It's almost October and while Halloween is over a month away, creepy things are happening in Madison.

Heard singing outside my window on a Tuesday night.
Troubling: I thought I was having an "In your eyes" Lloyd/Diane moment.
Troubling#2: Feeling crestfallen when I realized it was just my drunken neighbors having a karaoke patio party.

Love is: an unforgettable boombox serenade. {via}

Still being completely grossed out by Silence of the Lambs.
Troubling: Finding this in an antique mall.

Midnight on a Friday. New neighbors are having a party. It's loud.
Rant: New freshman class of UW, if you're going to listen to 70s rock, know it don't blow it. AND it's not cute to loudly group sing Bad Romance, that retched Barbie song or anything by ABBA. And please. If you're going to keep me up when I work at 7am, I prefer if you didn't act like you were an extra on a Disney sitcom. I want to hear name calling, trashy fights, a colorful array of bad choices and the next morning, I want to see someone passed out near my car. I was not only tired the next day, but disappointed.

Having a bad day.
Troubling: That frown is turned upside down just by hearing Hall and Oates on the radio.

I can cause accidents, too {via}

Ever get the feeling you're at the wrong place at the wrong time? I do, every time I drive into the Wal-mart parking lot (just look at Peopleofwalmart.com).

But seriously, I have been in the wrong place at the wrong time many, many times. Like the time I was robbed of a foot modeling career. Robbed, you say? Yes, my friends, pull up a chair and brace yourself for a tragic story of broken dreams, damaged limbs and the most horrifying of all, cheap pumps.

But not with a spider man t-shirt {via}

It was early summer, before the mosquitoes arrived in swarms and the humidity thankfully hadn't had it's protein shake. The college student career had sputtered to a humdrum end and a very similar career had seeped in, unemployment.

The next weeks were filled with hand cramps from filling out job applications and tired, blood shot eyes from scouring career websites. That is until one day a craigslist ad jumps out of the computer screen and with it fancy daydreams of grocery shopping and change for laundry.


That's right,  I could be lounging on a beach, slipping a classy cocktail (like a sidecar) and avoiding the calls of Gisele and Heidi because let's face it, my career has a much stronger life line. My manservant would inject the money makers with botox, followed by a rejuvenating honey and crush pearl rub down (clearly I have no idea how models spend their time... but I can't be that far off...). But no. I don't have a manservant and not even the models in a Sears catalog would be jealous of my life.

Instead I'm working at one of the stores in the mall. I guess I should be thankful, usually models end up with some horrible cocaine addiction or married to Charlie Sheen. And being a foot model? That's like being the Assistant to the Manager instead of being the Assistant Manager. Just the thought of being like the lady in this video is horrifying enough to make me reconsider the medical supplement testing. All's well that ends well.