Today I made a Barbeque Chicken Pizza! I know! OMGWTFBBQ? I didn’t believe it to be possible either when I first heard the tale. How could those two amazing flavors ever meet? It all began, when I headed for home this fateful Tuesday afternoon. I had run out of work a little earlier than usual and, seeing as I had my car, my freedom and a relatively full bank account, I decided to go home. It was about 4:00 and I was thinking about my parents, toiling away at work and I thought, “Well… Since I have time, I am going to make dinner.” But what one earth should I make? I thought about the list of recipes that I knew (spaghetti) and the litany of recipes I have made but promptly forgotten or lost the recipe for and I came to think about a particular Barbeque Chicken Pizza which my eldest sister was very fond of. It’s her recipe. She and her roommate would make it with this special kind of sauce that they got in great big jars from Nebraska. She loved the pizza and raved about it whenever we got on the topic of recipes. So, once I got home, I decided to give her a call.

Boop, boop, boop, no answer. Normally I don’t leave messages. It’s a bad habit, I realize, but I know that they will be able to find me on their caller-id and I also hate calling people, but today I was feeling a little more confident and I left her a short message about how I would like to try her BBQ pizza. I hung up the phone and flipped on the boob-tube for a little moronic enjoyment punctuated by TV shows I hadn’t seen in forever and news stories I didn’t actually watch. I had almost forgotten about that whimsical idea of making the Barbeque Chicken Pizza when my phone began to ring. I looked around, was that me ringing? Why on earth would someone- Oh! I frantically pulled the flashing pulsating machine out of my pocket, jumping around as though the thing had suddenly turn to ice before slamming it to my ear, “Hello?”

It was my eldest sister. She had gotten my message, she said, and she would love to give me the recipes! She told me the whole recipe from crust to topping, everything down to the very last nuance. I was very appreciative. The pocket notebook piece of paper was positively dizzy with English characters by time we were finished, some of them legible but most of them not. I had gathered enough information, however, to begin my trek to the store. So I called my mom and my dad, leaving messages for both of them telling them about my adventure, got back into my automobile and hoped they got the message before they started cooking something else.

I pulled out of the driveway and flipped on my windshield wipers and klove before careening (scratch that. I don’t believe my dad would like to hear that I “careened” anywhere. I drove at a safe but suitably dramatic speed) out of the driveway and headed out to the store. I was almost to the store when suddenly, my pocket began loudly to make itself known to me, for the second time. Phone? My brain stammered. DRIVING! it hissed urgently in response to the elevating noise coming from my pants pocket. I pulled into a parking place and stopped. “Hello?”

“Hellooo, Katherino.” It was my mummsie. She, as it happens, was thinking about making pizza, too (“Great minds think alike”). She was making one with pesto and tomatoes, but wanted to tell me that she had already obtained the necessary crust and that I should go and gather my ingredients. I agreed and thanked her before hanging up. I pulled the car a little closer and ran through the rain into the supermarket. It is a pretty supermarket. It is very open, not like European supermarkets. Supermarkets in Europe are much like their countries, they are big enough, but they have a lot of streets and a lot of people in them. This supermarket was a little more like Cheyenne: populated, but open enough to prevent anyone from going Highlander on someone’s ass. (Excuse my Klingon.)

The first ingredient I spotted was the rotisserie chickens, rotating brightly in their Plexiglas case, just beyond the produce. I went up to figure out how to open it, but was dissuaded by the “Hot! Do not touch!” sign on it. I figured I would have to ask someone, and I didn’t want it to get cold, so I set about gathering the other ingredients before coming back. I skittered hither and thither with the renewed energy that my horoscope had promised me. Finally, without much ado, I returned to the chickens and, turning to the boy across the counter, asked, “Hello, can I get a chicken.” I pointed at the chickens illustratively.
He stared at me perplexed and then responded, “No, no, those chickens aren’t ready.” I pouted in consternation. “These chickens are ready, though!” he said, “those chickens won’t be ready for 20 minutes, but these chickens are ready.” “Oh!” I said brightly, “Then I’ll have one of those then.”

