Zilla, Pabst, and Jose

If you’re new here, you might want to meet my alter-ego before proceeding.

Channeling her inner Houdini, she managed to escape some time ago.

Evidently, she roamed all over God’s creation with a supply of Pabst, a friend of hers, and my temperamental time machine.

They also stole a bottle of champagne, but at this point, that is neither here nor there.

She’s been in my ear all morning attempting to explain herself.  Twiggy arms flapping in excitement, stomping her tail to provide the occasional soundtrack, miming the actions of what is either an ancient tribal ritual or a story about being trapped in the middle of an Hermes sale (I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually)-regardless, she’s got a long way to go in describing her whereabouts these past months.

She wore herself out in the middle of a tale about Jose (the buddy of hers I mentioned), and so in an effort to get her to quiet down a bit, I asked her to write you all a note about how this adventure got started in the first place.

As you can see, the handwritten explanations leave much to the imagination.

Just thought you should all know that I have verified the expiration date of her rickshaw license.  Early 16th century, though it looks like she could have extended if she hadn’t missed the deadline.

She’s slowly piecing it together for me, but I’m sure I’ve just hit the tip of the iceberg.  I’m debating giving her access to my password on here, so if you see an occasional drawing sans explanation, rest assured, it’s Zilla.

Rawr.

Strainer on head, corn-chip baths, and new pants

Future me popped up today.

I really hate it when she does this.

Standing there with what looks like a strainer woven with pipe cleaners on her head, she puts her hands on her hips and clears her throat until I acknowledge her presence.

As if I’m not busy enough sorting out current self.  I’m expected to entertain future Ryan just because she falls in love with a mad-scientist sometime around 2019 and steals his time machine after she finds him in bed with her tailor?

Sigh.

She never has anything positive to say.  Just a whole lotta judgement about what 29 year old Zilla is doing with her life.  Well you know what?  We can’t all be mad-scientist muses.  It’s a select group lady, and clearly; I’m not there yet.

The first time she showed up she was 84 year old me.  She got all offended that I couldn’t recognize her.  Also, she smelled like Fritos so it’s good to know that they serve those in whichever asylum becomes my home in 2064.

Today was 53 year old Ryan.  Rocking stilettos and massive jewellery.  I couldn’t get her to tell me how she came to own such lovely possessions, which was annoying.  She smelled good though, so the descent into bathing in corn-chips clearly doesn’t happen until much, much later.

She told me to keep writing and to be more responsible.  I raised my eyebrow at her on the latter point, but she pretended like she didn’t notice.

No one wearing kitchen supplies as a helmet has the right to lecture me on responsibility.

She wouldn’t tell me winning lottery numbers (claims she wouldn’t remember them even if she tried-of all things, I find this most believable).  She wouldn’t tell me if she has children or if they drive her crazy.  Though the long sigh and nod of exhaustion indicate a daughter capable of my own antics in my future.

She laughs menacingly when I ask her how many times she’s been married.

Which of course I find comforting.

The only thing she’ll tell me is to keep writing.

Seems to have done her some good.  Her sense of humor still dominates her personality.  She deleted the first draft of this post.  Her expression while doing so indicated she thought that was downright hysterical and thus merited a victory dance.

53 year old Ryan dances no better than her younger version.

Then she popped out of the air while giggling.  The last I heard was a shout that sounded like:

‘stock up on tight pants in 2011.  You’re gonna need them!!”

So it’s really not my fault that I went shopping this afternoon.

Was just taking the advice of someone older, wiser, and more sophisticated.

I’m pretty sure that’s a universal law.  Just like gravity and (evidently down the road) time travel.

So that’s why I have new pants.

Who can blame me?