I like pictures of this ilk because you can probably find something in them or about them to relate to. they are, dare I pompously opine, rather humble.
oxymoroness.
-music. note the Zappa from the Seattle public library system. I owe about $120 on that one. too poor to return it.
-my lair from the toaster.
-the last lonely fry at Charlie's. I fucking hate ketchup. this is not my plate.
-a close-up of the playbill of Eugene Barnes, my great-grandfather.
-gallery of narcissism, the experimenting-without-a-flash-on-the-crappy-ikea-sofa version.
-DRY GOODS. my cupboard is the original icebox, hence the wee compartments and motor-thing. the door is magnetic. i want to abscond with this thing when I move.
someone left the nut butter here. the pickle jar holds bacon bits. want some canned soup? I can totally make you that.
-a small fraction of my many creepy, archaic, mostly un-cooked-from cookbooks. "the male chauvinist cookbook" is particularly fucking epic. i love it! it was published in the 70s, go figure.
-the refrigerator. meds, really old butter, peanuts (they're best cold), punch in a mason jar (with a bendy straw), carrots, tofu mixed with berbere spice, a really old bottle of vermouth. this is a stocked fridge for me.
-terrifying adventures with cyanotype. I am not quite so pocky.
-the playbill in its philodendron-occluded entirety.
"sentimentality is an emotion common to all humanity." frank sinatra
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