Shiny Objects

2007-05-14T15:46:00.000-07:00

What What
or
Unbeweaveable

Thank god I didn't give up trolling the bowels of the internet for higher intellectual persuits on new years, as I briefely considered. Otherwise, I would have missed Samwell's internet video debut. I would have been mortified to be the last on the block to catch this one.

Ladies and gentle readers, I submit for your entertainment, Samwell's first single, a viral classic before its time, "What What (In The Butt)."

Lord knows my gentle readers love a dose of olde fashioned homo with their chocolate starfish . . . ugh, er, mousse, or . . . long john? Um, brioche? Damnit, now everything sounds faggoty.

Fucking queers. Why do they have to take all the good music video ideas first?

In other, non-anal news, I currently have long hair. Most of it isn't mine. In the spirit of costumage, I applied a goodly ammount of hair weave to my scalp in hopes of gaining waist-length platinum strands. You know, to look like Barbie. For this doll fetish party I went to. To great effect. I include the following photograph, during which I was not only smashed, but trying to talk to the cameraman, when he closed the shutter:

I bought the hair and the glue at a "ghetto ass" beauty supply store. About sixty bucks. The boy and I spent an hour and a half gluing it in. Apparently the effect lasts a week or so. I'm on day 5 and about to go to work. As long as one doesn't wash her hair, it'll stay, I'm told. About another day or so is all I can forsee going without shampoo, baby powder be damned. I wonder if I can reuse the hair . . .

Those interested in the technique should consult this page. It's really not hard. If I can do it, any crack whore can do it.

2007-05-09T22:52:00.000-07:00

My Kitty Has Herpes
or
Eye In The Ointment

I wasn't until after I'd sent the news to a dozen or so online pals that all implications of the phrase "my kitty has herpes!" became apparent to me. I must really be concerned for my cat's health. Otherwise a saucy slutten like myself would have conceived of the phrase as a double entendre before anyone even received it.

*sigh* Poor kitty.

Actually, as of today, it's kitties. Plural. As I have two.

What, you hadn't heard? Oh yeah, that's right. I'm a neglectful-ass whoremongering authoress. And stuff. Ok, here's the straight dope on the twin kitties.

About two weeks ago, I couldn't stand the loneliness any more. I went all the way to Katy to visit the Citizens for Animal Protection shelter so I could pick myself up a new pal. May I say that their adoption procedure is probably the most irritating and involved I have ever witnessed? In the spirit of finding an appropriate and loving environment for the animals, they almost certainly screw a good number of pets out of a new home. It took over 3 days and a tank of gas to get my new friend. And his sister. Yeah. They were having a two-fer-one deal, and I can never say no to a bargain.

Plus, they look so cute together. They're litter mates. Couldn't split them up, even though they're adults now. I mean, they came from the same household and lived in the same cage at the shelter. They really love each other. I named the boy Aniki and the girl Aurora.

Aurora

Aniki

Arturo wasn't sure about having two cats at first, but the little fuckers have really grown on him. This pleases me, as we're all crammed into a two room apartment.

So I brought the kitties home and all was well. For a few days. Then I noticed Aurora's eye was swollen nearly shut. A trip to the vet revealed . . . get ready for it . . . occular herpes. Ouch. True to form, my first question to the vet was whether or not I could contract herpes from the animals, for I remembered touching them many many times without washing my hands afterwards. The vet assured me that I could not. A hundred smackers later, she sent me home with a very irritable Aurora(she wasn't too keen on the themometer in her ass), some ointment, a bottle of liquid antibiotics, and a bottle of gel.

Ever tried to give oral antibiotics to a cat after smearing petrolium based ointment in her eyes? My hands are in absolute tatters. A veritable sive.

Then Aniki got the same thing. Miserable herpid cat times two. They didn't have a pair of eyes between the two of 'em. They're starting to get better, but I can tell this is going to be a long road.

2007-04-13T14:15:00.000-07:00

Concrete Rose Sucks
or
The Worst Batchelor Party Ever

Child of Mists: dude, i went to see this "burlesque" troupe
Child of Mists: the only one in the city
Child of Mists: it was the most pissweak thing i'd ever seen
GrimJim in exile: Yeah? I'm sensing you don't think they're much competition...
Child of Mists: i mean, even if they called themselves a plain old dance company, it still would have been a patently stupid show
Child of Mists: they didn't go down beyond bustiers and mini skirts
GrimJim in exile: The burlesque I've seen up here went down to pasties, easy.
Child of Mists: they weren't even hot.
Child of Mists: it reminded me of my highschool talent show
GrimJim in exile: Hahaha!
Child of Mists: at least our cheerleaders had tight choreography
Child of Mists: Ugh, so these girls danced to all modern music, too
Child of Mists: like, christina aguilerra. like lenny kravitz
GrimJim in exile: Sounds sad. Maybe they are merely PCD wannabes.
Child of Mists: pcd?
GrimJim in exile: Pussycat Dolls.
Child of Mists: yes. YES. that's what it was like
Child of Mists: exactly
Child of Mists: actually that is exactly what it was like
Child of Mists: except with ungainly, rhythmless dancing from half of the foursome
GrimJim in exile: Yeah, they started off in burlesque. I guess that's what passes for it in some places.
Child of Mists: one girl was so strung out on meth and starved to death that she looked like a dancing skeleton
Child of Mists: she was so weak she couldn't move her chair during the routine
Child of Mists: a stage hand had to help her move it
Child of Mists: a folding chair
Child of Mists: but i'm not even done
GrimJim in exile: It gets worse?
Child of Mists: so, out of their alotted hour, they did about 20 minutes worth of dancing, took a huge 35 minute break with no filler, and then came back for what was apparently the grand finale . ..
Child of Mists: five minutes.
Child of Mists: one girl didn't even reappear until halfway through the song
Child of Mists: obviously fucked up
Child of Mists: it gets better
GrimJim in exile: No filler? Geez. The show that I saw in town had a guy do his take on Vaudeville style comedy, talking to the audience with his routine.
Child of Mists: that's what I'm going to do!
Child of Mists: get a juggler or somebody and an MC
GrimJim in exile: Right on!
Child of Mists: so, at this final act, we find that it's actually someone's batchelor party
Child of Mists: and that's why they were hired in the first place
Child of Mists: so they drag the guy on stage, put him in the middle
Child of Mists: and completely ignore him
Child of Mists: they didn't even look at him as they danced
Child of Mists: he was there, stone cold in the center, wondering how to involve himself, and every time he'd try to dance with them or something, they'd push him away
Child of Mists: he was obviously not having a good time
GrimJim in exile: Sounds like they've got big egos with no room for others.
Child of Mists: yeah
Child of Mists: and then . . . get this
GrimJim in exile: *nod*
Child of Mists: the crowd is made entirely out of the most bland generation Y hipsters you could ever find
Child of Mists: and they clap
Child of Mists: they give a standing ovation
Child of Mists: arturo and I had an 8 person table to ourselves
Child of Mists: no one wanted to sit with us. we weren't even scary looking!
Child of Mists: but we weren't little snotnosed emo kids
Child of Mists: there were people standing in the corner, rather than sit with us
GrimJim in exile: Boomer babies, spoiled by a spoiled generation.
Child of Mists: and the troupe gets an ovation
Child of Mists: how sad is my generation that such a pathetic performance merits a standing ovation?
Child of Mists: i mean, what the hell
GrimJim in exile: Maybe merely for the guts to get on stage at all and humiliate a guy?
Child of Mists: what the hell.
Child of Mists: they're a burlesque troupe. getting on stage is mandatory
GrimJim in exile: How inebriated was the crowd?
Child of Mists: not very
Child of Mists: ever notice that the emo hipster kids just don't know how to have a good time
Child of Mists: no one doing shots
GrimJim in exile: Probably too poor? Heh.
Child of Mists: whatever. i saw their phones
GrimJim in exile: Spent all their money on clothes and phones.
Child of Mists: yeah
Child of Mists: maybe
GrimJim in exile: Generation iPod can't afford a drink?
Child of Mists: that, or they're terminally dull
Child of Mists: i think they can
Child of Mists: i think they're just idiots
Child of Mists: these days, you can't walk up and chat with someone in a bar
Child of Mists: even if you're not hitting on 'em
Child of Mists: but whatever
GrimJim in exile: All caught up in their little cellphone-mediated cliques?
Child of Mists: The best part of this was the name of the "burlesque" troupe.
Child of Mists: Concrete Rose
Child of Mists: i think it's stupid
Child of Mists: now, i don't know about you, but the image called forth to my imagination by the juxtposition of building materials and a floral cliche isn't exactly sexy . . .
Child of Mists: it's . . . well, essentially what i saw last night
GrimJim in exile: Well, "concrete rose" makes me think of an old Concrete Blonde song.
GrimJim in exile: "Up through the cracks... [redacted] roses grow..."
Child of Mists: it makes me think of crack whores
GrimJim in exile: Well, yeah, run-down Hollywood.
GrimJim in exile: Heh. Their choice in name is a bit pedestrian. It doesn't echo enough of the past that you want to evoke.
GrimJim in exile: They're merely run down and recycled.

2007-04-03T16:47:00.000-07:00

Selling Out
or
My Only Hate, Sprung From My Greatest Love

When I first discovered Pandora, I embraced it with joy, never knowing that some months later, it would become the leading device in my slow, but sure, sell out. Oh dear lord. Oh dear sweet jesus.

As I have mentioned briefly before, my latest hairbrained exploit has taken the form of weekly DJ lessons with DJ Steve (or Icey White, as he was once called), the DJ at my club. First bartending, now this. Who knows if these pipe dreams will actually make it anywhere. But I digress.

Obviously, my knowledge of hip hop, rap, and R and B . . . in a word . . . sucks. And that's how I like it, damnit. Nothing but the finest electronica, 80's, and psychidelic rock for yours truly. Well, no longer. I don't mind brushing up on alternative rock and punk. However, "black" music, as I've always called it (very un P.C., but most accurate) is very very popular these days. Fucking cultural takeover, it is. Ugh.

There's nothing wrong with the beat. I love trip-hop, for example. You know, a dose of the old Bristol sound. It's the fucking lyrics, for the most part. Ladies, mercedes, want some more, get on the floor, nice and ice, grills and bills, *puke*. That and the rap. I have never been able to enjoy rap. I mean, aside from a very very few isolated songs - like "Intergalactic" by the Beasty Boys, for example. Or Drop it Like It's Hot by Snoop Dogg. And stuff.

I gotta bite the bullet.

My search for greater knowledge began with the top 50 pop hits. I swear, 5 out of 6 songs are hip hop or R and B of some sort. Ok. Nothing I didn't already know.

So I ran over to Pandora and tentatively popped "Fergie" into the station generator. Pay dirt. All the top crap. I swear after a minute, I wanted to puke. After an hour, I realized that I would never get that hour of my life back. After two, I was convinced that pop music is a mass media conspiracy.

Over that two hour period, I not only heard almost every song we play in the club on a nightly basis (minus the smattering of rock and dance), but that most of those 30+ songs were by the same 4 artists. Oh. My. God. Ciara, Beyonce, Fergie, Gwen Stefani. Shoot me now. Now. NOW!!!! Somehow, I never imagined that we'd play seven to ten Fergie/Black Eyed Peas songs in one night. What the fuck.

I gotta get to work. It's almost 7.30 now.

2007-04-01T15:21:00.000-07:00

Promises, Promises
or
Something Fishy

Before I launch into a self-indulgent recapitulation of the last month's events, I bid you, gentle readers, to watch this parody:

There, don't you feel better?

Anyhow, I'll see if I can't keep it to ten sentences or less. Let me see how well this works . . .

1. Arturo and I have moved into a little one bedroom apartment in the Montrose/Westheimer area.

2. We are about to paint the walls obscene shades of indigo, turquoise, and cinnibar.

3. In an attempt to expand my marketable skills, I've begun to learn how to DJ.

4. My hair is still blonde, much to my discontent.

5. I may not have mentioned it previously, but Arturo is a chef, which explains why we went to a food and wine festival in Austin on Thursday morning.

6. At the festival, we served ceviche canapes to 350 tipsy socialites.

7. That's a lot of fish, man.

8. Later that night, Arturo and I hit up the famed bars of 6th street, and ended up at Plush.

9. The Brazilian drumb and bass group that was spinning that night rocked my socks so hard that I hands down, flat out, hardcore won an impromptu dance off.

10. I gotta go get dressed, cause DJ Steve is waiting for me at the club.

2007-02-14T09:44:00.000-08:00

Ego ego ego. I have too much time on my hands.

2007-02-06T06:31:00.000-08:00

Suite Deal
or
Possessed Slut

So here I am, gentle readers, sitting in an extended stay hotel, wrapped in a sheet, completely unable to go back to sleep. I figured a little light internet usage would help me relax. Maybe a funny video or too.

Well, you know how it goes. My research may start out innocent, but somehow always seems to veer into appalling or otherwise obscene territory. Thought I'd share this little nugget of joy: The Possessed Slut. If you've a taste for gritty film, give it a go. It's not a porn. It's a character study. It seems like someone filmed their interactions with a prostitute over some months/years and spliced together the most telling portions of dialogue. Note, this is not safe for work on account of topless nudity (and one brief flash of frontal, I think) and is definately disturbing, although it (mercifully) contains no violence.

I like this a lot. I mean, not that I like seeing girls in such a state. I like the presentation, because it makes me feel genuine pity and nausea. The editing is what gets me.

2007-02-01T17:38:00.000-08:00

You Make Me Complete . . . ly Miserable.
or
Midlife Crisis, Part II

I'm leaving Zack. Yup. There's not much I really want to say about it other than "it's over." Those months pulling all the bills alone really wore me out and invited all other kinds of trouble. I'll leave it at that.

In the next few weeks I'll be looking for an apartment in Midtown or the Montrose area. I'm still dancing at Legends. Hopefully I'll be going back to school in the fall, moving on with my life. Maybe get a day job. Maybe start writing again.

Meet Arturo. I don't think I'd be alive right now if it weren't for his support. Get to know him. He'll be a regular character in my egocentric little stories from now on.

First a sports car, then blonde hair, and now a Latin lover. What's next, spring break in Mexico? Hmmmm.

2007-01-29T10:35:00.000-08:00

Bombshell
or
Thank God I Own A Wig

In the depths of my depression, I made the typical compensation of drastically altering my hair color. My target hue: platinum blonde. Don't ask me why blonde, why now. Probably because it's the one shade I've never attempted to achieve, whether natural, unnatural, or otherwise. (Does anyone remember black-light reactive rainbow striped?)

Well, I fucked it up. 29745 applications (approximately) of built-up dayglo pigment turned all manner of crappy orange/mauve when I tried to remove them with bleach. So I double processed. Barbie pink resulted. So I processed a little more.

I finished with a head full of spider's silk the color of wilted lettuce. There's a few blue spots in there too. Don't ask.

FUCK. I'd post a pic, but I'm too ashamed.

