So, as always, I should be fucking around with websites or phonecalls or invoices or whatever. And! Like always, my mind is working on overdrive to find anything—ANYTHING—to occupy itself with, other than the aforementioned (billable) items. What am I doing this fine Friday afternoon?

I am playing with my goat skull. Duh.

Last weekend I went to SF for work and came home with a goat skull. I purchased it in an otherwordly-ly lovely florist-slash-taxidermy shop called Floreal. It was between that or a raccoon skull. Or a tortoise shell. Or a fully restored Toucan. I went for the goat, because despite my boyish good looks, I fancy myself evil and dangerous.

Now, as you can imagine, Mrs. Hateball was full of questions upon my return with the aforementioned relic. I had no answers. I simply needed it.

And now I have one. And now it’s hanging up in my office entry way, saluting all the guests I never bring up here. I did him up in a fancy Deer-Hunter-esque headscarf, gave him the 19 treatment, and thought I was done. But then today—during my brainfevered obsession with the Cure x Mishka x Lamour Supreme Boogie Man Ring preorder deadline, I added a baphomet trophy and a porcelain tooth. And then I gave him rubber piggies for company.

All in all, I realize that I should be ashamed to be having this much fun with this, but I’m not. I now officially collect so many different types of things that I am compelled to recombine them in strange and ridiculous ways. And then talk about it. How bullshit meta is that?

You will regret not buying a ring. I already regret having the whole of my marriage magic not being stored within it’s moonward-staring eye.

- Hateball