Earn your happy ending, boy.

Today, I am king of the castle. I, the Almighty Greenling, stand triumphant, surveying the magnificence of my deeds. Not only have I crammed a kitchen floorful of groceries (the dairy and wheat items being, of course, property of my aunt) into a single fridge, not only have I made my inaugural pot of compost broth, I have, for the first time, succeeded at that strange arcane alchemic art that is gluten-free baking.

More like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey... stuff.

I'd had some iPhoto troubles recently, hence the picture of pigs in the snow posted in late March. That's been resolved by it being spring break and thus my transferring to a different network that doesn't have a tangled mess of firewalls and proxies. I guess that means I'll be back to trying to patch things together with spit and tinfoil when term starts up again... but let's not dwell on that.

You got your ethics on my Sunday afternoon

 

I know a good number of people who don't believe in factory farms. I don't mean that in the sense that they disapprove, I mean it in the sense that they regard the concept as they do the monster under the bed and spider eggs in bubble gum. I never used to understand how anyone could simply not think that factory farms and feedlots and battery cages exist. Until I hopped the pond to Scotland, and remembered the days when I didn't believe in factory farms, either.