My hair has never EVER looked this bad before. EVER. EV. ER. This is a major crisis for someone whose self-concept revolves around coiffure. My strands are so fucking damaged, I'll be lucky if they survive a good brushing, much less another color treatment. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

In a fit of desperation, I popped over to Sally Beauty Supply and picked up three deep conditioners - a hot oil treatment, henna and placenta, and one named "Last Call: for battered and abused hair." I'd never tried the last one, but the package spoke to me. I also grabbed a package of L'oreal colorzap. It's supposed to remove artificial pigment without damaging hair (much) further. They say it's good for funky undertones and stuff.

I've got the "Last Call" on my head right now, under a plastic cap to keep it moist. Depending on what I end up with after rinsing, I'll either break out the colorzap, or put another treatment on. Probably the hot oil. Once the color zap has done its thing, I'll see what I end up with. If it's ugly yellow, I'll have to go back to Sally's and get some fucking toner, mix it with some diet coke, and drink a toast to the end of the world.

FUUUUUUCK.

UPDATE:

Although the color stripper didn't work for shit on my funky bleach job, I still managed to find a way out of hell. Red glaze. You know, the stuff I usually put on my flame red hair to keep the color in longer and make it shiny? Believe it or not, it actually turned my hair BLONDE. Champagne blonde. It erased the green tones, turned the blue to honey brown, and added some cute reddish tints to the white/lemon yellow. Seriously. It's not the cool platinum I originally wanted, but fuck it! I can dick with that later!

Finally, I have the courage to post a picture.

2007-01-20T13:23:00.000-08:00

Everybody's Doing It
or
Up All Night

When you work in a nightclub, you have to be prepared for anything. You work with, and for, all types of people - ex cons, rehabilitated junkies, single parents, transexuals, the occasional WASP working her way through college, illegal immigrants, what have you. We've all got something going on. We wouldn't work nights if we didn't. You learn to let steriotypes fly out the window. As long as everyone does their job correctly and keeps discrete, you learn to turn a blind eye.

In the locker room last night, I saw two girls huddling over the vanity. When one of them said "Oh shit, I spilled my cocaine!" I shouted back "We'll then you'd better clean it up fast!" and got back on the floor as quickly as possible.

Later, I teased her gently about the incident. You know, to show her that I was a cool chick and pretty much live and let live. "How much do you think that spill cost you?" I asked. "About three bucks," she said. "I ordered a case of them from California."

Boy did I feel like a dumbass.

You know, the funny thing is, this isn't even the first time I've been thrown by the name of an energy drink. A few months ago, a girl asked me for "Sum Poosie." I told her I at least need a dinner date first.

2007-01-15T01:25:00.000-08:00

Mid-life Crisis
or
You Bought A What?

If there's one thing that capitalism has taught me, it's that when life hands you lemons, gentle readers, buy a sports car. Yup. That's right.

Pussy Magnet

On impulse, I scooted down to the local carmax and snagged this 2001 mitsubishi eclipse GT. God only knows why I need fucking TURBO built in when I'm just gonna use it to get to work and back, but isn't she a beauty? You should see the leather interior! She's zippy as all hell, too. A real fun toy, any way you slice it.

Pretty crazy, huh? You haven't seen the half of it. Wait till I find a Latin Lover to go with it.

2007-01-07T04:39:00.000-08:00

This song, "A Bad Dream" by Keane, pretty much says it all.

2007-01-07T04:15:00.000-08:00

Oh my god, I can't believe that anyone still reads this piece of shit. I was going to write a post saying that Shiny Objects was over - that it had been a good run, and thank you all very much for participating. However, when I took a gander at my site meter, the 43 hit per day average gave me pause. Someone must still like me. Someone must still want to read a little bit more . . .

I've become someone I don't like very much, gentle readers. I work all the time now. Morning, noon, night. Even on my days off, I constantly seek supplimental income to support my 3 person/1 income household. One husband, one roommate, and myself all live off of my earnings. I feel like a single mother.

It's pathetic. No longer do I have the time or mental energy for leasure. Aside from the occasional bout of drinking, I can't remember the last time I've allowed myself to relax.

And it is driving me crazy. I've turned into a heinous bitch most of the time. The worst part is, I don't see an end to it any time soon. No matter how hard I try, I can't get rid of my debt. I can scarcely make ends meet. No matter how much I beg for support, I always find myself carrying the financial burden.

I know my temperment is ill-suited for life and its many pressures, but something about the situation seems excessive. I can't stop fantasizing about suicide. Not that I actually want to die, but I do long for an irreversable and abrupt event to completely rearrange my existence and remove me from the current circumstances.

There is only one thing that would help, so don't bother yourselves trying to cheer me up. Find Zack a job, if anything.

2006-12-17T21:13:00.000-08:00

Wants and Needs
or
The Meaning of Christmas

You know, the holiday season is one of the few times of year during which I feel content to be alive. While all the other "adults" I know are stressing themselves over family gatherings and gift shopping, I find myself unbelievably tranquil. Why? Because I'm a penniless student, and therefore no one expects anything of me. In fact, they feel obligated to ply me with charity. Bwahaha!

What? Shouldn't my presence be gift enough?

However, charity is not without its shortcomings. Usually the benefactor just goes out and buys me whatever they think I need (say, psychiatric care - I'm not making this up) and not what I really WANT (say, whiskey, or a new corset). Fools.

So I've come up with a fantasy wish list, primarily for my own amusement, but also with the faint hope that my desires will therefore worm their way into the collective unconscious - and later, perhaps, my possesion.

1. Nihilist gum. This item is self-explanitory. And lord knows I love little more than wearing misanthropy on my goddamned sleeve. Or shoe. Or wine glass, or wherever the wad winds up when I've tired of it.

2. Huge angel wings. Why? Because they're just too fucking cool. I'd never really have a place to wear them (except maybe the Ren Faire), not to mention the fact that they're almost as tall as I am, but damn they'd make for some grand entrances. And no, I don't want them in black, smartass. I want them in white.

3. Liquid latex.I've never actually worn the stuff, but I'd sure as hell like to try it out. And then go clubbing. Brings a new meaning to the phrase "barely legal."

4. A hood piercing. Because if people won't respect me for my intellect, at least they'll be able to respect my tolerance for clitoral discomfort.

5. A Jennings gag. You can't have a proper medical fetish set up with out at least one scary method of prying someone's mouth open, and keeping it that way.

6. Medical leg braces. See number five, and take it from there.

That's all I can really bare to come up with right now without getting depressed over my lack of affluence. I need a distraction. Thank god for adult swim.

2006-12-15T14:50:00.000-08:00

Every day, I find another reason to move to Europe.

2006-12-10T19:41:00.000-08:00

Urine Luck
or
I'll Take My Chances With Oil Of Olay

A friend of mine recently divulged the dirty secret behind her excellent complection. You'll never guess what it is. Her own pee pee! I'm not kidding. And she absolutely swears by it.

Apparently, she picked up the trick from her granny, who (so I hear) has nary a wrinkle. (Whether or not that's because the old bat's extended stay at the state mental facility kept her from the light of day for 4 decades, I couldn't tell you. It's all speculation on my part.) Just pee in a cup, grab a cotton ball, and smear it on. But don't wash it off afterwards - just a brief rinse with water will do. It'll clear your acne, open your pores, and soften the skin.

I'm vain, but I'm not sure if I'm THAT vain.

This isn't the first time I've heard about the miraculous properties of urine. Apparently it cures cancer. My god, think of all the research dollars poured down the drain. Who would have known that consuming nothing but your own wastewater for forty days was the answer! Here's wikipedia's take: Urotherapy. Pretty cool quackery. Makes me wonder how desperate you have to be to drink your own piss.

If that's not your bag, mankind has found many uses for urine beyond the medicinal. Rotten.com provides a comprehensive list. Thrilling.

That's all for now. I gotta take a leak.

2006-12-07T11:52:00.000-08:00

I can't do this anymore. I can't do anything anymore.

2006-11-21T00:37:00.001-08:00

How Many Babies Does It Take To Paint A House?
or
It Depends On How Hard You Throw Them

You know, my last post about atheism got me thinking about all the other extreme, inflammatory viewpoints I zealously espouse. Like human extinction. So I decided to rant some more. Man, this is gonna piss someone off, but I can't resist. It's like I've opened a bag of cheese curls and can't stop picking at them.

I have personal reasons for desiring the end of the human race, starting with the inception of new life. Pregnancy itself offends my taste. Why any woman would want to infect herself with an abdominal parasite, I will never know. They are slaves to the maternal instinct I suppose, or else immersed in such vanity that they think their DNA is worth doubling in the human gene pool.

Of course, contraception is the first line of defense. However, should it fail, I recomend abortion. Kill the damned things, I say, before they ruin your life as well as the planet. Here's a website that makes me happy: I'm Not Sorry.net.

Yes, I really detest children. My opinion of them is almost entirely negative. Sure they have their cute moments (I mean, don't we all?) but on the whole they are appalling, squirming, putrid little things. Babies, especially. Not only do humans have the longest infancy of any species on the planet, but their young are the most demanding of care. A four month old puppy will play with its master, walk about, eliminate on newspaper, bite when provoked, and more or less independantly carry out the basic functions of life. A four month old human baby is essentially a screaming sack of meat. (For the record, I know I was a baby once, too. I hold my own childhood in contempt as well.)

The human gene pool is getting murkier by the day. Thanks to medical science, natural selection has been superceded by socioeconomic status. Survival of the richest. Cavemen that didn't have the intelligence to find food or fitness to avoid danger just didn't stay alive long enough to replicate. The modern world, however, swaddles defective individuals and raises them to a protected status. Society can't keep up with technology. Every year we learn just enough to make our breed a little bit sicker.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not of a superior sort or anything like that. In fact, I volunteer to keep my genes entirely off the market. As should everyone else.

Human extinction. It's the wave of the future. Luckily I'm not the only one who thinks so. Thanks to the magic of the internet, I've found the Voluntary Human Extinction Movement. Count me in. Unlike my schizoid extremist rants, their site is well written and gives careful thought to every natural question about the movement's intentions, members, and policies.

Hate mail is encouraged.

2006-11-21T00:37:00.000-08:00

God Is Dead
or
A Student's Guide to Practical Atheism

Today's article goes out to those of my gentle readers who, in their search for identity, have experienced or are currently experiencing a crisis of faith. I wish to tell them that it's alright. Many individuals - especially those with proper education and above average intelligence - endure periods of diffusion. They begin questioning the church in which they where reared. They commence their own research, sometimes trying on various doctorines like so many pairs of designer jeans. This is perfectly normal. With the proper counseling, most of these individuals live out their lives as healthy, functional Atheists.

What one must realize is that all religion is crap. CRAP. You heard me. Don't make a face like I've said something shocking. Any monkey with a grasp of basic logic can deduce that the very principle of theism is TOTAL HOGWASH.

You Catholics out there, you Muslims, Jews, Shintos, Santerians, Goddess Worshipers, Neopagans, Wiccans, Baptists, Lutherins, and all other denominations I'm too lazy to list: you are all delusional. It's time to get real.

So how does one go about "getting real?" I recomend starting with the following film:

Bit of a mind bender, isn't it?

Now that we've loosened a thread, it's time to unravel the gunny sack wrapped around your head. Don't be shy. A little H.L. Mencken will keep you picking at it all night. In his book "On Religion," he poses a plausible theory of the origins and development of theism - that it sprang from the most human of traits, such as fear, greed, and the desire to control others. It's a good read. A bit dry, perhaps, but well worth it.

While you're waiting for the book to arrive from Amazon.com, go ahead and read through 50 simple proofs that theism is nothing but a delusion. It's a great website. Plain language makes it all the more digestable.

Don't you feel better now? Sure, you've lost your safety net, but there's no more cosmic big brother, either.

Only an Atheist can live a truly moral life, for moral behavior performed out of duty to god is simply blind obedience. An atheist who behaves morally and ethically does so out of genuine humanity.

2006-11-14T12:06:00.000-08:00

Larkin's "Your Mother Woke Up In My Second Best Nightshirt" Flapjacks

Serves 2 hungry bitches

Scrape together:

1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup milk
1 egg (or 2 whites)
2 tbsp butter
2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
a few dashes of cinnamon
2 tsp vanilla

Mix flour, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon in a bowl until well combined. Beat egg/whites in seperate bowl untl frothy, and add to dry mixture. Stir. Add milk bit by bit, stirring mixture all the while, and continue mixing until batter is mostly smooth.

Set frying pan on Medium heat. Drop little bit of butter in pan - about 1 tsp. When butter sizzles, pour about 1/6 mixture in pan. Flip pancake when bubbles rise to the surface of the uncooked side from center of pancake as well as edges. Remove from pan when both sides are golden brown. Repeat 5 times with remaining mixture.

Makes two short stacks of 3 pancakes each. Top with spreadable edible of choice.

2006-11-11T05:07:00.000-08:00

Slave, Huh? Sounds Good To Me!
or
The Other White King of Pop

So I'm wandering around Wall-Mart at some ungodly hour of the night when a song comes on the public address system that I've never heard before. The speaker, mounted in the ceiling, was too far away to discern the music perfectly. It had a really good beat. The vocalist - a female - sounded fantastic too, although it was hard to hear what she was saying. However, two lines of lyrics caught my attention:

See these shackles baby, I'm your slaaaaave;
I'll let you whip me if I misbehaaaaave . . .

Which, as we all know, is right up my alley.

So I ran home and hopped on google to find out the title and artist behind my new S&M anthem. And wouldn't you know it. It was Justin Timberlake. The song is called Sexy Back. Go ahead and listen to it if you think I'm nuts for mistaking him.

This reminds me of my childhood (doesn't everything?), when the Disney channel used to show clean music videos during the advertising space they couldn't sell off. Michael Jackson - Black and White. Remember that one? Well, back in kindergarten, I was ignorant enough to ask my mom "Who is that lady singing? She's really pretty!"

I sense that the King's throne won't remain cold for much longer.

2006-11-10T01:15:00.000-08:00

Final My Ass. They Always Make A Sequel.
or
You Got Purdy Ears

Fran=Hawt

Final Fantasy XII is the most beautiful video game I've ever layed eyes on. Seriously. Square Enix has done it again.

I'm no mad fan of RPGs, but I have to appreciate their work, for the artistic value if nothing else. For one, the digital characters are strikingly life-like. Their eyes exhibit saccade motion, for christsake. And their expressions . . . astounding. No longer do they appear boxy and souless to any degree. Great voice acting (finally!) brings the whole package together.

Another thing I'm fond of are the filler characters and general populace. A certain degree of randomness has worked its way into their programming, so that if you watch a particular sprite for a while, its actions seem natural, free of the precision that burdened his predecessors.

Oh, I also love the elimination of that turn-based battle bullshit. I mean, really, what self-respecting monster plays eenie meenie, waiting patiently for retaliation after every attack? I'm all about the real-time, baby.

Great music, too, though I can't justify sending away to Japan for it at sixty bucks a pop.

2006-11-07T23:46:00.000-08:00

What's That Between Your Legs?
or
She's Bi . . . partisan

To be honest, gentle readers, I don't give a water-damaged holographic Pokemon sticker about the election. You heard me. I don't. I don't even know what we were supposed to have been voting for, or why. Naturally, I skipped the polls. Just like I skipped the papers, CNN.com, Fox News, and the company of anyone who assumedly has a political opinion. This pretty much limited me to recorded episodes of Robot Chicken and Zack's head in my lap, but I don't care. I'm infinately saner for my abstinance.

