the feet that time forgot

For reference, expect for the next week to ten days, I will be grumpy. And no, not in a productive porn way that ends in strange kinks, but in a listless way where I generally feel a vague desire to wreck havoc by leaving my shoes on the floor and not doing dishes in a timely manner. This may or may not combine with staring resentfully at my website and muttering about a nice black background with lime green text. I am just in that place in my life.

(ETA: Ah. It's my period. That explains the half-pound chocolate bar I had to buy and the beef jerky I'm consuming by the bag. Okay, probably four to eight days, then, before zen is reacheived.)

However. The Mystery of the Feet is bothering me on a variety of levels. Mostly due to this:

- There is no evidence that any of the first four feet were forcibly removed.

I'm sorry. I must have missed this part of biology, where feet do indeed resemble Bratz characters. What does that even mean they weren't forcibly removed? They walked away from their legs? No fault divorce? Sudden, inexplicable, religion-creating immaculate feet birth (complete with cross-trainers?). How in the name of God do feet disattach without assistance? I mean, basically, are they saying six feet (just one of a pair, like what, there was a foot flamewar and one flounced in a way that's exceedingly unusual) randomly rotted off their attached leg (ewww) and then went for a cool swim? Without the other foot (see flamewar)? Or a rash of one legged people in running shoes died and their feet all decomposed together, or--

--or really. Really. I understand investigation in progress, but this feels like the beginning of a very strange fantasy novel where someone, somewhere, is doing some kind of obscure human sacrifice and oh! Oh! This would totally be an Anita Blake thing. Totally. With feet. Zombie feet.

Oh wow, what if these are zombie feet? Rock on.

And that concludes my creepy theory on the feet. I shall now continue my mild and uninteresting sulk about the universe not bending to my will and abuse of parentheses for fun and confusion.

it's got to be genetics; there's no other logical explanation

Goddamn Chris Carter. I do not trust you. I do not believe you. I know you will fuck me over.

And I will watch anyway.

The meaning of fangirl: will watch even while holding a spork, buy even when hating the credit card bill, and love even when they totally screw it up.

I miss Mulder and Scully. I really want to see what happens next.

Seriously. Dammit.

I'll be here, aware of my enslavement and not even caring because Oh. My. God. X-Files. Hell and yes.