There's something in the water. No, it's not fluoride. No, it's not oddly rigid mobsters, insisting on swimming around in cement-laden sneaks. (Ahem. Not that I would know anything about that.) No, there's just a nameless something in the water that seems to continue keeping me from being able to scribble here on a regular basis. That something is either one of two things. One, it might be the Summer's Winding Down Bug, making me tired and frumpy because I'm trying to get fifty bazillion things done before classes start pummeling me with their giant metal-spiked class sticks.

Yeah, it's either that, or it's the fact that I've recently discovered the following frightening fact, as illustrated below in Figure A.

Somehow, someway, over the years, I have successively and yet ever-unknowingly managed to amass not one, not two, but twelve different shades of red nail polishes. And quite frankly, this sudden freakish knowledge makes me so utterly ashamed of the consumer culture harlot that has apparently been residing within my body for some time now without my knowledge or consent, that if anyone were to find out about it, I think I'd immediately have to go stick my head into a hermit hole that very minute, ostrich-fashion, and never again see the light of mmfh mhm mmmmmmmph.

I keep seeing commercials for these silly dolls called Bratz. If you've ever turned on the telly, I'm sure you've seen them too. They are largely misshapen dolls, with cartoonishly skinny limbs and equally-cartoonish features, most of which are layered with glitter makeup of several fashionable colors. Their outfits are cheap Britney Spears knock-offs. (Is she really still around? I thought maybe she'd finally wasted away due to her existing so long without talent of any kind, or at the very least, of silicone poisoning.) The Bratz' general statement appears to be, "Yo, girl, I'm so teeny that I don't need no boppin!" Point is, I've heard more than several folks comment on these dolls by shaking their heads and asking what little-girl-worlds are coming to these days.

But don't despair, head-shakers, for those worlds haven't really changed at all! For I remember that Barbie was always a fashionable material girl too. My eighties versions had her usually decked out in eyeshadow of not one, not two, but three designer colors, one of which was always inevitably blue. After all, dolls for little girls only follow the fashions of the day. And if anything, the situation today might be called better -- Barbie and the Bratz are not limited to the careers of secretary, teacher, or nurse. Those girls, they can be anything: doctor, rock star, skiing-pro, etcetera.

Then again, they're expected to do those things while being fashionably disproportionate superwomen. Now if you'll excuse me, my absurdly teeny tiptoe feet are long overdue for foot surgery.

A raccoon scuttled across the parking lot around noon today. Well, he bumbled more than scuttled. All the same, though, he bumbled and scuttled with purposeful furry feet, until he eventually slunk off into the bushes. For those of you unacquainted with the ways of The Animal Kingdom -- you know who you are: you're the type who's busy feeding your fish with packets of taco sauce -- raccoons are not supposed to be awake at noon. They are nocturnal animals. Which means, Taco Fish Folk, that a raccoon sleeps during the day and bumbles around at night.

So why was this little guy awake in the middle of his snoozing hour? Not having made his acquaintance, I can only dwell on theories. (Why, it's almost like college! Only less-time consuming!) The sounds of forced renovation around my apartment most likely woke the raccoon from his nocturnal state. Muttering grouchy epithets under his breath at being thus woke, he decided to slink off and devise a suitable revenge over leafy cakes and scavenged tea. His revenge will doubtless involve robbery of some sort, as he's already got a built-in mask. He might steal everyone's favorite water-glass, or roll away all our new carpets, or perhaps he will summon his trusty band of Raccoon Bandits, perch them atop the roof of my apartment complex, and hold a mighty screech concert during the middle of my sleeping hour. Come to think of it, I quite like the mischievously subversive nature of this raccoon. I think I shall call him Vagabond, and scribble about him in a public forum.

My, how quickly some thinks get done.

Jazz at two in the morning tends to put one in a thinking sort of mood. That's probably my problem, you know. I think too much. But how does one empty one's brain, without the aid of drugs, general stupidity, or very large sledgehammers? Would eating a lot of marshmallows work? No, too many calories don't empty the brain. They just make it run slower. How about floating away on a pink cloud? No, I can't do that anymore. I've lost my marbles. How about making an escapist sort of list? Yes, that might just do.

Very well then. If I were on a tropical island right this very minute, my life would at least be three times better, and here's how:

1. Location. Forget the burbs. Forget studio apartments. To rake one's worries away, there's got to be nothing better than strolling down a beach serving as your backyard. This probably has something to do with the fact that sand is a natural exfoliant. Happy feet make happy people. At least, that's what all those crazy fetish people think. All those crazy fetish people who will now be hitting me up through various search engines, that is. D'oh.

2. Ambiance. Waves will always lap against an island's shore. So screw you, noisy upstairs neighbors all; island waves have got to be the best white noise ever. Not only that, but a tropical island would go perfectly with jazz. Scene: the beachfront. Time of day: twilight. Sound: jazz drifting over the shore. Christa: ecstatic.

3. Romance. With water on all four sides, it would be pretty difficult for sexy cabana-gentlemen or sexy men-pirates to get away from me. They'd have to find a pretty big canoe. And of course, I would have taken the precaution of locking away all their paddles. After all, however less-full it may be now, I'm the one with the thinking woman's brain up in here.

Absence makes the heart go yonder.

If you've been wondering where I've been, what's been going on, why I've neglected words and domains and loudly-weeping ardent fans everywhere . . . well, you'll have to wonder a little longer. Cruel, I know. But you'll get over it. I have a sixth sense about these things. Besides, I know you've been drowning your Christaless sorrows in other webbish pursuits, not really giving a flying rat's left toe about the state of poor old Ambientwhimsy. After all, there are millions of personal sites out there to read, millions of serfwits to peruse. Ah, but therein lies the rub, doesn't it? Because if nothing else, the web is chock-full of colourless fun. And if you've got eyes to see and ears to . . . uh, clean, you can tell that Ambientwhimsy has got at least a touch of colour.

Yes, well. I don't feel like explaining right now. It requires too much thought, fuss, and emotional knottage. Yonder heart got shaken, yonder heart is healing, and yonder heart anticipates a new design with more frequent scribblings. That'll do for now. Color me here.