Seeing as I was carrying all of my ingredients, the fellow made an effort to help me out, shaking out a thin plastic produce bag while I used my free hand to choose and drop a chicken into it. He twisted it up for me and I thanked him profusely before heading to the checkout counter. I like to checkout with real people. Self-checkout is a speedy option, but I think it a little ego-centric don’t you? At least if you aren’t going on a date or something.

The horde of clerks did not notice me at first. I stood there and tried to project my presence into the back of their skulls combined as doing the more old fashion technique of “sticking you neck out and wobbling from side to side until you managed to catch someone’s eye” routine. I finally caught the attention of the only clerk who was working, who, in turn, managed to gain the interest of everyone else by default. The clerk nearest to me gathered my ingredients from my and flicked them over the scanner. I gave him my card supermarket card which, he was surprised to find, was attached to my keys, my hand-sanitizer and my wallet. He apologized and we laughed self-depreciatingly (me at my tendency to attach all my worldly possessions to one carabineer and he at the fact that he hadn’t guessed) Gathering my brown plastic bags (yes, you read it correctly brown PLASTIC bags) I skittered out the door.

It was not long before I was home. I dropped my ingredients, greeted my mother and then set about cutting up what I had bought. It is important to cut things up in a pizza. If you don’t make things bite-sized to begin with, then when you finally go to eat it, it ends up being a disastrous affair of trying to use your teeth for the purpose you should have used your knife for. My mother, with her strong white hands, massaged the dough and stretched it over the pizza dishes. Her pizza she created quickly, a gentle process of smoothing out the pesto and lavishing its surface with delicate low-cal topping. All while I furiously tried to chop my pepper and pull apart a chicken leg from my rotisserie chicken. I dripped and dropped my pizza together. Adding it together like a modern painter: scorning the licked surface and replacing them with licks of paint, creating a tactile surface or cheese, peppers, chicken and barbeque sauce. I had just finished when my mother lifted up my masterpiece. She had a chance to exclaim with an appreciative “Ooo” before it disappeared into the oven. Then, we waited.

It was a flurry of activity. My mother pulled out her pizza, my parents slicing off their own pieces and scurry off to eat them, my mother to eat while watching her shows, my father in the kitchen with me. I let my dog in and we roved around the kitchen as I cleaned up the mess that I had made with the whole endeavor. Finally, after a moment of rest, it was done, steaming with the rich tastes and smells that make some conspiracy theorist suspect that there’s something addictive about food. Personally, I have always thought there was something addictive about staying alive, particularly when it tastes good. I began to cut it up and dish out the slices, a momentary panic flooding over me as plates danced before me, begging me to fill them as I looking at delicious piece after piece slip away from my grasp. I scooped up a piece, went over to the table and devoured it, and another, and another until I started licking my fingers thinking, “The barbeque sauce bottle was right, this is finger-licking good barbeque sauce!” Then I took pictures and came down to right this entry.

So that is the end of my story. At least until the next time I make dinner.

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When you check your own webcomic to see if it's updated! >.> Strangely though, I think I've done it five times already. Idly navigating through the +favs in my webcomic folder I flip through the new monday comics in hopes of hearing a new portion of my favorite stories. Top on this list are:

• Dr. McNinja Which is very funny


• InverlochWhich is ENDING! *tear*


• Red String Which updates really regularily... and... tehehe, is very romantic


• World Break which updates in bright spurts! Oooo, pretiful


• Lackadaisy which is really good, amazing art, updates sporadically


• No Need For Bushido(which do to incidental factors sometimes updates Mondays


• Smackjeeves Which is my webcomic community... which will probably burn me alive for having not been online for so long *cough* *cough*


• and Zion Andrews which is my said truent webcomic that I keep on checking... to see if it's updated... which it won't be... until I update it.

So many projects! So little time! Ah well, I think I may scurry off into the bushes and write my novel which is... as it is... slow going XD.

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I drew a picture over my vacation! W007!!!


Unicorns in trees by ~rockslide on deviantART

Perty ooo-ne-corns!!!