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, a concerned Kindergartener named Larkin wrote an impassioned letter to former president George Bush Sr. In her missive, the child poured forth her views on nature and natural resources, and implored the president for justification as to his shitty-ass environmental policies. She also suggested that the United States of America adopt free or subsidized health care, like other civilized nations.

Days and weeks passed. The child checked the mailbox every day, in hopes that the President's reply would be waiting for her among her parents' bills and magazines. Four weeks later, it arrived - a thick envelope addressed to Larkin Dennis. At last!

But when she severed the packet's seams, no heartfelt response slid out onto the table. Instead she found a glossy booklet about the white house, and a sterile form letter. Not even the signature at the bottom was real, it's likeness having been printed in the same ink as the text.

And she never payed attention to politics again. The END.

Though that isn't to say I'm not a patriot. I recently made a pilgrimage to the pulsing brain-tumor of capitalism they call THE MALL OF AMERICA. In case you're uninformed, The Mall of America is so big that there is an amusement park inside of it. The roller-coasters were pretty cool, though I adored the carousel. Here's a picture of me riding a giant cock:

Zack, not to be outdone, chose to straddle the first pussy he could find:

Blessed is this sacred land.

2006-11-05T22:31:00.000-08:00

God Bless Us, Every One
or
P.O.M.C.!!!

I'm in Minnesota right now. Don't fucking ask me why. But anyhow, up here they have a grocery store up here called Kowalski's that's chock full of gourmet/organic food. Kind of like Central Market, if you've ever had experience with that. Anyhow, they have some really delightful prepared sushi in the coldcase, and at 2am, a container of such sounded good. So I went to Kowalski's. I picked the "marina combo," which consisted of 2 tuna and 2 eel nigiri, as well as 8 pieces of that conspicuously american bastardization, the california roll. On the way out of the store, they have 12 or so little plastic bins into which customers are invited to place their reciepts. Each bin is labeled with a charity. March of Dimes, Wildlife Fund, and so forth. The store donates a certain ammount to each charity depending on how many receipts are in its respective box.

I usually don't give 2 shits about the human race in general, but there was one charity that caught my eye. The bin read: Parents of Murdered Children.

Wow. Hmm. A non-profit organization so blunt, it's . . . well, the sort of thing I'd make up for a laugh. I put my receipt in the bin.

2006-11-03T16:05:00.000-08:00

Poker In The Rear
or
DAD?!

The Placebo concert really fucking rocked. Here is a cell phone picture of Brian (left) and Stefan (right).

1. The venue itself was extremely intimate. My entourage showed up early enough that we were able to secure standing room about 2 rows back from the stage. I had a very clear and up-close view the entire time.

2. She Wants Revenge is pretty bad-ass. Their lights were the best I have EVER seen at a concert. They had, at various intervals around the stage, a few panels affixed with what appeared to be superbright multicolored LEDs. The LEDs would flicker on and off in time to the music, creating directional color saturation that contrasted with the lights rigged above the stage. Am I making any sense? Imagine the lead singer with lime green on the left, acid pink on the right, strobe above, and it suddenly . . . well, you just had to be there.

3. The lead singer for She Wants Revenge looked a LOT like Zack's dad. We knew it couldn't be, but it was still eerie.

4. Corey and I had chocolate cake shots.

5. There were these two preppy "OMFG Sex In The City" underage bitches that elbowed and kicked their way in front of me and Corey. I responded by pretending to be a drunk-as-fuck lesbian from hell. "What's up, ladies," I said, flicking my tongue between my first and middle fingers in the universal symbol for cunnilingus. I began to grind against them with the music. When that failed, I poked one of them in the butt with my thumb. About 30 times in 2 minutes. The two girls switched places. "You know what guys," I drawled to my companions, "girls like those two, back home, they'd be dead or pregnant by age 20. GUERR-AN-TEEED." That did it.

6. When Placebo took the stage, I shed a tear of joy and almost had a spontaneous orgasm. Seriously. No, I mean it. I almost came. Take the case of Beatlemania. Women would fall down and have spontaneous orgasms the minute the fab four showed their faces. Well, the same thing happened to me. I really really REALLY fucking LOVE that band.

7. Placebo played a mean set. And my god, do they have stage presence. Brian gazes into the crowd as he sings and does a good bit of moving around. Stefan (the bassist) gazed into the crowd for most of the show. I may be crazy, but he seemed to make eye contact with me quite a number of times - probably because my hair is SO bright that you can see it from space. Once or twice, he leaned out into the fray of the crowd, attacking his bass, allowing the audience to grab and caress his spidery limbs.

8. I made eyes at a dolled-up, ponytailed, goth prettyboi. He said he liked my hair. That was kind of cool.

9. This rather officious looking guy wormed his way through the crowd. "Excuse me, coming through."
"Can I feel you up as you pass?" I asked.
"Sure, if you want to."

And so I did. And it was good.

2006-11-02T12:00:00.000-08:00

Lo, For He Has Come
or
Gay Bar

It's been too long, gentle readers, but I'll spare you the formalities. I am at this very moment in Minnesota, crouched on a long-distance friend's futon, of all fucking places. In November. Voluntarily.

Yesss. For the great Molko has willed it, and I am helpless but to make his wishes so. Especially since Corey was cool with us crashing at her pad.

Placebo is here. Tonight, they're playing at the Fine Line Music Cafe, and I'm holding three tickets. That's Me, Corey, and Zack, if you weren't listening. God only knows how I'm going to occupy my twitching mind until then.

Zack and I arrived around midnight, shivering in the teeshirts we'd selected that morning in 70 degree Houston. We had much to learn.

COREY: "So we're in St. Paul right now, and over that way is Minneapolis."
ME: "Which one is the twin city?"
COREY: "Uh, they both are."
ME: "You mean there's TWO twin cities?"
COREY: "Yes. That's why they call them TWINS."

This morning, I learned more about Minnesota while eating brunch at a local diner. Based upon a random sample of all visible customers and waitstaff, I have determined that Old White Men represent a staggering 66% of Minnesota's population, followed by Unmarriagable White Horses at 32%. Naturally, the remaining 2% - which we shall henceforth affectionately call "other" - is composed of the Mexican short-order cook, Zachary, and yours truly.

After breakfast, I bought some energy bars from a health food store down the lane. The cashier may or may not have been a real lesbian. Hard to tell for sure, as I hear they've been breeding them in captivity these days.

Ta ta for now. I'm off to start playing with eye liner.

2006-10-18T14:05:00.000-07:00

I know this doesn't count as a real update, but you guys have GOT TO see this. This boy, who lost his eyes to cancer at the age of two, has mastered the art of echolocation. He navigates daily life by clicking his tongue and listening to the reverberations. Amazing. You'll love it.

THAT'S SOME FUCKED UP DAREDEVIL SHIT, NYAH

2006-10-10T07:07:00.000-07:00

Still alive. Just too depressed to write about anything other than self-absorbed sorrow. I don't need your pity. Just check back, and eventually I'll have something worthwhile to say. Maybe even something funny.

2006-09-28T06:10:00.000-07:00

Out With The Old
or
Let Them Eat Cake

Certainly, gentle readers, you recall the rice cake ebay incident I wrote about a few weeks ago, as well as the "rice cake friendly" fake personals ad. Yes. Both Ebay and Craigslist removed my posts within mere hours of their inception. Well. I have only one thing to say.

DAMN THE CAKES! DAMN THEM ALL TO HELL!

2006-09-28T06:09:00.000-07:00

Scroll Box Confessional
or
"Congenital Facial Deformity"

Yet again, I've neglected you, gentle readers. But can you blame me? I'm in the middle of the longest, most pain-in-the-ass move of my life. Zack and I are still siphoning our worldly possessions from our respective pre-marital homes into our new Houstonian love nest.

In case I didn't mention it before, Zack and I are moving to a beautiful apartment on Kuykendahl and Ella blvd. We're like the fuckin' Jeffersons. This place has it all - 2 bed, 2.5 bath, living room, dining room, breakfast nook, wet bar, full kitchen, laundry room, and porch, all in a gated community with pools, hot tubs, fitness centers, and the most beautiful landscaping in town. Pictures to come! As if anyone cared!

For now, content yourself with the contents of my google search history. In my quest for self-discovery, I decided to read over it, and found it pretty amusing. My favorite entries have been bolded.

"betrayal of brotherhood" eq2
"betrayal of the brotherhood" eq2
"estate sale" -real houston
"Red Oak Uniforms & Medical Supply"
"scarlet sinclaire"
"what is a juggalo?" download
"worms 4" mayhem demo
307 area code
40,000 pills of ecstasy
501st FSB
60 grams to pennyweight
610 area code
77018 zip
77018 code
77018 zip code map
77018 zip code map houston
ADHD patch
ADHD patch hallucination
ADHD patch warning
adt employment
airborne formula
american dragon
anime mask
apartments houston
area code 817
art nouveau furniture
audio dictionayh
b&j 1960
band wallpaper
become a stripper
bj 1960
blue rubber bleb
boondocks episode downloads
brewery 1960 houston
brinks
burleson, tx
cardinal health
cardinal health houston
cardinal houston
carnivale
carnivale bittorrent
carnivale bittorrent "season one"
carnivale hbo bittorrent
carnivale season 1 2 bittorent
carnivale season 1 bittorrent
carnivale season 1 one bittorrent
carnivale season one bittorrent
certify value jewelry
cheap trix grand saint louis
cheap trix saint louis
cheech marin pussy clip
cheech marin pussy clip from dusk til dawn
cheech marin pussy clip from dusk til dawn -chet
cheech marin pussy from dusk till dawn
cheech pussy
childofmists
coca cola grand theft auto
congenital facial deformity
cover letter
desktop
diablo 2 downloads
diablo 2 downloads map
diablo 2 downloads map cheat
diablo 2 editor
diablo 2 horadric recipes
diablo 2 horadric recipes 1.11
diablo 2 item editor
diablo 2 item hack
diablo 2 monster shrine
diablo 2 sets
e-mule
enameled
escort service houston
escort service rate
facial deformity
facial deformity plastic surgery
fantasy houston plaza
fantasy plaza
fantasy plaza houston
fantasy plaza north houston
finch
first class mail
floppy tits
fort hood finance
french dictionary
from dusk till dawn soundtrack pussy
from dusk till dawn soundtrack pussy clip
garland, tx
generic bupropion
generic bupropion overdose
giant nipple
grand prairie, tx
grigori galtsin
grigori russian
grigori russian porn
gun store
gynecologist in houston
gynecologist northwest houston
hotel saint louis
hotels saint louis
houston domination dungeon
houston dominatrix
houston dungeon
houston strip clubs
houston zoo
how is it that "your breath smells like his ass"
how is it that your breath smells like his ass
how to find your ip address
how to write a resume
hydroponic mushrooms
iah airport
idlewild
imbecile moron
inflamitory breast cancer peau d'orange
informal appraisal
la quinta saint louis
latex mask anime
latex woman mask fetish
latex woman mask fetish anime
legends club houston
legends strip club houston
livesexlist.com
lost season 2
lost season 2 dvd
m-9 handgun price
mclaren f1
mclaren f1 price
movers killeen
movie starring andre from outkast
my chemical romance
naruto ultimate ninja
naruto wallpaper
norad
nutrition facts for sicillian lasagna pizza
papa johns
papa johns nutrition information
park trails appartment
peau d'orange
pei wei
periodic table of elements
pet shop boys
pet shop boys tour dates
pizza zone
poe
pregnancy breast skin texture
prn medical supply
prn medical supply red oak
q lazzerus
random number dice generator
Red Oak Uniforms and Medical Supply
reg rowe
reg rowe american airlines
remedies for coming down off of caffeine
saint louis botanical gardens
saint louis zoo
sarcophagus
SCRABBLE dictionary
security guard houston
security guard jobs houston
smart bomb
st louis city museum
steakhouse 1960 houston
strip club rating
stripper handbook
supersize me with whiskey
taking back sunday
talco, tx
ted nugent
texas land and cattle houston
the undoing of david wright
third eye blind
thourough
treasures houston
utena bittorrent english sub
vanderbilt apartments houston
wallpaper
wallpaper desketop
wellbutrin difference between generic
who wants to be a superhero
woodforest national bank

Wasn't that interesting, gentle readers? I highly recommend you hop on google and do the same. Especially on your big brother's laptop. Wouldn't THAT be fascinating. Posting said results to comments is encouraged.

2006-09-18T14:39:00.000-07:00

Renaissance Man
or
What You Talkin' 'Bout, Archure?

The man, the musician, the ARCHURE. Actual photo. Note: meth addiction. Either that, or he removed his red-eye with Microsoft Paint.

On a recent google search regarding the specific IQ ranges that correspond to the terms "idiot," "moron," and "imbicile," I stumbled into one of the greatest asses of our century. Ladies and gentlereaders, I give you Will Chris Holly, a showroom photographer from Las Vegas. "I have studied 'Body Language' (a branch of psychology) for many years," he says, "and use it to enhance my customers image, their relations, their pride, and their memories."

To see what Mr. Holly can do for your image, check out this REAL CUSTOMER PHOTO:

"Seigfried and Roy" only lasts one night, but bad genes are forever.

He also calls himself "Archure." Although the lexical origins of "Archure" are unclear, Mr. Holly has taken the time to protect his intellectual property by acquiring a registered trademark.

But there is more to him than meets the eye! For starters, Archure has a "very high IQ," and he loves to tell you at every chance he gets. Pick a page, any page. Archure wants you to know that he's one of the chosen ones. He just can't let it go. He even lists his IQ as one of his professional credentials. You can find a full explanation of his genius here. I'm particularly fond of his fervent attempts to defend his low proctored IQ test scores in the face of his somewhat higher self-tested IQ scores. *Cough*

For those of you with an IQ lower than Archure's, I'll throw you a few excerpts:

My CTMM score is not an accurate estimate of my actual IQ, as I was became sick/ill during the testing. DETAILS: Mensa gave the Cattel B followed by the CTMM to a group of applicants (including me), I had been fasting for a day or two, but during the break, I was thirsty and hungry, they served Doughnuts and there was a Soda Machine (but no diet sodas). In short, I consumed so much sugar (after fasting, and typically avoiding sugar products), that I was having a high Glycemic reaction, with my arms and hands physically shaking, also, due to the large amount of liquids consumed (lots of water prior to the test, followed by 2 sodas during the break), I requested permission to use the restroom during the test, denied, and I was squirming. All of this hampered me greatly during the CTMM test, resulting on a drastically lower score (still far above average, in spite of all my suffering, squirming, and shaking from a Glycemic overload) . . .

PREVIOUS SCHOOL TESTS HAD ME IN THE 99% (top 1%), but those records are currently unobtainable . . .
My Mendocino High School Transcript lists me as IQ = 99 (which is the percentile, but due to a clerical error on their part, which I have never been able to rectify, the word "Percentile" is omitted from my transcript).

. . . I am obviously not a 99 IQ person. I obviously have a 99th percentile IQ.
.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO I.Q. TEST ME? That's FINE by me. You can have a qualified Psychologist test me, or a qualified Proctor test me, or you can save money and get some I.Q. tests from Book Stores (if they don't have them, they can order them), or you can pull IQ Tests off the Net (search engine). I.Q. Test me, I.Q. Test your staff, Test yourself. HIGH I.Q. PEOPLE DO BETTER SOLUTIONS.

