HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

What's red and adorable and nearly two decades old?

That's right! It's karotsamused!


Love you, baby. Have the best birthday EVER.

I am totally hopeless.

Or. Well. Not that kind of hopeless. Seriously, the simplest things totally make me cry. Uh, mostly movies and books, I mean.

It's the end of an era, folks. Riddle's left camp.

And he's gotten home again.


Now pardon me while I go off and wibble in a corner.


CAMP YOU AREN'T ALLOWED TO TUG AT MY HEARTSTRINGS LIKE THIS.


...YOU ALSO SHOULDN'T MAKE ME WANT TO USE "HEARTSTRINGS" IN SERIOUS CONVERSATION.


...

OR AS SERIOUS A CONVERSATION AS YOU CAN HAVE ABOUT ZOMBIE CAMP.

. . . *sniff*

...wtf.

...there's a flock of green parrots in my back yard.

The hell?

THIS IS AWESOME!

*runs outside to stare for a while*

The Split Infinity or My dad's a white guy, but you won't know by looking at me.

Unlike a fair number of other people on my flist I haven't been following the discussion on Cultural Appropriation. And then yesterday, or this morning depending on how you look at it, wordsofastory put up an excellent discussion of writing and cultural identity and suddenly I was spurred to write a response of my own (Brigdh I promised you a letter, didn't I?). Except. Except I don't know where to write it from.

You see, I have a problem. It's a cultural problem. It's also a racial problem. How about if we start by me telling you a little story...

( Two women sit, watching a dinner party break up into smaller conversations.  )

( Skip to the bit that's actually about writing... )