There's no place like this.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh, I can almost HEAR your gears grinding...
Or is that your teeth gnashing?

Anywho....

Yes, 'tis time for yet another exciting adventure into the one place in all of Second Life that we all so love and enjoy.
Well, at least I know I do, but that'll be a case of preference!

So we have covered almost ALL of Euphoria at this point, when it comes to the novelties of sightseeing.
Then again, I never sat myself into the seat of "tour guide".
I wouldn't... 

Who knows where they've been?

You're getting off topic, Hatter.

What would you know of topics, Text?

You're a babbling buffoon.

And you're a ranting loon, so we make the pot, kettle and...
Ooooh...
Kettle.
Put it on, if you please! 

Do it yourself, lazy bum.

Good help is hard to come by nowadays, Dearies...

SO!

Might as well start at the beginning. And when we get to the end...
Well, you get the picture.

This is my humble abode, Dearies and... more Dearies!
(I need sub-groups for my Dearies, I swear...)

It's a charming little nook of a corner of Euphoria, a destination one should be saving for last.
Like that last little chore you enjoy doing...
Or the last little piece of cake that has all the toppings on it.

Or perhaps the very last little spot of tea left in the kettle.
It holds all the sweet tastes that follow in the leaves,
only stronger, more concentrated.
Oh my, the chills...

EITHERWHO!

The first thing you spot when you make it over the churning hill that leads to the path down to my house is my beloved Tea-table. 

Here you'll find all the flavors of the world, tucked nice and neatly into quiet conversation, loud noises, steaming teapots, cake, pie, crumpets (sometimes) and even some lovely company from time to time. 

(As long as that damn cat keeps his hairy paws off. Seriously, if I find ONE more purple hair in my cup...)

For those who don't know the story well, allow me to give you the short version:

Basically, I was invited to a party at the Bloody BigHeads castle.
I was having a lot of fun, bouncing around the table,
knocking on peoples heads and driving the Queen around the bend!

Then, at some point, I felt it appropriate to give Time, who was also dining at the table at the time.. Heh, time and time... Sorry.

I felt compelled to give him some hearty words.

Short story made shorter, he got offended, the Queen tried to behead me and Time took my time away.

So every day around my table is stuck on 6 o' clock!

Uh... Wait...

Correct me if I am wrong... No, the CLOCK must be wrong...

Now I've never... 

Well, perhaps the curse has been lifted, but not by much,

The clocks are still stuck and not moving!

ANYWHAT!

My point being:

Time matters not here.

So if a spot of tea is desirable, I implore you to drop on by and join me sometime!
We could talk about the weather...
No, too boring.

How about the monarchy?
No.. Too depressing.

Hats?
Depends on how much you like hats...

Anyway, I shall hope to see you there with me someday!

MOVING ON!

So my house is really a converted windmill, which fell into decay some years before I came to Euphoria.
It had to take some elbow grease, and a lot of tea-breaks, to pull off making it sturdy and last. 

What puzzles me is that I took the mechanism out of it, but the mill keeps turning...

Maybe it's experiencing heavy nostalgia.

Longing for those good old grinding days. 

The Creators have had fun with placing decorations around the place, which explains the fermenting pumpkins and candles scattered willynilly everywhere. 

I believe it to be "Hallowe'en" or something like that.
It's something they've discovered up on the surface, in any case.

Personally, I find it fetching and in good taste.

Well, I suppose you'll want to see the inside, then?

It's a bit cluttery...

Mind you wipe your shoes, don't wish to drag in any scattered momerath leftovers inside.

Well, here we are.

I know, I know... Too "shabby chic" to pass for royalty, but then again I never wished to be recognised as such.

A man of simple needs must have a simple life.
I remember someone saying that once right before they signed their lives away to live in fortune.
I couldn't tell you names, lest I be damned to lose all that I own in a court case of extreme proportions with a biased group of juries that hate my guts, a judge that hates my guts and a prosecutor that...

Yes, you guessed it.

SO!

Starting from the left of entering the doorway, we see a hatstand, holding a very famous piece of headwear, but just a memento at this point.

A bookcase that contains everything from types of tea, dynasties, juggling geese and amnesty.