But use an IQ TEST, as I.Q. is not a test of knowledge, a Math or English test will not do. Guessing as to how much coin change you have in your pocket is not an IQ test, not a test of Reasoning ability.

Also, his discussion of what "genius" really means:

I have a high 147 IQ, honor grad, honor society education (and I study on my own, past college), my abilities in the work place have for the most part been overlooked and unused.

Upon hearing of my high IQ, many have view it as a threat to their power (or potential power), often reacting with anger.

'GENIUS' also means 'an extraordinary ability in a specific field.' This usually being due to a high IQ to begin with, combined with a natural born talent in a specific field, with years of hard work, study, and effort applied. In my case, I am a 'Musical Genius'."

Are you now, Archure? Me thinks he protesteth too much. But as I always say, the proof is in the pablum. So why don't we have a look at his work, eh?

Screams of Genius - The Work of Archure

The moment I arrived at his main music page, I was accosted by "Moon in Pisces". Atonal electronica doesn't even begin to cover it. It sounds like someone fast forwarding a Pink Floyd CD. And not in a good way. Similarly, "Moon in Ares" , an example of Archure's Soul Rock Fusion, reminds me of the demos on the Casio keyboard I got for my birthday in '89, sans rhythm.

Lord only knows what Archure means by "Carribean" style music. If a native Caribbean ever listened to this faggoty romp through MIDI hell, he'd jump out the window of a highrise skyscraper and slit his throat with the broken glass on the way down.

And speaking of the Black Man, it's a good thing Jimi Hendrix is dead. This "tribute" makes me want to choke on my own vomit.

Which brings us to "Hang 11", the first vocal track of my listening set. For those of you who find yourselves too faint of stomach to stand the emotional torment of Archure's foray into Surf Rock, allow me to transcribe Archure's heart-wrenching lyrics:

Checking out the beach for bikini babes
Going out surfing - it's a brand new craze
Watch me ride on ten-foot waves
For you . . .

Want to make Archure's dischordant baying your own? He offers voice lessons for a hundred bucks a pop.

"Etherial," another vocal track, showcases Archure's unique ability to sour any, and every, word in the english language.

But honestly gentle readers, don't stop there. Archure has over a HUNDRED original mp3's and midis available for FREE on his website. And get this:

PERMISSION GRANTED to play Archure's songs from this page, on the air (TV or Radio), during 2006 and 2007, only if you include full credit info "Music written and performed by ARCHURE" clearly (so that most people can understand), AND include the proper spelling of "ARCHURE" (clearly); verbal credit must pronounce it "ARCHER" AND "spell it out" verbally A-R-C-H-U-R-E.

Don't worry Archure. No one would dare take credit for your music. You're too smart!

Still haven't had enough Archure? I know I haven't. Don't miss his monthly non-profit astrological forecasts. This month's forecast includes a sexy picture of contact dermatitis on his feet. Apparently he saw that one coming.

He's also a web designer, music teacher, nutrition counselor, piano tuner, and astrologer.

There's about 60 plus "essays" on his site, too, about everything from the pleasures of marijuana to the results of his DNA test. Every single page mentions his IQ or links to his music page. Don't even bother.

Jack of all trades, master of absolutely jack shit.

2006-09-11T00:23:00.000-07:00

UPDATE: The Lemon-Lime flavor of Airborne effervescent tablets tastes like crystal light that has been filtered through the kidneys of a small mammal. That is all. Just thought you'd like to know.

I'm still not better, yet.

2006-09-10T20:02:00.000-07:00

Over The Counter
or
That's A Selling Point?

They call it "Airborne Formula." Supposedly, it cures colds faster than blank cures blank and, get this, was invented by a schoolteacher. A second grade schoolteacher. I know, because the bottle says so in big bold letters. As does the website.

Honestly, I'm thrilled. Fuck modern pharmaceuticals. I want a cold pill created by a grey-templed matron who remembers the hand motions that accompany "Little Bunny Foo Foo" with greater accuracy than her own phone number.

Well, wouldn't you know it - I fall ill as can be, and Zack's got a little tube of the stuff in the glove compartment of his Mirage. They're effervescent tablets. At the first sign of a cold, you're supposed to drop them in a small amount of water and drink the resulting murky, piss-colored concoction.

The ones that I've got are "Zesty Orange" flavor, which is French for "spoiled wine-cooler." They also come in Lemon-Lime, Grapefruit, and Dry-heaved Bile flavors so you can mix it up now and again.

At this point I'm willing to try anything. I've taken 3 of them so far today, and no sign that they're helping yet. At least I've ingested my daily recommended dose of vitamin C - 48 times over, in fact. Cheers.

2006-09-07T11:19:00.000-07:00

Ok, I know it's been over a week, but I just got back from Saint Louis last night. Killeen to STL is quite a drive - almost 14 hours straight - so on the return trip, Zack and I broke it into two days. I'm sorry I'm neglectful. Bear with me. I'll have a post up later tonight, I promise.

2006-08-28T12:20:00.001-07:00

Rice Cakes III: Judgement Day
or
If I Only Had A Dick

Wow. If there's one thing that this public prank has taught me, it's that I'm fucking hot. Even if I had a functional penis between my legs, I would never lack for ass. I received 82 earnest responses from craigslist ALONE. And get this - the ad wasn't even up for a full 24 hours before Craigslist sent me this email:

Your posting has been removed by the craigslist community.
Several craigslist readers flagged it for being inappropriate as posted.

Approximately 98% of postings removed by flagging are in violation of craigslist posting guidelines and/or terms of use:

http://www.craigslist.org/about/terms.of.use.html

After reviewing your posting and our policies, if you are convinced that your posting was one of the 2% that are unfairly flagged, feel free to repost.

The flagging system is a work-in-progress, with all the pros and cons of a democracy - Please post ideas for improvement in our feedback forum.

Sorry for the hassle! and thanks for your understanding.

If you missed the original ad, check out the blog post before this one for a rehash.

Anyhow, it seems that this country has a severe, yet unseen, prejudice against rice cakes. First Ebay, now Craigslist. The ACLU should hear about this.

Anyhow, I promised you responses, gentle readers, and by god you shall have them! For your enjoyment, I have sorted through the 82 emails that strained my inbox for the best pull quotes and attached photos. By and large, the responses fell into one of five categories:

Chest hair anyone?

"I do have some chest hair , and would love to feel it rubbing against your back after my tongue has explored every INCH of you! "

"I would be more than happy to show you around and take you out to dinner sometime. I am also as hairy as a grizzly. PS I am open to ricecakes!"

""Can't say I am that into rice cakes, but I do have a hairy chest."

OMFG my englihs sux ur hott

"what part of town" (That's it. No punctuation. No greeting.)

"if you reply and can prove u r 4 real" (Again, that's it. No punctuation or greeting or anything.)

"hey i'm a blk male 39 want to hit it with you whats up"

"hi..you cute ..silly..rice cakie..maybe you'd like a spankie..(corny)".

"I'm nice guy 30.
Looking for gilr like you.
kiss Tom"

"hey im 21 m houston looking to get leaseured and pleasure u i will suck u off
and u suck me off call me 832 ###-#### kris im down anytime u are just let me
knwo im 6 foot brn hair brn eyes built and tan my cock is 7 1/2 thick let me
knwo i think we can have some fun call me or text me asap"

The many interpretations of Rice Cake Friendly

"Hello young lady,i love your lilly white skin and red hair,the choke collar is nice too!I would love to feel your back against my hairy chest and i will eat rice cakes until we explode!"

"ricecake friendly here . . . any cake friendly here."

"forgive me if this is a stupid question, but is "ricecake" a code word for something else? if not, then i'd
say yes, i like rice cakes. if yes, then could you tell me what it means?"

"we should get together sometime. I have a beard and can eat some ricecakes."

"Interesting concept, with the rice cakes, honey.. I'd say that with such a pretty face, and lovely description of yourself, I could watch you enjoy an entire pack of those cakes ;)"

"Ricecakes are about the sexiest things in the world. Very kinky. Tell me though, how do you feel about tofu? Ever done anything like that before?"

"Hey, saw your ad, you're a pretty girl. Perhaps we could get together sometime and eat a ricecake or something."

"I am serious, but what do you mean by rice cake friendly?"

"i am fit and attractive, have an advanced degree and love rice cakes."

"maybe im missing something,,just not getting the RICE CAKE thing,,,i mean who doesnt like them... "

Sell it, baby, sell it!

"M/F couple
He: Could do ricecakes
She: No meat, and really likes them
Interested in a couple? Bi female, vertatile male?"

"You're so sexy...Interested in coming to Seattle? If not, I'd love to fly you here or meet U in Houston. Are U seeking LTR? I'm serious about moving? Please let me know...ok? (100%-clean and neg) I know just what you need and I can give it to you!
Max (and I'm very RC friendly w/ hairy chest too.)"

"Ever consider having your own website, or maybe posing for a tranny
amateur website? Let me know your thoughts"

"i'm 25 m in the army and was hoping we could have some fun together. I'm 5 10 170, with a hairy chest. I'm up for anything, and everything. i live in sugar land and hope to hear from you." (First off, if he lives in Sugarland, he's a member of the RESERVES. Nice try, baby. Second, he could get in some serious shit for messing around with a Tranny. The only government authorized sex act that soldiers can perform is hetero missionary position. No lie.)

"your hair reminds me of jimmy urine from mindless self indulgence . . . oh and btw RICE CAKES KICK ASS!"

"i'm a rice cake friendly, 30 yr old, 6'4" tall, white guy who loves transgirls. i don't like the term passable but u truly are better than that"

"am 38 white male 5’ 11” 190lbs good build with 8” cock I am looking for Transsexual to have sexual encounters with on a regular basis and we can talk and email it will never get more serious as I am married if you reply I will send body pic." (Ladies take note - this man is hitched. You wouldn't BELIEVE how many married men fool around on Craigslist.)

"Happened to come across your ad on CL and wanted to drop in a line and let you know that I am completely smitten by those pics and that you are absolutely gorgeous. I am 5 11" 180lbs, blk/brw, discreet, d/d free professional male and would love to meet you and treat you like a lady. I know you must have gotten tons of reply but consider this one special.."

"Something tells me that you're probably getting about 50 emails a day from loser guys saying things like "Hi, I'm freshly divorced from my seventh wife, have five delinquent kids...but the good news is that I have a good chance at finally getting a job..." etc. In any event, I'm 39, have my life together, and I'm more than the usual amount of interesting and funny, so you better like to laugh."

"I’m 6’6” white male with an athletic body. After playing D-1 Football I traveled for 2 years around the world." (Um, good for you? Your fans would love to get ahold of this email.)

Just. Plain. Creepy.

"25 gender nurtual genderfucksed male with transgender issues in housotn area openminded, loves gothic emo punk metal hair bands new wave alt rock"

"Never done this before, but if u can have me today I would enjoy cumming in
u...Let me know if u can squeeze a good man in.... "

"While I haven't eaten many rice cakes, I'd do just about anything to slide into you my hairy cock. Overall hairy male here who loves that red hair."

"i am 5'8 blonde gren 165 6 cut LOL nothin special but would kill to feel your tongue"

"I want to see pics of ur body with ur tally wacker... he he he he"

And now the moment we've all been waiting for . . .

THE PIC PARADE!

The t-shirt says it all. Hair factor: 0

Hair factor: 2

Hair factor: 3

Hair factor: 0

Hair factor: 8.74

If you look like Jabba the Pediphile, at least have the decentcy to put your toilet seat down for your personals response pic.

This dude isn't much better. It is obvious that in the original photo, he was tete a tete with a blonde female. Note the slender hand on his shoulder and cascading waves that sneak into the frame. I guess he recently cut her out of his life.

This is probably one of the worst paste jobs, ever. Either that, or Indiana Jones is a tranny chaser.

"This is me," said the email. The responder did not specify whether s/he was the male or the female. My money's on the leering old man.

Nothing is more alluring than a mugshot style portrait, underlit by the rancid glow of a 15" monitor.

This man has possibly the worst taste in the entire world. Not to mention that the enormous bouquet looks like it's springing out of his skull.

Guess what he's been doing on company time.

Every day is Halloween for Doctor Frankenfurter.

That's all, folks!

2006-08-28T12:20:00.000-07:00

In case you missed my personals ad - which was removed from Craigslist a mere 24 hours after I posted it - here's a copy of the text and some of the photos:

Hey boys!

This model-pretty, 100% passable transgirl is in search of a loving gentleman age 18 to 36, with a similar interest in puffed rice products. White, black, asian, latino - it doesn't matter, as long as you're RICECAKE FRIENDLY. Hopefully, you're in decent shape. Body hair is a plus. There's nothing I love more than a warm, hairy, masuline chest against my smooth, lily white back. If you have a hairy chest, please reply with pics.

Wine me, dine me, and take me back to your hotel for the wildest fellatio of your life. Just look at my cushiony lips and 7.3cm long tongue. Can you imagine? God, if only there were two of me, I'd go fuck myself.

Like I said, I'm totally passable - all body hair removed, post-op chest, pre-op genitalia. Yeah, that means I still have a John Thomas. Hope you don't mind. 5'7", white skin, red hair.

Somebody please drop me a line. I just moved to Houston and I'm so very, very lonely. Come give me a squeeze! Remember - YOU MUST BE RICE CAKE FRIENDLY. Pics MUST come with your reply, or I won't give you the time of day. Real people only, please.

2006-08-28T10:29:00.000-07:00

OH MY FUCKING GOD!
or
Placebo's 2006 US Tour

I used to make fun those star-struck people who keeled over at the slightest mention of their idol. Karma's a bitch. I found out today that Placebo is coming to the US this fall, with She Wants Revenge as the opening band. And you know what? I cried. I fucking cried.

If you're interested in the tour dates, just hop on their myspace page.

Alas, they aren't coming to Texas, so it looks like Zack and I will be making a pilgramage. The three shows we're looking at are Denver, Chicago, and Minneapolis (we have friends in each of those cities who might be good enough to come along to the show, and maybe even put us up for the night.

Oh my GOD. OH my FUCKING GOD. I thought I was going to have to hit the UK to get my fix . . .

2006-08-25T11:52:00.000-07:00

A Cake Too Far, Redux
or
Crazy Beautiful Transgirl Seeks Ricecake Stud

It is a sad and desperate thing, gentle readers, that my ebay ad was removed before the bidding closed. I was so hoping to make $2.50 off of my partially used foodstuffs. Too bad, also, that the bidding war raged exclusively between my husband and my mother.

But no matter. The cake has RETURNED. And this time, it is stronger, sleeker, sassier.

And it has a penis. Or should I say, I have a penis. Such is the magic of Craigslist. Thank god for the internet!

As always, gentle readers, I shall keep you abreast of any replies that reach my inbox, along with whatever pictures the eligable bachelors have sent along as well. Poor fools. I hope they understand the full extent of what "Ricecake Friendly" means.

For now, we play the waiting game . . .

2006-08-21T20:47:00.000-07:00

Visine Vendetta
or
Special Brownies Work Better

I know what all of you are thinking. If you put it in someone's drink, they'll be knighting Sir Thomas* for the longest 5 hours of their life.

