a night without a wink of valuable shut eye, and am getting that distinctive sensation that presages a bad case of mental ‘blue screen of death’. Barring alcohol or barbiturates (or a lethal combo of the above substances) I feel that my chance to get a good night’s sleep are pretty much nil, and that’s likely to turn this Steampunk aristocrat into a ravening lunatic who chews her coverlets and begs for the noise to stop. Just book me a cell in Arkham and we’re all set.

Life at Miskatonic

Now, just for the record, I think we all know I do not attend THE Miskatonic University. I do, however, attend a tiny college in the arse-end of nowhere, which happens to possess some very interesting books and is surrounded by a town full of people who are one generation away from developing the full blown Innsmouth Look. So it serves my purposes and attempt at privacy to refer to my school as such.

This year I'm living in a single in a 1920s era building, with plenty of privacy but also with some very like minded neighbors (I think a lovely young lady name Azenath moved in at the end of the hall), which serves my purposes nicely as I'm hoping to continue my reanimation experiments and I need assistants and - oh I'm thinking out loud again. Ha ha. *cough* The room is quite small, as my pictures indicate (see below), but it's excepitionally comfortable and the close proximity to like-minded human beings (and not so human beings) provides comfort and security.




My classes are also finally ones that go towards my major, including history and art history courses. I've had to buy a metric shit ton of books, all of which weigh so much I'm more than a little convinced they're made of depleted uranium. And don't get me started about my Latin copy of the Necronomicon. I could beat shoggoths to death with that thing.

Hopefully a new review will go up in the near future, I'm just trying to solve some issues so I can actually see the film Nickel Children, and if you haven't watched the trailer for it yet hurry up and go do it.

Feeding the tea addiction

I've never been a fan of coffee. It all looks and tastes the same to me, and I prefer it to be absolutely vile rather than drowning it in sugar, milk, and whipped cream the way starbucks lovers do. I used to drink it when I was younger, but it never really filled my desire for a warm caffienated drink. At that point tea was also of little to no interest, as I was still under the impression that tea only came in stapled cheesecloth bags and tasted profoundly bad. I did love the look of teapots, however, and it was that love that drew me into Teavana in the last days of my senior year of highschool. There a very clever saleswoman proceeded to sell me an entire cast iron tea set and two hulking canisters of tea, which followed me to college, at that point unused.

Then, one innocuous day, I fired up the hot pot, threw some tea in my virginal cast-iron teapot, and made my first batch of matevana. After a few tenuous sips of that lovely chocolatey tea I knew my fate had been sealed. I was hooked. I have since gone on to broaden my selection of tea, and I now have no less than thirteen different types, as well as nine differet teacups, not including the tea-leaf reading cup that I never use as I'm too damn lazy. Don't believe me? Take a look at the photo below.


Indeed, I'm drinking tea as we speak. It's a kind brought back from England by a friend of mine, known as Yumchaa Courtesan, and is an infusion of fruit and berries, containing no actual tea leaves. It's light, tart, and quite enjoyable, as well as being a startling shade of pinkish red. Again, see below.


As for my favorite kind of tea, there's no contest there: Sweet Oolong Revolution, as made by Teavana. It's sweet, with a malted undertone, and, simply, wonderful.

So, to anyone who's on the fence about tea: Try the good stuff. You'll like it. (Joooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooin ussssssssssssssss.........)

I'm more hothouse orchid than hardy highland rose.

I love to 'get away from it all' as much as the next person. How the next person and I do so, however, tend to be very different things. In my mind if one is going to take a vacation it should be to a splendidly comfortable place that requires one to merely arrive and enjoy oneself. One should not have to clean, cook, run from bugs, or anything else that is even the tiniest bit taxing. Luxurious? Yes. Decadent? Absolutely. Hence why if I had my way I would vacation very rarely, but when I did I would be doing it in the grandest style I could reasonably afford. I am a fan of the spa, the five star hotel, the best restaurants and plays, and, as you, my dear populace may have realized from my list of things I'd rather not be doing, the vacation I am currently on is not exactly my preferred method of relaxation.

It is true I've had a fairly good time thus far, though there have been considerable hangups. The largest of these has been the fact that I was recently eaten alive by chiggers, and the bites tend to get more aggravated when I'm sweating or stressed which makes me itch like mad and want to peel my own skin off. The other prime issue is that the isolated nature of the house my family is occupying means that we're all in contact a great deal, and at least two members of the family - myself and my mother specifically - are not huge people persons (or, more accurately, my mother isn't a huge people person while I am not exactly adept at social interractions with others and will often simply retreat to my boudoir when I feel cornered). This means that toes get trod on, fangs to get bared, and tempers can flare. Finally, there is a general feeling that one should be doing something all the time, and, as stated above, in my mind a vacation should be a time in which one is obligated to do absolutely nothing. Why on earth would one go way the hell out of one's way to continue the same tired routine one carries on at home?

Now, however, I do have to say, that, in said vacation's defense, it is far from bad, and, in some ways, the paragraph preceding this one was more an excuse to vent than anything else. On the plus side I've visited some of my favorite shops, gotten alot of writing done (a new review will grace us in the near future), and caught up on alot of things I've been let slide (like reading the third book of the Dark Tower series and updating the inventory I keep that records all the minerals and rocks I've collected over the years). So it's all a matter of balance, and I can at least thank my lucky stars that I'm in an actual house and not a camper, or, god forbid, a tent. I have running water and toilets that don't require the user to kick them to make sure bats don't fly out (yes, I have experienced that). The food has been lovely, and the company, when we put our rayguns down and stop trying to recreate the Mexican standoff from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, has been most pleasant.
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............................The bugs still suck.