A bed. For sleeping.
Yes, just that, you devil.

A slideshow machine to display various of disturbing and grotesque images from some reality or other that I do not recognise, but the artwork is well made, in any case. 

Then my faithful and loyal chair, that's been with me since the days of the old and deceased "Dysphoria" times. 

A windowsill with plants on it.
Word of warning: Do not feed them.
They bite.

On top of the window you'll see an assortment of hats, I'll say they are prides of my trade. One even moves, wouldn't you believe?

Then following is a rather cosy and snug assembly of chairs by the fire, to warm any cold feet that's rushed in from any cold air or wedding they've been trying to escape. 

And a picture, fondly placed in pride of place, of my dear Alice. 

Not that she's gone and we needed this as a memory, but...
I like it, it fits well, and appreciation is better placed where it is due.

Then, finally, we come to a close of our round at the last place before we hit the door again. 

This is my workplace, where I hatch ideas of hats, words, rhymes, insanity, books, bunnies, bats, badgers... Why am I finding animals beginning with "B"?

Well, that'll be the letter of the day, Dearies!

If you find more words beginning with the letter B, you'll have to let me know!


Thank you very much for joining me on this round tour of the house in which I reside!

I hope you'll have a very frabjuous day today, and I will look forward to the next time we go on another adventure together!

I will just leave THIS here for you to click on.
It'll give you an idea on what this place is all about!

And THIS, if you like pictures!

And THIS if you feel so inclined to join my community of Discord!

Tattybye for now, Dearies! :D

Hatter's Origin

Mrrrrrow....

Oh sorry, was having fond memories of ear scratches. 

If you have not already guessed, I am the Cheshire Cat.

I have taken over this page for a limited time, for I simply must share with you my findings of our dear Hatter.
I know he doesn't like me much, but I can't blame him for that. 

Anyway.

What i have found will be an explanation of where Hatter came from and how he ended up where he was.

I tried to be as short as possible, but you decide if you wish to read or not! 

So without further a-do, I present to you:

Hatter's Origin

Name: The Mad Hatter.

Age: Unknown.

Height: 7,92 feet/ 2,42 metres.

P.O.R.: Euphoria/Wonderland.

Species: Hat-kin.

Origin:

Hatter comes from a small province called Cravatia, a land riddled with lush thick jungles, little villages and a difficult way of life.

Cravatia is a place that borders Wonderland, and is home to many of Hatter's fellow species, known as the Hat-kin. The reason they earned this name is simply because they always had an affinity for head-wear. Whether it is your normal headscarf, a bowler or top hat, you can never find a hat-kin without one of these on their noggins.

Hatter grew up in a tiny village that was mostly ruled by the local Rigdigger (Or Mayor, if you prefer.) 

This personage they had to pay tribute to on every Snoltsday of every Wrilk. 

(Basically every Sunday of every Week.)

Their way of life was usually simple, and they mostly lived off of the land and made do with what they had.

And the usual trait you'll find in a hat-kin is their creativity.

Anything you'd wish for, they could fashion out of an old tree stump, some simple tools and the leaves of the Furbur trees, which were giant stacked trees with colourful and flourished leaves that would make any passionate painter cry with delight.

Hatter's family was a troubled one, with a past of difficult times, whether it was that they could not keep their home, their land not bearing fruit or a family member would suddenly turn mad and get violent towards both the rest of them or the townsfolk.

Now, I know what you are thinking.

No, Hatter was not that kind of mad.

Hatter had most of what a child could possibly wish for.
A loving and supporting mother, two little sisters who he adored more than anything could possibly measure, a dog that never left his side and a wonderful childhood.

His father was loving too, but when it came to supporting, he always found his father to be just a little lacking.

Mostly about his ambitions, which of course would be hatting.

Hatting was seen as the most common of trades among the hat-kin, and his father wished for him to amount to bigger things like being a farmer or horse racing.

(Yeah, you thought lawyer or doctor, i know you did.)

Hatter always had new ideas for his new hats and was in the making of one that would be the very making of his character, much to his dismay.

In the making of the hat, his father said enough was enough.

The hatting business had to stop, and his father had decided to send him away to a proper school that would teach him in the ways of «honest living».