Well, you're wrong.

I was only recently exposed to this urban legend, but apparently it's a bit of a chestnut. Who'da thunk. Something as simple and seemingly innocuous as Visine eye drops could, under the right circumstances, become the middle finger of justice. It sounds too good to be true, and it is.

Ladies and gentle readers, if you would be so kind as to direct your attention to Snopes.com.

If you're too fucking lazy, here's the gist (emphasis added):

One thing tetrahydrozoline has NOT been known to do is to cause sudden onset bouts of severe diarrhea. Although this belief has been around for decades, and everyone knows someone who knows someone who really did administer a Visine mickey to a deserving miscreant and thereby caused him an immediate serious case of the trots, there's no documented evidence the product would have that effect. Of the Visine poisoning cases studied by medical observers, we found none that mentioned diarrheal output brought about by the drug.

Yet if Visine doesn't cause diarrhea, it has done things far more terrible. Drinking it can (and has) caused severe depression of the central nervous system. In 1996, a two-year-old child who ingested at most 2 to 3 mL of Visine eye drops became dangerously lethargic and unresponsive to every stimulus except deep pain. Thanks to prompt medical attention the child recovered, but not before enduring intubation and two days' worth of mechanically-assisted breathing.

So there you go, merry pranksters. Best ye stick with the Ex-Lax chocolate brownies. Sure, it takes a little more time, but nothing warms the heart like homemade revenge, baked from scratch. Peace.

*Sir Thomas Crapper, according to popular myth and legend, invented the flush toilet as we know it. Like many widely-known facts, this claim is erroneous. But that's neither here nor there.

2006-08-21T15:45:00.000-07:00

Hide The Hanky
or
Road Trip II: The Lost Deposit

I know, I know. Excuses run thin when I don't update. But my jet-set life is just too damned busy to find time to placate my gentle readers. So don't look at me like your momma don't feed you. Neh.

Here. Watch this video. It sure as hell cheered me up.

But seriously. Central Texas has got to be one of the most inhospitable places in North America. This time of year, I can feel the radiation from the sun pan-frying my carefully preserved pallor to a bloody char. So I stay indoors. Away from the dust and the light and the wood ants. And cacti. Everyone's lawn has turned a fine shade of butter yellow. I sometimes fantasize about what a crate of carefully placed fireworks would do to the neighborhood.

Those of you up Saint Louis way should be prepared for my visit at the end of the month. Zack should be a free man by then, so we're in for a wee vacation. What better place than my old scampering ground? That, and I'm gonna try to get my deposit back on my vacant appartment. Stupid sublet. Anyhow, there'd better be some good parties. Someone with initiative should throw me an underwear party.

I like my chardonnay chilled to exactly 45 degrees F, and my quiche low-fat, no salt added. You're too kind.

2006-08-14T21:11:00.000-07:00

A "Bambi" By Any Other Name
or
Titty Bar Taxonomy

Honestly, gentle readers, you can't beat the thrill of a good moniker - whether it's yours or not. Taught names just aren't cool any more. Think of the greats. Double-oh-seven. Blackbeard. P. Diddy. JLo.

That's why I love strip clubs (well, one of the reasons); the girls get to pick their own stage names. You can learn a lot about a gal by her choice of stage name. Most stick to what they know - names that, like their tits, seem false and overtly sexual. Others opt for personas. And a rare few actually make a pun out of it. Seeing as I go to a strip club just about every weekend, I've compiled quite a list of aliases, which I now present to you for your reading pleasure.

Mircette - I had the opportunity to talk to her for a while, and to be sure, she's a clever gal. She adopted the name of her favorite birth control. I like a subtle pun.

Star - Must have something to do with the comet tattooed on her bikini line.

Malibu - Got the whole hawaiian thang goin' on. Flower behind the ear and whatnot.

Bambi Butterfield - not a stripper (yet), but rather the name of a girl in my third grade class. Wow. I wonder if she'll go into the family business.

Simone - Funny story about this one. I might have already written it, but here goes. She gave me the lapdance of a lifetime and smelled like heaven on earth, although I couldn't quite place the perfume. Not three days later, my boyfriend's grandparents gave me an easter gift of Victoria's Secret apple scented lotion. The minute I put some on, I couldn't help but smile. I'd recognize that scent anywhere.

Jedi - Waaayyy too I-spend-15-hours-a-day-in-a-STARWARS-Web-Forum to be even remotely sexy. I bet she picks her teeth with a warcraft figurine.

Fire - unimaginative and stupid. If flame imagery is your bag, why not Blaze? Or Ember? Pyro? That's right. I forgot. She's only got a 4th grade education.

Saber - Nothing says "Pimpled, dimpled, D and D lovin' social outcast" like a stage name that doubles as a weapon for your Level 7 Barbarian.

Destiny, Diamond, Misty, Amber, Lexus, Tiffany, Kiki, etc. - come on, gals. Be original!

Britney - there's something about this name that implies "Daddy's little princess." Or maybe "Will give head for tennis bracelet."

Trinity - Don't. Even. Ugh.

Fantasia, Sensation, Paradise, Flawless - I happen to be a fan of these. They're rediculous and over the top, so you don't feel bad about fantasizing about the poor girl. Except for Flawless. Come on, who are you kidding, baby? You've had 3 kids.

Rain, Storm, Sky, Summer, Winter, Snow - holy shit! Better check the weather. Heavy grinding with a chance of showers.

Scarlet - (the harlot) absolutely perfect. Very cool gal. Probably the most awesome, intelligent, sexy stripper out there. Great sense of humor. A redhead, of course.

2006-08-07T19:23:00.000-07:00

A Cake Too Far
or
That's Not A Vagina, Mate. THIS Is A Vagina!

Some of my more observative readers have noticed that my auction no longer exists. It's over. And I'm sad to announce that there is no winner, because ebay removed the listing prematurely. Apparently, the item violated Ebay's selling policies. Whoops. I broke a rule. Darn those things.

Hey, look! A china shop! *paw and snort*

But seriously, ladies, you need to do something about those protruding inner labia, because no man short of an overweight, blind hermaphrodite is going to want to plunge anything into that roast beef. Seriously.

According to the Vagina Institute:

The nature of vaginas, not all vaginas are created equal. With data analysis, we have been able to discover many interesting things related to the female reproductive organ.

The site seems to exist solely for the purpose of amplifying women's insecurity about their genitals. Which I think is a good thing. Self-acceptance is the first step down the slippery slope to obsolescence. None of us are getting any younger, after all.

They've taken some opinions from the menfolk - "What's good for the gander ... She can't be all bitchin' at me just 'cause she's got a garbage bag for a vagina. I mean, I'm only one soup-can thick. She's got to help out a little too."

As well as a few comments from the offending sex - "I don't like my vagina. It didn't bother me to much before, but now that I have to worry about other people seeing it, it’s another thing I have to be self-conscious about. Other people's reactions really influence what I think, which explains why it didn't bother me before but now it does. The lips are too big and floppy."

Oh my god. Is my pussy too big? Is it ugly? How would I even know?

Luckily, there's a whole sidebar of links devoted to such research. Aren't you curious what "interesting things" they found?

Vaginal appearance is extremely important in our culture. To be a woman, means that you should have beauty in shape and form. This includes the shape and form of your most intimate body part as it is the epiphany of your femininity. The ideal beauty for female genitalia is based on having perfectly developed inner vaginal lips or labia minora that are smoothed and even with symmetric length. The inner vaginal lips should “not protrude” past the outer lips and should have a light color tone towards pink or different shades based on your ethnicity.

The outer lips or labia majora should be full and pouty; both the right and left outer lips should be the same size with the same shape. This is what defines the overall shape of your genitalia. The color of the outer lips should be about the same color tone as the rest of your body with slight shade differences. The hood of the clitoris should be small and just cover the clitoris without excessive skin. The mons pubis should be well placed with an overall nice shape to it. Nothing sagging or drooping as that would make it unattractive. . . .

When the inner lips protrude past the outer lips, they look unappealing. As most people like to look at a neat and tidy vaginas. They represent the ideal standard and have a feminine appeal to them . . .

. . . Some vaginas or female genitals even have a look like they have teeth. This when seen by an intimate partner can be quite frightening and more so if the lights are dim and shadows are appearing around the teeth like lips. Part of the fear given through myth is that a vagina like this will bite his manhood off. However, reality is that your partner might think that you are abnormal or have some disease, which caused your vaginal lips to take on a deformed look.

And let us not forget: "The appearance of female genitalia is extremely important in our society. In essence, to have an ugly vagina is almost the same as being an outcast."

Ouch.

And then they try to sell you a subscription to an online book about "a natural way to improve the aesthetics and beauty of your vagina, a natural alternative to surgical enhancement."

Damnit. In truth, surgery is probably the only way to go.

2006-07-28T17:42:00.000-07:00

Hey, check out my new auction on Ebay. It's a one of a kind deal you just can't pass up.

2006-07-26T14:35:00.000-07:00

Service With A Donut Smile
or
Eat My Roll

During a routine internet search (don't even ask which keywords I used) I stumbled across a directory of Escorts in the U.K. One lady's website in particular sticks in my memory. For your pleasure, an excerpt from www.debbiedoesoral.com -

My specialties include "The massage that goes too far", "Who's the teacher to day (you or me?)", "Bossy bitch", "Auntie, what's that?" and anything with me wearing my pantyhose.

I can just picture some red-faced British buisness man, in an attempt to recapture those tender naptime rub-downs in the nursery, adopting an oversize school uniform and strained falsetto and sitting down on the old bird's lap. We humans are very strange beasts.

Not that my tastes are any less comic, mind you, though I'd much rather go for a round of "Bad kitties get the rolled-up newspaper!" With me as the newspaper.

Speaking of rolled . . . .

Larkin's "Love You Long Time" Spring Rolls
(makes 8)

You'll need:

12 dried rice wrappers (look in the international section)
6oz of firm - not silken - tofu
1 c of bean sprouts
a bundle of fresh cilantro
4oz of dry rice stick noodles
2 cloves of garlic
dried Thai or Chinese chili peppers, whole
Blended sesame oil
a can of beer
rice vinegar
soy sauce

Slice tofu into 1/2" thick slabs. Pat dry with paper towels as much as possible. Put tofu in large ziploc bag with enough beer to cover the pieces. Add about 1tbsp of soy sauce, 1 tsp of sesame oil, and a little splash of vinegar. Allow to marinate in fridge 20 min to 1 hour. Pan fry tofu slabs with whole garlic cloves and whole peppers, occasionally pouring a little of the marinade mixture over them. Cook until deep golden brown on each side. Set aside to cool. When cool, slice tofu into pencil thin strips, divide into 8 piles.

Soak rice noodles in hot water (not boiling) 3-5 minutes, until al dente. Drain, rinse with cold water, drain again. Pat noodles dry with paper towels. Divide into 8 piles and set aside.

Rinse bean sprouts and pat dry. Break into smaller pieces if desired. Divide into 8 piles and set aside.

Rinse cilantro. De-stem and coarsely chop about 1/4c leaves. Set aside.

Fill bowl large enough to hold rice wrappers with cool water. Drop the wrappers into the water one by one, making sure each one is covered in water before adding the next. Soak until clear and rubbery. Remove all skins at once and set on damp paper towel on plate. Cover with another damp towel.

Place one rice wrapper (gently!) on a spare plate, and recover remaining wrappers with damp paper towel. Lay some rice noodles in the center of the free wrapper (1/2 of one of the 8 piles), followed by 1 pile of sprouts, 1 pile of tofu, a pinch of cilantro, and the other half of the noodle pile. Wrap burrito style, folding 2 sides over, then rolling the bundle over until closed. Repeat with remaining wrappers and piles of filling. The extra wrappers are in case some of them rip or have a hole or something.

Serve with store bought peanut sauce, or make your own:

Peanut Sauce

half a cup of hoisin sauce
1 tsp of oil
2 cloves of garlic (finely chopped)
1 tbsp of white or rice vinegar
1 tbsp of water
1 tbsp of crunchy natural peanut butter
1 tsp of salt
1 tsp of sugar
1 tsp of corn starch
chili sauce to taste

Combine hoisin sauce, peanut butter, vinegar, water, salt, sugar, corn starch, and chili sauce in a bowl. Mix them well. Put a sauce pan on medium heat for about 1 minute. Pour in 1 tsp of oil and chopped garlic. Sautee the garlic until it has a light golden color, then add the mixture. Stir constantly until the sauce comes to a boil. Remove from heat.

2006-07-25T18:26:00.000-07:00

Surprise, surprise. Once again, gentle readers, my role as supreme insensitive bitch has pissed off an unsuspecting citizen. My apologies to the unnamed parents of the previous baby post. Being the fucker I am, I seldom realize that my viscious brand of humor is not appreciated by all. Or even most. (Yeah, really, it's just me.) A thorough survey of my anarchic idiocy would demonstrate that I rip into just about everything (including myself, but excluding Brian Molko) like a starved dingo.

But seriously. I was a dick on that one. I didn't mean it. That's just how I . . . well . . . act out. Yeah.

Fuck.

2006-07-25T14:36:00.000-07:00

Stuck-up
or
Schadenfreudeffects

Yes, I'm beating a dead horse (beating! Hah!) but studying for the pharmacy exam once again brought the side effects of viagra to my attention. Drum roll please:

Less common - abnormal vision, including blurred vision, seeing shades of colors differently than before, or sensitivity to light; bladder pain; cloudy or bloody urine; dizziness; increased frequency of urination; pain on urination

Rare - Bleeding of the eye; convulsions; decreased vision or other changes in vision; double vision; prolonged painful or ainappropriate erection of penis; redness, burninging, or swelling of the eye; vision loss, temporary

Other side effects may occur that usually do not need medical attention. These side effects may go away during treatment as your body adjusts to the medicine. However, check with your doctor if any of the following side effects continue or are bothersome:

More common - flushing; headache; nasal congestion; stomach discomfort following meals

Less common - diarrhea

Rare - abdominal pain; abnormal dreams; aches or pains of muscles; clumsiness or unsteadiness; cough; diarrhea or stomach cramps (severe or continuing); difficulty in slwallowing; ear pain; increased amount of saliva; increased skin sensitivity; lack of coordination; nausea; numbness or tingling of hands, legs, or feet; rectal bleeding; redness, soreness, or swelling or bleeding of gums; ringing or buzzing in ears; sensation of motion, usually whirling, either of one's self or of one's surroundings; sexual problems in men (continuing), including failure to experience a sexual orgasm; sleepiness; sores in mouth and on lips; tense muscles; tightness of chest or wheezing; trembling and shaking; trouble in sleeping; vomiting; waking to urinate at night; worsening of asthma

Artist's Rendering (NOTE: not safe for children)

So in short, you'll be able to get it up, but you won't be able to keep a woman near you long enough to do any good. Nice. The irony has worn thin since the drug's invention, but it's still good for a cheap laugh.

2006-07-20T12:49:00.000-07:00

Cure For What Ails You
or
Rock Rhymes With

In case you didn't know, gentle readers, I'm a biiiiiig fan of Placebo. You know. Brit post-punk, electronic influences, the world's most nasal lead singer EVER. That Placebo.

