Painting With Shotguns XLII
I know. It’s Monday. What the hell, right? I don’t normally do Painting With Shotguns till, what, Wednesday? Thursday? Hey, this is my blogopolis. I make the laws in this mighty burg. I am King Blog of Blogtown! Sitting upon my throne of spent 12 gauge shells! I have disbanded the Parliament of Terribleminds. The politicians have been hanged from street-lights — snacks, snacks for the moon-bats!
Whoa. Okay, I don’t know where that came from.
Anyway, I figure it’s a good morning for a PWS post because, hey, that’s what I got this morning. A bunch of little topics. All clamoring for attention with squeaks and burbles. So, here goes.
We Are House Buying Ninja (Shuriken! Shuriken! Smoke Cloud!)
Hey, holacrap, we sold a house. Then we bought a house. In the span of 24 hours.
We are house-buying boomerangs.
For the record, it is truly a buyer’s market.
We priced our house low, which was a good move to get people in the door. Then, those people took a goddamn Ginsu knife and went slicey-slice with the pricey-price and got us down to an almost untenable price, a price in which we are losing a not insignificant amount of money.
One might then nickname this buyer’s market the “kick the dog” market, because that’s pretty much what happened: financial abuse was cast upon us, and so we then became the abusers, revving up the old chainsaw and pruning humongous branches from the price tree. In any other market, the offer we accepted — and the offer we made — would not be seen as kind. These days though, any offer is a mercy. I don’t blame the people buying this house: the comp prices bore out their offer. Further, the comp prices bore out our offer on the new place, as well. It is what it is.
The market is a sucking chest wound, it seems. Slurping breath and blood.
So: yay! New house. A single home, not a row home like we’re in now. A home with some land. A home with some trees. A home that is, say, 10 years old rather than 110 years old.
(Old homes are lovely and have tons of character. “It has character” is not always a compliment, mind. “Hey, I love how all these doorways are cocked at a funny angle!” And old homes always have gnome doors. And gnomes doors feature hungry gnomes.)
Of course, new home means new problems, too: I’m hip to that. Well water, for one. When I was a kid, a possum got into our well and died, and I drank it as a baby and almost died, too. If you are at all bewildered at why I am the way I am, wonder no more: my brain was damaged by fierce possum disease. Or maybe it was the time I choked on a bottle nipple. Or a penny. Or countless other tiny objects.
Ahh, the late 1970s.
So, well water, yes. Also, instead of giving our poop back to the township, we keep our poop in the new place. Our pee, also. For nostalgia’s sake, perhaps, we keep it close.
But the new problems are far outweighed by the new awesome.
Of course, moving day’s going to be nutso. Our buyers settle the same day we settle, so that day effectively sees the juggling of three households: them into ours, us into a third, the third somewhere else.
That day is Friday the 13th, by the way.
I Am Selling Books, In Case You Forgot
Since I’m moving, I am now all the more interested in off-loading some of my World of Darkness books. Won’t you help? I recompiled the list and arranged a new pricing structure whereby each book bought is cheaper than the last if you buy ‘em together. You know you wanna buy some White Wolf books, right? Right. So make with the clicky-clicky and check out the updated list and prices.
Your Vote Counts
The voting is complete.
The top three phrases as of 7AM this morning:
And “Douche Hammer.”
I know there was some fol de rol about NAMBLA Carnival, and perhaps someone out there is freaked out about vote bias or something. To them I say, pshhhh. Chillax, brocephus. This shit is probably cleaner than any presidential election in the last 50 years. If you’re all freaky about it, well, to that I quote The Bloodhoung Gang: “Life is short and hard, like a bodybuilding elf.”
What that means is, in a perfect world, I’ll have a short story to you by the end of this week. Keep your grapes peeled, you chattering primates.
Also: I’ll note a certain sadness that some of my favorites in the phrase list didn’t see any votes at all. “Misunderstood gibbon?” “Motherfucking podiatrists?” “Shame jugs?” Is there no justice in this world?
Novel: Week One
I’m now at 15k on the novel.
It goes according to my evil plan.
I continue to rock out with my, ahem, rooster out.
It probably sucks, but hey, at least I’m making progress!
Ich Bin Gamer
Yeah, PC gaming is dead to me, blah blah blah. I meant it, too. But then Steam is having their Insane Summer Sale, and my lips moistened with desire. My wallet parted like blooming labia and gave up its treasure.
I bought the THQ package, but I also now am the Proud Poppa of both Left For Dead 2 and Team Fortress 2. My “Steam ID” is terribleminds, so come on over and find me. Let us murder zombies or engineers.
Let us revel in their anguish.
Where No Links?
No links today. Gotta do work, y’all. This novel won’t write itself.