Since this didn't sit very well with Hatter, his reaction was to put his new hat on in anger, scream and bawl at his father, saying his life's ambition and dreams would not be ruined and swilled by the dimwittedness of a stupid and ignorant father that could not see things from his point of view.

A fight broke out, and in the process his father managed to strike him across the cheek.

Frightened, angry and upset, Hatter ran off into the bordering line of the Tulgey Woods and managed to get himself lost.

Not knowing where to go, he stopped by every Momerath, every Borogove, every nook and cranny, every living creature you could think of, and asked where he should go. Since no one seems to have a direction in Wonderland, his bearings were simply non existent.

As he walked along, he lost his thoughts, and tried to find them again, they seemed to be floating mid air in the form of clouds, and as he was chasing his thoughts, he missed the end of a high reaching root of a tree, tripped and fell into the Glum-Goo-Grove.

The history of the Glum-Goo-Grove is a little vague, but they say that whoever falls into the waters don't usually come back up. And if they ever do, they won't be the same person.

As Hatter fought to get himself up, 

he felt his fear and panic was starting to transform into hilarity and fun, 

his painful and horrified shrieks turned into laughter and song...

And the might he tried to muster to dig himself out with clawing and digging turned into dancing, twisting and joyful spasms.

In this transformation, his body would start to stretch and become longer and bendier, 

his joints movable towards the unending, 

his hair would go from a short brown 

to a long, wavy and green plaited mess.

And while we mention transformations, 

his face would go from a frightened and boyish appearance...

And instead be turned into a freaky, 

wide-eyed, no-lipped grinning shell 

without much else of emotion than overjoyed happiness no matter how he'd feel.

But just as fast as the grove had taken him in, 

not long did it go before it seemed to change its mind about the choice of digesting this creature.

For Hat-kin are not indigenous to Wonderland, 

thus the Grove had not tried this exotic cuisine before.

So just as fast as Hatter had disappeared into the goopy gloomy green goo, 

not long did it take for it to shoot him back out as if spat out on the dinner table for being gone off.

Merely brushing off his shoulders and looking around him, worried more about if anyone would be seeing him in this state, he seemed to not remember a thing of what happened to him.

Locating his hat that had been spat out with him, he placed the now growing famous head-wear onto his head and looked around himself.

One of my sources say that at this point, he went to locate a stick, simply bit at the wood like you would a corn-on-the-cob, fashioned the walking stick he now uses, but no clear description comes to how he obtained the headpiece.

I am also told that the place he inhabits, the windmill and the table, was actually owned by Time himself, as a holiday home.

So how he obtained it must be examined further.

Anyway, I must be away, I don't know when he will return, but I hope you all are a bit more filled in on his background, i know we've all asked ourselves here in Euphoria.

I'll just leave THIS for you to click on, 

THIS for you who use Discord and 

THIS if you like looking at pictures!

Anyway, must be off before Ol' Hatty comes back!

Farewell, readers!

Am I Late, or...?

---------------------------------------------------------------------

"Why, Mary Ann, what ARE you doing out here? 

Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! 

Quick, now!”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

So..

Your dear and faithful narrator can only imagine that you have questions as to how it's taken so long for me to paint yet another wondrous picture of Wonderland for all your googly eyes to see.

The answer could be very long, but pictures say more than what I care to let you know...
So why not.

To clarify: I have not been at the pop...
That spider is huge.

So how did your articulate handso....

Wait...

"WAIT!" I hear you scream at the top of your lungs as if being chased by a random madman with a butchering knife. 

Yes, you did see it right. 

I HAVE become more handsome.

Now do not panic, though...

The colour isn't permanent and hopefully will be different as well soon, but enough of this gorgeous specimen of.. Well, to tell the truth, I have absolutely no idea what species I represent, so let's just say Hat-kin. Much friendlier to my good self. 

So, to sum up:
-Handsome Hat-kin.

-Caught in web.

-Soon to be eaten.

But before such an ill fate fell upon my good mad self, my purpose was simply to pay a visit to one simple creature that dwells within our lovable, yet confusing, world.

You all know him.

He is a neurotic mess most of the time.