Much to my dismay, I am a maxed credit card away from becoming a stinking, rotten fangirl. Shoot me. I have all the albums, and I'm working on the singles. The Soulmates Never Die live DVD is sitting in my living room. Hell, I even thought about buying Velvet Goldmine, that pathetic waste of production budget, just because the Placebo lads make a cameo. It's sad. But I cannot deny my heart, especially when it comes to matters of the whining, faggy, mascara-wearing Brian Molko. Faggy in a good way.

I'd love to do unholy things to his pelvis. I guess the closest I'll ever come is the look-alike boytoy I dumped a few months ago:

Brian, left; Kay, right. Just don't say the wrong name in bed!

Top 5 Reasons why I like 'em:

5. MOLKO!

4. Their lyrics make heavy use of strict rhyme schemes, without sounding incipid and singsong. Example - "I'm unclean, a libertine/And every time you vent your spleen/I seem to lose the power of speech/You're slipping slowly from my reach/You grow me like an evergreen/You've never seen the love in me at all."

3. They're bipolar - agitated and ironic one song, self-pitying and malcontent the next. Fits my disposition just fine. Satisfaction? Who needs it?!

2. That voice! No one sounds like Brian Molko! Even if you like nasal tenors (as I do) he's an acquired taste. Distinctive is the word I'm looking for.

1. They've been together for 10 years. That's a lot of material! And they've progressed beautifully over the course of their 5 albums. Personally, I think Sleeping With Ghosts, their fourth venture, is their best work. It's truly artful and melodic. The lyrics are potent, the balance between electronic and punk styles, perfected. Meds is hit or miss. Too many forays into gritty electronic wastelands a la Garbage. Black Market Music and Without You I'm Nothing are emotional and seething, with great variation between tracks. Their self-titled first album is somewhat underdeveloped, but worth a listen for an understanding of Placebo's roots. Although it is, comparatively, an amateurish effort, one can't help but be dazzled by their immediate talent.

In other news, I'm currently holding an earring for ransom. It once belonged to Lars, lead singer of The Undoing Of David Wright. They're pretty weird, if I may say so, and well worth a listen. Sorta Neo-newave/experimental/screamo stuff. Very atonal.

I'ma gonna wear it to their show in Denton in September. Cause I'm cool like that.

2006-07-20T09:49:00.000-07:00

Here's a big-ass list of all the horrible things that can happen to someone with an eating disorder. Anyone who's taken high school health knows that eating disorders are dangerous, but it's easy to shrug them off. Especially if the person doesn't look emaciated.

So if your pal's throwing up a half-galon of Dreyer's neopolitan ice cream every afternoon, he's not to be laughed at. He's in desperate need of help.

2006-07-10T04:54:00.000-07:00

Pandora's Box. Heh heh HEH.
or
Apoca-lapse

I have found a most delightful diversion, gentle readers. You simply must give it a go! Pandora is a superintelligent custom internet radio-stream generator. Thanks to the internet music genome project, you can type in your favorite musician or song, and the sexy little flash interface will devise a line-up tailored to your finicky tastes. Personally, I love free music more than raw salmon. And that's saying something.

It's an incredible time-sink. I created a Placebo radio station. Twenty artists I had never heard of pop up. Including . . . Billy Corgan? Whah? I hated Smashing Pumpkins. I knew he went solo but, huh. Wow. I actually like it. A lot. SHIT. I'm buying the CD. Rise, lather, repeat. There's a lot of territory out there, my dear.

***

In other news, I can't sleep again. Fuck. I'd been doing so well since I moved in with Zack, but the insomnia is back, in the form of nightmares. For the last 8 or 9 nights, I haven't been able to sleep more than 20 minutes at a time. I'm so tired that I fall into REM at a moment's notice. And when I do, I find myself in a private section of hell. Recurring themes include: rape (both organic and mechanical), surgical torture, accidental dismemberment of baby ducks and chickens, incest, abandonment (in a darkened space capsule without windows), cataclysmic celestial phenomena (such as the moon breaking out of its usual orbit around the earth and attaching itself to mars instead, thus disrupting the earth's rotation; humanity did not survive), imprisonment, strangulation, infestation with parasites, and the apocalypse. Cheery.

Can't sleep. So on edge. I'll put it this way - I'm so full of adrenaline that when I saw a red flicker on the wall from Zack's optical mouse, I jumped in my seat. I hope to fuck it gets better soon. Maybe if I took my rest in a tub of whiskey.

2006-07-05T20:43:00.000-07:00

What A Jerk!
or
He's Stuffed. Get It? Ho Ho!

Newlywedhoodism is no walk in the park, kids. It's hard work. I mean, sure I've been out of the house for the last two years; I know how to separate my whites and colors. I managed alone just fine! (That's right. No roomates. No one could stand me for very long. I'm serious.) However, since I got married, I've been sharing living space with someone else. Zack. Yeah. That guy.

Which translates to: no more living off of stolen bagels and Diet Red Bull. I have to appear normal and like, buy food. Shit.

So we go shopping. It's a team effort, as the following photographs will clearly demonstrate . . .

Zack describes the intricate courtship rituals of the giant Pacific cuttlefish

" . . . and then, the male exposes his belly, offering his cloaca to the female."

How refreshing! An opportunity to expand my culinary horizons!

You are what you eat.

"Hey honey, we'd better get some of this for those evenings when our schedules conflict."

So simple, even a child could use it!

Before we left, we rearranged some stuffed animals. See? He's giving the sheep the Heimlich maneuver!

"SQUEAL LIKE A PIGGY FOR ME!"

I'm not sure whether or not we left with anything useful, but we sure had fun. And that's all that really counts. Until you're hungry.

2006-06-30T17:51:00.000-07:00

Flied Lice
or
East SahhhIEEED

I know that I am not politically correct by any means. The very creation of this post perpetuates detrimental racial steriotypes. I think it's fucking hilarious. However, if you have a concern with the content of my blog, or would like to engage me in a discussion of ethics, just shoot me an email at childofmists@hotmail.com. Make sure it contains both a personal insult and vulgarity in the subject heading, or it won't make it through my security filter. While you wait for a reply, go fuck yourself.

For the rest of you, here's Ghetto Delta. Too bad their target demographic can't afford processed cheese, much less airfare. (Although, as a jobless student, I'm not much better off. Somewhat like the cook calling the butler black, don't you think? Ahah hah hah. *sniff*)

Also, for you enjoyment, I will disclose the two fortunes that Zack and I received when we had finished ravaging the Chinese Buffet:

"You are the evening star in someone's romantic eyes"
and
"Being an able man. There are always."

Poignant.

2006-06-30T06:47:00.000-07:00

Captivity
or
Long Walk Off A Short Pier

I'll kick this off by saying that I am OK now. I'm alive. Alright. And plan on being so for quite some time. No intention of harming myself in the near future. I'M COOL. Leave me alone.

Anyhow, believe it or not, gentle readers, I didn't fail to post over the last few days because I was lazy, or even because I was having a good time. No. I failed to post, gentle readers, because I was detained.

It will not come as a surprise, to some I'm sure, that as of 4:00AM on Monday, June 26th, I belonged to a "Mental Health Treatment Facility" in central Texas. No, I won't say which. No pictures, please. Nobody here knows I'm a rock star.

I met a lot of nice gals in there - people with problems far more intricate than mine, though you wouldn't know it by the gaping stigmata on my wrists. (EDITOR'S NOTE: I'm not a religious nut. In this case, the use of "stigmata" reflects a stylistic word choice, not to be taken literally.)

No self-agrandizing third-person accounts of my untimely near-demise. I'll leave it to say that the first thing the paramedics said upon entering my sepulcher (the upstairs bathroom) was: "OH SHIT!" I spent 8 hours in the ER, only some of which I recall at all. I do remember a woman announcing that she was going to give me a catheter, to which I replied:

"Does that mean I can pee whenever I want?"
"Yes."
"WOW. That's the best thing since . . . since sliced bread!"

I was soused. Five times the legal limit. I was trying to thin my blood.

Once they'd glued my forearms back together, the docs took me to the Nut Haus as fast as they could. I signed myself in. What can I say? It wasn't half bad, though. They let you have all the cake you want.

I'm now diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. Whoo. Like we hadn't guessed at that already. Somehow I don't find this distressing. If history is any use, I'm following in the tradition of all the greatest writers ever known. Now if I can just avoid absinthe . . .

2006-06-19T18:24:00.000-07:00

More Than Meets The Eye
or
Smell My Finger

Here's an experiment that you can do at home, gentle readers! Curl up your first finger take a good look at the folds created by your top two knuckles. What's it look like? Huh? Huh? Go ahead. Put your mind in the gutter.

Now, get a digital camera, take an extreme close-up, and post it on the internet for all the world to see!

Digital stimulation! Haha!

Not bad, eh? If you're daring, leave a link in the comments feature.

2006-06-19T08:08:00.000-07:00

Hungry, Man?
or
I Am Not Dead Yet

No, gentle readers, I am not dead yet, no matter how many of you pour the blood of a black cockrel in my front yard. I'm still here, making a massive idiot of myself for the greater good.

I'm sure I'll eventually muster the will to write about something relevent and fascinating; until I do, choke on this. Apparently, Swanson has come out with a breakfast containing 231% of your daily cholesterol. Cheers.

2006-06-10T12:46:00.000-07:00

The City's Supple Underbelly
or
Excuse Me, Have You Seen My Small Intestine?

You know, I've seen more of Houston since I moved to Killeen than I did in the four years I spent living in Houston itself. Go figure.

Recent Attractions:

MAI'S - Vietnamese restraunt. Pretty damned good vegetarian spring rolls. I'd never eaten Vietnamese before, but it's a new favorite. Apparently the place is open until 3am, which makes it a plus for my fellow crazy club kids. There's a feng-shui friendly mirror all the way around the dining area, perfect for catching dorky hipsters staring at my luscious ass. Zack and his rebel buddies used to slum around this joint until the wee-hours, wreaking mayhem on unsuspecting patrons. Tip generously.

BODY WORLDS III - Two words, gentle readers: motherfucking cadavers. Someone (anatamist Gunther von Hagen) loved the silent poetry of the human carcass so much, that he invented a way to preserve it forever in a thin, yet durable, plastic coating. And thus "plastinization," as the process is called, elevated man to medium, autopsy to high art. Body Worlds features an onslaught of plastinized human sculptures just dying (hah. HAHAHA. HEEEE!) to teach you the private beauty of their abdominal cavity. NNnngg. Yeeeahhah. My favorite displays included a flayed figure contemplatively clutching his own hide, a brain with alzheimer's disease, and a horseman riding a plasticized steed straight from the floppy bowels of hell.

XXX MEGAPLAZA - Believe it or not, my first adult video store. Zack and I perused the shelves for some time, but couldn't agree on a single DVD. My picks: Lord of the Strings, Mistress C.M. Hurt (too much CBT for the Zackinator), Tranny Trouble 7 (need I say more?). His picks: Harry Twatter (I prefer bald), Ultimate Squirt 4 (featuring Thai amateur Seemi Pi), and I Cream of Jeanie. Finally, we comprimised on the Anal Adventure 3000, and called it a night. It's for a friend. Really.

NUMBERS NIGHTCLUB - Everything you hear about it is true. It's rather beat up. The sound system is so-so. The crowd couldn't get more mixed if it were a government sponsored random sample. And you know what? I really liked it. I'm going back. Last night was 80's night; Zack and I swung mad glowsticks to the songs we like to pretend we grew up to. There's nothing better for gleaning mass attention than rhythmically spinning Army-issued Chem Lights around your head on the stage of a pitch-black club. Hot damn, I never want to grow old.

TTFN. I love this city more than you. I'm off to a strip club, tonight!

2006-05-31T07:26:00.000-07:00

Yea, For He Is Risen
or
Take Ten Hail Marys, And Call Me In The Morning

Zack and I went to Colorado this past weekend to visit his extended family and watch his brother, Robin, graduate. It was a good time, all told. His aunts are some of the most amusing women I've ever met, and they seem to like me, to boot.

However, gentle readers, I am now convinced that my bladder is cursed. CURSED! For every time I leave town to meet my boyfriend's (and now husband's) extended family, I contract a urinary tract infection. And this was no "ow it burns when I pee" UTI. Oh no. This was the "Shit, I didn't sleep at all last night because I was doubled over with kidney pain and fever chills" kind of UTI.

EVERY FUCKING TIME! It's not enough that I have to memorize the names and relationships of 294 people I've never met before, remember my table manners, hold in my cuss words, and refrain from grabbing Zack's ass. No. I have to suddenly come down with one of the most irritating feminine ailments known to humankind. Hey, In-laws! I just married your nephew! Bet you can't guess why my ureathra's on fire!

*SHAME*

I'm not a religious woman, but when I have a UTI, I suddenly find my Catholic roots. Every time I piss, I find myself involuntarily screaming "GOOD SWEET MOTHER OF GOD!" or "HOLY HANNAH!" or my personal favorite - "Jeh-HEE-zus aich CHRIST ALLMIGHTY! Phew. There has gotta be a Saint I can pray to.

It really really sucked. Thankfully, Aunt Patty was nice enough to take me to the doctor. I'm on the mend.

In other news, I spotted a truly uplifting banner in the Seventh Day Adventist church wherein Robin was Baptized on Friday night:

"Behold, I come quickly"

. . . ALL OVER YOUR FACE! I once was blind, but now I see.

2006-05-25T15:11:00.000-07:00

Ok, Ok, I Got One: Where Can You Fit Six Million Jews?
or
Dancing Sets Us Free

First, gentle readers, I would like to offer a disclaimer. I did not create Houseswitz. The opinions expressed in Housewitz are not necessarily a reflection of my opinions, or the opinions of my university. Or blogger. Or fuckin' anyone. I am not a crook. She was wearing a short skirt.

That said, I will admit that the following piece of media made me laugh out loud. If the government tries to keep a flash movie from the public, it has to be something really really good, right? Well, I'll let you decide for yourself.

WARNING: SHOCKING. POLITICALLY INCORRECT. LARKIN HAS POOR SPELLING.

And now, with out further ado, behold - Housewitz! Catch it while you still can.

*sigh* I just know this is going to bring me flack. But you know what? Deep down, I love the scent of infamy. It's good for my hit count!

2006-05-23T16:09:00.000-07:00

Killeen Time
or
Panic!

So I've been living the married life with Zack, spending my days in the townhouse recovering from the slings and arrows of Wash U. Today, I am sick. Weak. You know, that slow, viral, body ache. But that's alright. I don't have anything to do or anywhere I have to go. I can sleep all day, if I want to.

And I have. And it's good. Fuck everyone with an agenda. I'm in estevation.

I've put a thought or two towards writing my memoirs, but nothing serious as of yet. I don't know. Something tells me that the market would be perfect for them about now. Just LOOK at the shit that makes it on the New York Times bestseller list these days. All I'd have to do to ensure success is charm Oprah.

The city itself is mostly strip-mall, smeared on both sides of the freeway, punctuated by housing developments. Mostly army types live here, which is unsurprising, considering Fort Hood is one of the area's central features.

