I think they might be trying to kill me.

My housemates, that is.

Imagine this: your housemates tell you to pass on the dinner plans you had for the night, because they had "something special" planned. That something special finally is finished around 9:00 that night...and it doesn't look or smell the greatest, but you decide to take a bite because, well, it's "special." First thing you notice: it tastes disgusting. Second thing: you can't seem to be able to breathe easily. Now that's not a good thing.

Asking them what's in their "special" pasta dish isn't any use---they refuse to tell you the ingredients. Realizing you're probably having an allergic reaction, you yell, asking if they put seafood in it---something you and they know you can't eat.

Turns out they did use seafood--anchovies. And they knew you couldn't eat it, they just weren't gonna tell you because the pasta didn't exactly taste like anchovies. Now that's something I hadn't thought of before---trying to trick your body into eating something it can't. Here, drink this poison. It could kill you, but maybe it won't, because it doesn't taste like poison. Please say you hear my sarcasm.

Ugh. But enough of this whale of a tale for now. I've got to get back to researching an article for my magazine writing class. It's actually pretty fun, believe it or not. I'm writing an article on--go figure--plants. Container gardening, to be specific. Which to some might be a bore fest (does anyone still use that phrase?), but I'm enjoying the process. They don't call me blonde gardener for nothin....