He is just fast enough to outrun little girls that tend to chase him for his priceless pocket time telling thingy.

His fur is white as the whitest of cok-duh uh SNOW...

He is The Rabbit, whom we all tend to follow down this hole of madness every so often.

He has a house, wouldn't you believe it. But it might be a bit different from how you may remember it.
And why not?
It was violently invaded by said little girl, whose only fault in life was being too damn curious for her own (and others') good.

So the rebuild has somewhat changed it, and its weathered past is to be seen and felt, even in the air... Bring your nose-clips.

Not very pretty, is it?
But as some wisecrack in the other worlds history once said:

"Do not judge a salad by its dressing."

You may have gotten that a bit wrong, Hatty.

Words, you're NOT my mother, so go hat yourself. 

I'm telling.

Telling who? The Queen's been exiled.
Good luck finding her. 

AnyWHO!

-----------------------------------------------------

"Oh my ears and whiskers! I'm late, I'm late I'm late!"

-----------------------------------------------

Yes, the house looks like a failed project planned by Oscar Wilde and Edgar Allan Poe, and SOMEHOW Jules Verne came in and started placing random bits of random everywhere.

Trust me, the end result would be something like this.

But then again it has a certain charm, a sort of run down rustic attitude towards life... 

Unlike my own house, which is mostly a redecorated windmill, but we'll get to that in another post.

As we get closer, we arrive at the front, where there is a seat for one or two, a swingset for one or two, a danceball for two and a carrot garden, holding quantities which would only be  suitable if there were two living in the house.
Which makes me wonder:
Who is she?

"Carrots are good, M'kay?"

Upon entry, you're met by a strange clock which SHOCKINGLY shows the correct time, although you'd think time would stand still pretty much everywhere in this wretched place!

But NOOOO! Just MY house, apparently.

Like we're never able to make jokes around here.

Note to self: Ixnay on the okesjay.

Turning immediately after the BLASTED CLOCK, and after avoiding the SMALLER spiderwebs, you step into a room with a candlelit table, with a deck of tarot cards and two tables.

Whether the Rabbit decided to turn to Wicca or the dark arts is a complete mystery to me, but never the less: Fortunes are to be told here, should you be so lucky.

... the Tarot cards appear when the other seat is taken.
Just to clarify before you complain.

Following is a doorway that leads straight back outside.

If you walk further than that, well...

I hope you brought your bathing suit.

And a decent doctor, because the water is lethally cold.

But if you gaze the  other way from where you entered said room, you'll noticed some rather crooked, windy, steep and dangerous looking stairs.

If you so HAPPEN to be of the fortunate and adventurous kind, you'll scale those stairs and end up in the Rabbits front room.

Which is only but slightly pretentious and egotistic, if you ask me.

Here's why.

I mean, who in this day and age puts up an image of JUST yourself over a mantle?

But otherwise i have to give it to him: 

His sense of decoration is on point and creates the atmosphere.

Plus: You have to admire a man (Rabbit? Rabman? Deus Ex Rabbit?) that can pull off using a severed hand to hang his clock from.

Point is: He is creepy as hell at times, but it's justified by the very fact that you rarely see him. Which then allows for free entry of his house and accommodations. 

Including his bed.

Which, if he HAS a woman (Woman Rabbit? Wombit? Fembit?), It would explain the state of his bed.

If not... I do not wish to even fathom the thought.

After that, there is just a winding stair up, up and further up into a tower that pretty much holds nothing of interest, so I journeyed back out, as you do when you've overstayed your welcome. 

And it was not shortly after that I decided i was going to visit the flower patch and take a stroll while writing about it in this blog entry, but sadly

Yes, didn't get far, so that will have to be for another time.

Now, if you'll excuse me: I'll have to figure out a way to escape these entanglements before the spider feels I have overstayed my welcome here and decides to eat me from the inside out...

Which I hear is not very pleasant, in the very process of it.

So I will just leave THIS here for you to click and find out more about this place, and perhaps, if I havent gotten out yet, you'll make it just in time to either help me out or view as I am turned into a mummified version of a stickperson.

Thank you for reading! And wish me luck!

Tattybye... hopefully not forever!