Zack has block leave from June 3rd until June 18th. On the last day of his leave, he and I will go see Panic At The Disco in Austin. If you haven't listened to them yet, I HIGHLY reccomend them. They weave energetic melodies with lilting beats without a single weak spot. Accoustic guitar and electronic synthesizer meld delightfully with the lead singer's boyish tenor as he patters through intricate, thoughtful, entertaining lyrics. Sublime! DO check them out, no matter what sort of music you enjoy. They sound like the bastard child of a swing band, Cake, Darude, and The Dresden Dolls.

I'm very excited.

2006-05-16T20:22:00.000-07:00

No Shortage Of Cactus
or
A Bungalo Built For Two

I've relocated, gentle readers, to Killeen, Texas, just outside the gates of Fort Hood. Why? To be with my new husband until he deploys in July. I won't go into great detail at the moment, but consider yourself updated. Here's the CNN version:

- There is a lot of cactus in central Texas
- The chocolate-brown carpet was in style when they installed it, but when they installed it, it wasn't chocolate-brown. JUST KIDDING!
- Men in uniform everywhere. Am I dead?
- Women in uniform everywhere. See above.
- Transexuals in droves, as far as the eye can see.
- Not really.
- Jack Daniels is a liar and a cheat. If anyone sees him wandering around, tell him I'm waiting up late for him to come home.
- Scrabble is my bitch.
- GOOSENECK!
- Guard Duty: not just for bleary-eyed soldiers anymore.
- Cheap Argentinian real estate is where it's at.
- Thrice rocks very large balls. Corn syrup does not.
- The human crotch is the warmest object in the solar system.

That is all. More updating when Zack's not home. Bonus: videos of me trying on all of his clothing! Anything to keep you sick bastards happy.

2006-05-10T12:40:00.000-07:00

Look at me LOOK at ME Look at MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

LOOK! Look what I can do! GWWRAAAHHH! Nyar! LOOK AT ME! *jumps* LOOOOOOOK!

*deep breath*

*holds it*

*exhales with force*

That is all, gentle readers. Return to your normal daily activities.

2006-05-09T17:55:00.000-07:00

Freaks and Icons
or
Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here

Just in time for summer, I have created a guide to my desktop. You know, in case anyone ever needs to use my computer. (Like I'd ever let you near it. The really good pr0n is hidden for a reason, jackass.)

But in all seriousness, I have discovered that most people find my system of organization - i.e. total chaos - somewhat perplexing. Hopefully these helpful diagrams will set you straight.

DESKTOPIA, a topographical view

Lower Right Corner

Lower Center

The Icon Sea, part I

The Icon Sea, part II

The Icon Sea, part III
(Advanced users only)

Remember to wear your mosquito repellant. This WILL be on the final.

2006-05-09T12:22:00.000-07:00

Up In Smoke
or
Continental Drift

I know what you're thinking. How can I be expected to find time to blog when my life is such a whirlwind of self-aggrandizing anecdotes. I know, I know. But somehow, gentle readers, I have found the time to grace you once again with my ruminations.

And a moving GIF of me smoking hooka. Tee hee! Look at that! Cartoon Larkin gets an apple-flavored nicotine fix!

Suck it. Suck it like your mother used to!

But seriously, moving out of the old apartment and into the new one is proving difficult. I have to actually, you know, work. Put stuff in boxes. My worldly possessions - the ungrateful pieces of crap they are - apparently don't pack themselves. *sigh*

You know, if only I were independantly wealthy, I could just throw everything away and shop for new stuff whenever I needed something. Or hire slave boys to pack it for me. Somebody order me a fuckin' palanquin!

2006-05-06T18:58:00.000-07:00

Fatkins Part II
or
The Ultimate Showdown

There is nothing so thrilling, gentle readers, as using one's own body as a test subject. For starters, it allows for perfect sympathy and understanding of the subject's experience. It also eliminates the need for consent forms and any chance of a lawsuit resulting from mistreatment. Screw true scientific rigor. This is SCIENCE with all capital letters - the kind of reckless experimentation of which dreams are realized and formalities are broken. BRING IT ON!

So I started Atkins. Until this point, I had been subsisting on plant products only - a radical vegan diet adopted for the fuck of it. It was rather nice. But its time has passed. Only meat now, and tons of it.

Well, fish to be more exact. And cheese. Lots of cheese. Lite silken tofu. Low-carb over-processed this-and-that. Shirataki noodles (AT LONG LAST!). The occasional shot of hard liquor. And a metric fuck-ton of diet soda.

Why? Because I CAN. And I'd never (knowingly) been in Ketosis before.

KETOSIS: a stage in metabolism occurring when the liver has been depleted of stored glycogen. Energy from fat is mobilized to the liver and used to synthesize glucose (a process called gluconeogenesis) from lactic acid, glucogenic amino acids, and glycerol carbon substrates. Ketones are also produced during this fasting state, and are burned throughout the body.

Ketones are a means of making the energy of fat available in water soluble form, and to displace as much burning of glucose as possible. Glucose must be conserved in the fasting state because parts of the brain, retina, kidney and red blood cells depend exclusively on it for energy, and in order to conserve muscle protein which must be catabolized to provide the glucogenic amino acid substrate for synthesis of glucose. During the initial stages of starvation the brain does not burn ketones, since they are an important substrate for lipid synthesis in the brain. But after several days of starvation, the brain transitions to burning ketones in order to more directly utilize the energy from the fat stores that are being depended upon, and to reserve the glucose only for its absolute needs, thus slowing the depletion of the body's protein store in the muscles. The brain retains a residual need for glucose, because ketones can only provide energy aerobically via mitochondria. In the long thin neurons, much of the metabolically active cellular membrane is too far from the nearest mitochondria and must derive its energy anaerobically (without oxygen) from glucose without the assistance of mitochondria.

The breath of people in a ketagenic state commonly contains acetone, detectable as a sweet smell that may be mistaken for ethyl alcohol.

Yes. My breath does, indeed, smell of ketones. Some of my coworkers and compatriots have accused me of binge drinking the night before. But that is simply not the case. I'm merely running on Empty, even though all I do is eat.

My brain is swiftly adapting to my body's ketogenic state. The sensation is rather like the dull haze of mild opiate pain-killers. I am slightly euphoric and detatched, a little insensitive to certain sensations, and tinged with a feeling of well-being. My muscles feel a little weak sometimes. I expect that will get better as time goes on. The scale says I am the same weight (it initially dipped down) though I think I look like i've lost fat/gained muscle. I have, after all, been lifting weights throughout.

And in case I've effectively bored the shit out of you with my discussion of metabolic processes, here's THE ULTIMATE SHOWDOWN!!!!!11

2006-05-01T19:53:00.000-07:00

I Go Walking In The, In The Middle Of The . . .
or
Your Car Isn't The Only Thing That's Hybrid

You may or may not know, gentle readers, that I am an isomniac. Every once in a while, the sleepless nights compound into a psychotic break, and I begin to consider doing something about my affliction.

Seeing as I don't have any dicipline, medication seems like the way to go. Ambien, I thought. What about Ambien? All the cool kids are doing it. They advertise it on TV, so it must be safe, right?

Welllll apparently Ambien has a few side effects that no one could have predicted. Somnambulism, for one. Nocturnal eating for two.

One woman buttered and ate a carton's worth of cigarettes. Another consumed several pounds of raw bacon. Another said she gained 100lbs before she realized that her Ambien was making her gorge herself at night.

And let us not forget the periodic reports of Sleep Driving. Sound like a good time yet?

************

The times are changing, gentle readers, and new breeds of subculture are on the rise. You have to be prepared. Luckily, I've done the research for you. While stepping out in this modern world, you should keep your eyes open for members of the following cliques:

Yippie - environmentalists with fat trust funds, successful stock portfolios, or Daddy's credit cards (how old-school!) at their disposal. Buy groceries at Trader Joes or Whole Foods, including their favorite environmentally responsible, organic, all natural toothpaste at 8 bucks a pop. Drive expensive hybrid cars to save gas. Make very gallant attempts to become one with nature, such as week-long forays into the woods with a pack full of the latest techological advances in camping. Frown upon anyone who prefers practicality to "ecological responsibility." Will bitch about the treatment of cows in commercial dairy farms, but won't lend you 50 cents to switch to soy latte.

Slackster - if it looks like a hipster, smells like a hipster, and slouches like a hipster, it is! Unless it's a slackster. Slacksters don't DO anything for a living, as opposed to nothing of consequnce. As a result, their edge is somewhat lacking. They do their best to invoke bohemian cool, but how urban chic can you be when you sleep on your parents' day-bed? NOTE: some may claim to be "writers" or "musicians," which really just means that they smoke a lot of weed. Subtle investigation will swiftly overturn the farce.

Gunk - the built-up byproduct of dark culture a la Hot Topic. A soulless amalgam of goth and punk elements. Look for the kids too young to go clubbing, wearing slogan tees with bondage pants and ten billion incoherant accessories. I am a vampire. God save the queen. Can't sleep, clowns will eat me. They lack classical make-up training. Jarringly mainstream musical taste.

Druggie Howzer - really really REALLY smart teenagers who do a LOT of illegal drugs. Take the SAT on 5 hits of acid, and pull a 1560. Can roll a joint with one hand while discussing differential equations. They know not only where to score really good Ecstasy, but what it's doing to their brain, chemically, at any given moment. Synthesize various chemicals in their kitchens. Sure, they'd be smarter if they weren't constantly killing brain cells - just as a McLaren F1 would be faster without breaks - but seriously, who's counting? Should one regard them with pity, awe, or both? In the end, Druggie Howzers inevitably propell themselves to the height of success, thereby forcing themselves to give up the lifestyle, or sink tongue-first into permanent obscurity. Would somebody please pass the hashish?

2006-04-28T11:32:00.000-07:00

How Kaavya Got Exposed, Got Ridiculed, and Got Pulled Off The Shelves
or
Fatkins

What do you do when money can't buy you the depth of personality necessary to be accepted to Harvard University? Write a book of course! So what if you're a talentless hack. Just plagerize. Authors do it all the time, right? It's not like anyone will notice.

WRONG.

Poor poor Kaavya Viswanathan. She had it all. Almost. Too bad she doesn't have the creativity to . . . oh, I don't know, come up with orginal material? More similarities here.

Actually, I do feel a little bad for her. Something tells me that her parents have been riding her all the way to town and back on this one. First off, someone who isn't enough of a self-starter to get into Harvard on the first round is NOT going to have the gumption to put together a memoir. Second, just listen to her apology: "While the central stories of my book and hers are completely different, I wasn't aware of how much I may have internalized Ms. McCafferty's words. I am a huge fan of her work and can honestly say that any phrasing similarities between her works and mine were completely unintentional and unconscious." God, that just reeks of damage control. I betcha Daddy and Mummy have a panel of consultants on this one. Whooo!

In other news, a vegan diet just doesn't satisfy my misplaced control issues the way it used to. I'm thinking about doing Atkins. Seriously. I'm not kidding. If I'm lucky, ketosis will make me popular and successful. Huh? Right, right? Thoughts?

SHAZAM!

2006-04-26T19:17:00.000-07:00

Rainbow Brite
or
Five Hours, Six Dyes, and Twenty-Five Square Feet of Foil Later . . .

Sometimes, gentle readers, I have a little too much time on my hands. A little little too much creativity.

And other times, I have just enough.

BEHOLD, my latest masterpiece - a head-full of RAINBOW colored hair.

But wait, it gets better. Did I mention that it's a UV reactive rainbow?

That's right. I pwn all. The color won't be this lovely for more than a few washes, but oh well. It's not a permanent change, anyhow.

2006-04-22T18:13:00.000-07:00

Find Your Happy Place
or
Christmas In July . . . And August, September, November . . .

Months ago, during a dicussion on horrible tattoos, Zack described the poorly chosen ink on his ex-roomate's back. We'll call the ex-roomate "Carmuffin," which, believe it or not, is a decent phonetic approximation of his real name.

Carmuffin apparently enjoys celebrating Christmas. On his shoulderblade (I don't recall which) he has a tattoo of a candy cane. A candy cane, ladies and gentlemen.

Whenever I feel glum, I stop and think of Carmuffin's tattoo. I try to imagine the circumstances under which a young soldier would venture into a tattoo parlor, scope the flash on the wall for the perfect candy cane (which would take a while, considering their popularity as a design), and pay upwards of a hundred dollars to have it emblazoned permanently upon his back. I imagine the glory of the finished product. What the boys at poker night must have said.

And I laugh. Not out of spite, but simply because I will never understand.

2006-04-20T20:09:00.000-07:00

The road ahead, revised. This time, with captions.

2006-04-20T09:55:00.000-07:00

The Road Ahead
or
Carsick

Gentle readers, do you know how hard it is to live a normal adult life in America without a car? Well, outside of New York City? Murder. I'm tellin' ya. And it ain't like high school, were I can just gnaw at Mom and Dad's patience until one of them tells me to get lost already and throws the keys at my head. (Note for the humor impaired: the previous statement is a hyperbole included for comedic effect)

So I've decided to take the van - the Old Flaming Asshole, the shit-box Aerostar, my one true love - back to Saint Louis. I'll be flying down to houston friday evening. Hopefully Zack and I will get to spend some quality time bouncing off the walls. And then, early sunday morning, I will drive the van for 14 hours.

Oooh, I'm not looking forward to this one. No sir-ee-bob.

I don't do well on car trips, gentle readers. I really don't. 14 hours in a steel box. I get motion sick. I get nervous. Oh, this is gonna be a grand old time - I can FEEL IT.

2006-04-18T15:27:00.000-07:00

No Really, What'd You Do Last Weekend?
or
I'm Not Pregnant, But Thanks For Asking

Yup. I got married on saturday. I did it. Or rather we did it - Zack and I. Wow, I'm . . . not single any more. Despite the fact that we live a thousand miles apart from each other, I am totally thrilled. I thought this day would never come. First a courthouse ceremony, then a reception of sorts at Kobe Japanese steakhouse. Awesome times were had.

You don't believe me, gentle readers? Allow me to rub your nose in some photos. Because I can. I am, after all, the bride. Carte blanche to be self-indulgent (although, I've never really restrained myself before).

The rings. White gold for both of us, tanzanite for me.

A stunning candid.

Worth a thousand words

We make a very attractive couple. And if you don't think so, go fuck yourself.

In-laws and the happy couple.

Me with Kat, my best girlfriend and future maid of honor

Allison, Nate, Q, Zack, and I.

My brother, Calder, catches rice in his mouth at the Japanese steakhouse

Shoulda gotten a prenup, Zack. Watch your throat.

I have Zack eating out of the palm of my hand. And he has me doing the same. Heh.

Joyous occasions!!!

2006-04-11T22:55:00.000-07:00

Cowardace Mine
or
Sour Grapes

*Sigh* What's a girl to do? You're so very very predictable:

"You'll never know. But you cannot say I never told you. Nor did I avoid trying. I hid such power in the puzzles, but it mattered not. You didn't have the time or desire to decipher them.

"Maybe I only truly wanted you if you wanted me badly enough. And you didn't. So I'll stifle the desires. I'll choke the emotions. Not to kill them, that may be dangerous. Just to send them into a coma. Or into catatonia. Either way, they will drift away. You're right. I'll be free. But not instantly. It will take time to dwell on the choices you've made. The actions you've taken. But in that dwelling, the fireplace is lit. The cold stone is warming, slowly...