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Have you ever seen the thing in movies where there is some being and there is just one thing, a look, the voice, an affectation that makes you know that that person has switched bodies? Sometimes I think that's the way with God... Except instead
of just bodies, God speaks through anything He wants to: plants, animals, people. He doesn't possess them and they have no new affectations. He just "speaks through them". The real trouble behind it all is figuring out which people are lying,
which animals you should trust, and which plants are really not trying
to tell you anything at all. I am beginning to believe that this is the
true dilemma of modern religion. It's this whole doubting game. You
see, a person can't be wrong, being wrong is hypocrisy and by truly
'hypocrisy is the worst of crimes'. "If he would only just admit it" they say.
"If she weren't such a hypocrite, then I would show her some respect" but
what she doesn't know? What if he can't say. What if they change their minds.
Then if they change there minds, then what are they? Are they the repentant
or are they traitors? There is no way of knowing! Anyone could be wrong.

"Put your faith in the bible, then," they say and I think, well isn't it true
that even the Devil can quote scripture? Then again, isn't that the point?
Isn't that why we have to question everything because we are watching out for him? It's just doubt circles upon doubt circles. Questioning everything in it's worst most literal form. Thank you public education system! I DO question everything and have nothing good to say about it.

Paranoia aside, I do wish I knew what God was trying to tell me. Sometimes, I wish I could just listen to Him, like I would someone standing right next to me, even if it did mean I was going crazy.. That would be a lot easier... wouldn't it?

Just some stuff I've been thinking about for a while.

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I've been trying to be a wee bit more responsible lately. Being responsible is a drag. Now, I cannot begin to claim that I have mastered this skill. I have only just begun to realize that it really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. America is a weird place. You spend your entire youth learning how to be a “youth”, wild, questioning and having fun (oh, safe responsible fun *cough* *cough*. Let us tell you what irresponsible fun looks like so you can emmula- avoid it at all costs!). What they don’t tell you is that what really brings you happiness, what it really means to be alive is actually not all that day dreaming and star searching. Normal people forget their hopes and dreams, not because they lost them through some irresponsible fancy. They forget because hopes and dreams are not the focus of a normal responsible adult. A normal, responsible adult gets up in the morning, washes their face and their teeth. Maybe they will even pluck their eyebrows or do their makeup. They move through dressing and breakfast and make sure that all objects are stowed, all messes promptly cleaned and everything taken care of before they leave. They say goodbye to the ones they love with a kiss or a smile and they hop into their cars and go to work or go to school. They arrive on time, they arrive prepared, and they do what they’re supposed to. Then, when that’s all over, they go home, talk to friends and family, help tidy the house, throw out the old food, dust the counters, eat dinner, turn out all the lights and go to bed. This is simply a skeletal outline of things that need to be done every day, just because that the responsible thing to do. It’s awfully boring. It feels like half of the time you’re doing is maintenance. It is all maintenance really: the cleaning, the eating, the going to work, even the talking to friends… so much maintenance. The world just feels like a grey cubicle that you sit in, staring at the flimsy wall, hoping that it will turn into a portal to some magical mystical place that has problems that you have to solve, breaking your monotonous routine to fix. Then you looked at the pudge on the end of your belly and you feel your arteries beating painfully through you, trying to feed your weak muscles and you realize that you are no hero, you are not meant for excitement and, perhaps, the biggest mission you will every find yourself mystified and baffled by is the simply everyday task of being responsible. Oh, what a drag.

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I've been thinking about lying. It seems like I could be a lot more tactful if I picked up the habit, but I haven't ever done it really. I’ve never really believed in white lies. I’m not a liar. I think even if I was I wouldn’t be very good at it. When I tell them this, people ask me, “Well what if someone you know has a really bad haircut, do you tell them the truth then?” The only time this has ever happened was when a friend of mine cut her hair very short. I looked at it with a moment of ambivalence but then, I decided that it was not bad at all, just different. I think that’s the trick. If you want to get by without lying, you just have to improve the way you think about the world. It’s not your job to be “real” or to be “brutally honest” it’s your job to think more positively, then people really won’t mind if you tell the truth all the time. This is why I try not to lie. I don’t lie because I want to be that person who can tell the truth all the time and starting that begins without developing the habit of lying.

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