"I can't avoid music that reminds me of you, but I refuse to avoid music. You're never going to read this. And no one will ever tell you. But still I feel the satisfaction. Good enough."

Do me a favor and keep it to yourself. Please. I don't need to hear this.

2006-04-07T09:24:00.000-07:00

You Don't Understand And You NEVER Will!
or
Go For The Gold

I've found my new calling, gentle readers. I'm going to become an athelete. There is an event that I believe I'm cut out for 100%:

New to the X-games this year, EXTREME SELF-PITY promises to be a stunning success. Both judges and competators express their utmost excitement at being a part of this ground-breaking competition.

Although individuals have enjoyed extreme self-pity for millenia, the sport as we know it today developed in England during the late 1800's as an offshoot of the Gothic literary movement. The craze quickly reached every corner of the Western world. Through the early 20th century America, extreme self-pity was primarily associated with racial minority groups and isolated freaks. It wasn't until prominent subcultures during the 1980's popularized the practice that the American public began to recognize it as a legitimate athletic event.

The emergence of the Goth scene propelled EX-SP into popular culture.

"It's not like no one has ever done this before," says Melanie Anchonly, 33. "'I mean, I'm no one special, just because I'm competing at the X-games. Don't look at me; I'm not wearing make-up."

By 2000, high schools nation-wide began to sponsor after-school clubs for students who wished to persue extreme self-pity.

"We used to get together on Friday nights, when everyone else was out on a date or something," says Jason Wimple, 20, of his high school program. "Cause what else were we supposed to do? Those so-called 'popular' kids back then never knew how much damage they were doing. Some of us will never be the same. I know I won't. Thanks to those jackasses, I never formed a stable self-concept."

This year's X-games marks the United State's first nation-wide professional competition in Extreme Self-Pity.

Competators must participate in five sub-events to qualify for placement: Extended Fetal Position, Weeping, Freestyle Ploys for Negative Attention, Self-Destruction, and Marathon Ranting.

24 year old Arizona State Champion Levi Rasmussen "finds his low place" before the match

In the spirit of the event, drug testing has been suspended.

God, I've been practicing this for years. Where do I sign up?

2006-04-06T00:12:00.000-07:00

You won't believe me, but I'll say it anyway. On April 15th, I'm going to marry this man:

Zack Rosales. Yes, the guy who took me clubbing over spring break. Very sexy, no? Well, roll those tongues back up, ladies, because he's soon to be off the market. Heh. We will be getting hitched in the courthouse across the street from the CVS where we met, which I find charming.

Please direct questions and public outcry to the comments feature.

2006-04-05T18:39:00.000-07:00

Gentle readers, I can't apologize enough. So I won't even try. Sometimes life gets in the way. Other times, life creates an impenitrable fortress around that which you would do in lieu of obligatory nonsense. Yes. Well. Here I am.

In case you have been clinically dead for the last month (or are not a Wash U student, which in any case, means the same thing) Art Prom was last saturday. I decided to go at the last minute. At 10pm, I slapped on my tightest corset and highest heels, lined my eyes, and ran to the B-school to meet Zi and Hubert, my consorts for the evening.

It was a good time. I won't detail the goings on, but this picture pretty much covers it:

That, and I vaguely remember standing on the front lawn of the Magic House (a children's museum), swinging my brassiere around my head, screaming "I'M GOING TO BURN MY BRA! I'M GONNA BURN MY FUCKING BRA!!!! WHO HAS A LIGHT?" The spectators cheered. Some guy had a book of matches. And lo, the bra was burned, and I struck a heartfelt blow against the patriarchy.

"Soused" isn't the right word, but it's the first that comes to mind.

2006-04-01T17:52:00.000-08:00

How We Met
or
Myspace - Not Just For Stalking Your Ex Anymore

And now, gentle readers, an exercise in autofellatio.

No. Sorry. I will instead recount the story of how Zack and I first met. Haha!

CNN version:

Zack and I ran into each other at CVS about two years ago. There was an instant mutual attraction. We never exchanged numbers, however. Sometime in December, Zack found me on myspace. We arranged to meet and found that the connection was still there. And the rest is history.

Extended Self-Indulgent Narrative:

When I was 17, a junior in high school, I lived in a house just down the street from a CVS on the corner of Cypresswood and Stuebner Airline road. One evening, my mom burst into the house and said "Larkin. LARKIN! Put some make-up on NOW and come with me to the pharmacy."

"What the fuck, mom."

"Seriously. Make yourself pretty and come with me to CVS. There's a Pharmacist there that you HAVE to see. Trust me."

I thought she was insane, but I did as she said, anyway. What did I have to lose?

When we got there, she told me to go to the Pharmacy counter and pick up our family's prescriptions. Grudgingly, I made my way to the back of the store. I got in line. I waited. This is stupid, I thought. Who am I supposed to be looking for?

Suddenly, my eyes fell upon a face that stopped my heart dead in its tracks. I caught a glimpse of enormous dark eyes set above lofty cheekbones. Dark hair. He turned and disappeared into the shelves behind the counter. Without taking my eyes from the point of his disappearance, I moved sideways, craning my neck in hopes of a second look.

I knocked over a candy display. Now everyone in the store was looking at ME.

Appalled, I set the cardboard fixture and its cellophane-wrapped contents to rights as quickly as I could, keeping one eye on the counter all the while. As soon as I finished, the man returned. And all I could do was stare.

After what seemed like an age, I reached the front of the line. I spoke to the man. I smiled. He smiled back. I read his nametag. Zack. He gave me the pills and bottles. I thanked him all too kindly. As I left, I swallowed my heart.

He was there the next week. And this time, I was the only patron at the Pharmacy. I introduced myself, and we talked for some minutes about little in particular. It was all I could do to keep from fainting. He smiled and smiled. I began to hope . . . hope against hope . . . that maybe . . .

Before I left, I mustered the nerve to ask him out for a cup of coffee when he got off work. His face fell.

"I have a girlfriend."

The universe collapsed. I felt like such an idiot. So I took off like a shot. How could I have ever thought I'd get a guy like that? He's smart. He's a club promoter. He's handsome. He's charismatic. Of course he has a girl. Stupid stupid stupid Larkin.

I didn't come back for three weeks. But even though I stayed away, I couldn't get him out of my head. I needed resolution. The games weren't over. So I decided to play hardball.

I took my favorite book of short stories - a dog-eared copy of "Welcome to the Monkey House" by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. - and began to underline significant passages. I made footnotes. I wrote in the margins. I am, to this day, not entirely sure what I was trying to do. Compose a secret message, perhaps. At any rate, I wrote my email and name under the front cover and went to the Pharmacy to give it to him.

But he wasn't there.

And the next week. Nothing. No dice. I asked the Pharmacist on duty what had happened to Zack. She said he'd been relocated.

And that was that. Biting my lip, I left the CVS, flinging "Welcome to the Monkey House" into a public garbage pail as I passed.

I got over it. But I didn't forget him. Anywhere I went, I kept an eye out. Even when I moved to Saint Louis, part of me hoped that I'd find him again in a busy supermarket, leaning against the wall of a local club, or walking down the Delmar Loop with a pack of hipsters.

Years later, at college, I received a myspace message from a stranger. He was apologetic - afraid that I would consider him a stalker - but did I perhaps remember a certain Pharmacy tech from the CVS on Cypresswood and Stuebner?

I did.

He had remembered my name after all that time and, once he realized that one can search for people on myspace, entered it into the field. Lo. There I was. He had been looking for me, too. The search was over.

We arranged to meet on Christmas night. Together, we went to Havok and had a splendid time. I found him intelligent and charismatic. We became fast friends.

And, well, so as not to repeat myself, the rest is history.

2006-04-01T09:18:00.000-08:00

I Hate Myself and Want To Dye
or
Aquamawhat?

It may, gentle readers, be time for a change. A change of hair color. My hair has been dark blue for so long, that I haven't been surprised by my reflection in years. (For those of you who don't change your haircolor every 4 minutes, I will tell you that there's a certain degree of pleasure in realizing with shock that the chartreuse-headed creature in the mirror is, in fact, you.)

Basking sharks don't have to worry about cancer. They don't have to worry about haircolor, either.

I have my own ideas about what I should do, but for the sake of pleasing the masses, I'd love to have people's opinions.

In the comments feature, please leave your vote:

1. Keep the same 4-toned indigo blue!
2. Red
3. Yellow
4. Pink
5. Purple
6. Aqua
7. Green
8. White
9. Black
10. A combination of colors (elaborate)
11. OTHER (elaborate)

As if I listen to you fuckers, anyhow. Heh.

2006-03-30T09:52:00.000-08:00

The Great Escapism
or
I'm Too Fat To Pay Attention To Real Life

Enough, you hear me? Enough! I don't want to think about real problems and find real solutions. I don't want to examine and reinterpret my existence. It all sucks anyhow. Nggyya.

Gotta get out. Gotta find something else to look at.

Ran into this little number quite accidentally. It's a beautiful song, just right for getting suck in your head, instantly drowning out whatever nagging doubts might be hooming around in there. Cool. Yeah. Like a Dragonfly.

Second, raise your hand if you love Fitday!

Ok, raise your hand if you don't know what Fitday is! I see. Well, for your information, Fitday is the coolest thing that could ever happen to an obsessive-compulsive calorie-monitoring fitness freak. Yesssss. You just sit down at the end of the day, type in everything you ate, and it does all the talleying and figuring for you. Calories from fat. Calories from protein vs calories from carbs. How many grams of fiber. Everything. And then you write in how much exercise you did (or didn't do), and it totals how many calories you burned-off. Then you can compare input vs. output. Over one week. Two weeks. A month. A year.

I used to do all these calculations in my head, but thanks to the magic of modern technology, the computer does them for me! Though, sometimes I think it's a little leniant. I mean, 250 cals in a white russian? Come on!

2006-03-30T08:09:00.000-08:00

Here's a little something I picked up at random off of the internet. Since I don't have the creativity and drive to write you something original, just kick back and enjoy . . .

I never quite figured out why the sexual urge of men and women differ so much. And I never have figured out the whole Venus and Mars thing. I have never figured out why men think with their head and women with their heart.

FOR EXAMPLE: One evening last week, my girlfriend and I were getting into bed.

Well, the passion starts to heat up, and she eventually says "I don't feel like it, I just want you to hold me."

I said "WHAT??!! What was that?!"

So she says the words that every boyfriend on the planet dreads to hear... "You're just not in touch with my emotional needs as a woman enough for me to satisfy your physical needs as a man." She responded to my puzzled look by saying, "Can't you just love me for who I am and not what I do for you in the bedroom?"

Realizing that nothing was going to happen that night, I went to sleep.

The very next day I opted to take the day off of work to spend time with her. We went out to a nice lunch and then went shopping at a big, big unnamed department store. I walked around with her while she tried on several different very expensive outfits. She couldn't decide which one to take so I told her we'd just buy them all. She wanted new shoes to compliment her new clothes, so I said lets get a pair for each outfit. We went onto the jewelry department where she picked out a pair of diamond earrings. Let me tell you...she was so excited. She must have thought I was one wave short of a shipwreck. I started to think she was testing me because she asked for a tennis bracelet when she doesn't even know how to play tennis. I think I threw her for a loop when I said, "That's fine, honey." She was almost nearing sexual satisfaction from all of the excitement. Smiling with excited anticipation she finally said, "I think this is all
dear, let's go to the cashier."

I could hardly contain myself when I blurted out, "No honey, I don't feel like it."

Her face just went completely blank as her jaw dropped with a baffled WHAT?"

I then said "honey! I just want you to HOLD this stuff for a while. You're just not in touch with my financial needs as a man enough for me to satisfy your shopping needs as a woman." And just when she had this look like she was going to kill me, I added, "Why can't you just love me for who I am and not for the things I buy you?"

Apparently I'm not having sex tonight either....but at least that bitch knows I'm smarter than her.

Alright girls. Repost this if you agree. Hell even if you disagree, repost it.

Men, repost this because you have balls

Haha! Dumb bitch. Whoo. I would definately do this to my girl friend if I were in a similar situation. That's hilarious.

Seriously ladies (and actually, some guys too!) sex is an essential. It's just gotta be there. If one partner goes unfulfilled because of the other's indecisive, passive-agressive, I-have-a-headache bullshit, bad things happen. Low self esteem. The demise of an otherwise interesting relationship. World War III. And shit.

2006-03-26T22:39:00.000-08:00

Amok At Havok
or
Girlz Gone Wild - Spring Break

Spring break, in a word, rockedmyfuckingsox. I won't go into detail, as no one really gives a shit about my life, except for yours truly. However, I will share a few photos. Of my spring break. Gone WILD. And stuff.

On the evening in question, I met up with Zack and a few of his buddies for a night of clubbing.

The gentlemen in question supported me 100%

We went to Havok - a weekly goth event. This time, The Birthday Massacre was performing. They're dark, electronic, edgy, and hard rockin'. The lead singer has incredible stage presence. I give them a seal of approval.

The Birthday Massacre, rocking balls

Zack, Chibi (the lead singer), and I, post-show

Chibi had the kindness to sign my hotpants.If you want the full picture, you'll have to shell out $19.95 for the DVD.

My dear friend Kat came, too. She's one of the few people from high school with whom I still associate. Look just behind me and to the right (your right) of the censor bar.
How much is that trollop in the fuschia?

It sure was good to see Zack. We've got an incredible story behind how we met. If enough people ask for it, I would gladly be self-indulgent enough to put it up.
What has he got in his pocketses?

Some random female brought her neon floggers . . .

. . . and taught this fellow a lesson I won't soon forget.

Zack displays his badassery on the dance floor. Poi ahoy!

Gremlin the burly, and Vivisect the suicide girl.

C'EST TOUT!

2006-03-23T12:36:00.000-08:00

Coh'n Breh'd
or
Open Sesame

Last night, I got home at 9pm and had nothing immediately available to eat for dinner. Damn. So I looked through the cupboards to see if there was anything worth slapping together. This, gentle readers, is a recipe born of substitution and necessity. And it turned out damned good.

Keep in mind that these measurments are approximate. I usually don't measure ingrediants when I cook, but instead eye-ball the proportion. So I don't know exactly. If the liquid I've written here looks like it's going to oversoak the batter, skimp on the soymilk.

SESAME CORN BREAD

3/4c corn meal
1 1/4c whole wheat pastry flour
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1/2 c granulated splenda (If you're not afraid of sugar, I guess you could use that too.)
1/3 c tahini
2 tbsp sesame seeds
1/4 c pureed tofu (Or an egg, if you're . . . one of . . . those people.)
1 c soy milk (Which is soooo much cooler than milk, but you can be a n00b if you want.)

Combine dry ingredients with a licked-clean plastic fork. Add wet ingredients. Suddenly remember to preheat oven to 400F. Mix batter until all is moistened. Spray pan of some sort - I used a 9X9 glass number - with cooking spray, dump batter into pan. Muffin tins or a loaf pan would work fine, too. Slip the whole mess in the oven when it's hot enough. Pull out foil left in oven from toasting bread a week ago. Bake 10-20 minutes (depending on what pan you used) until a chopstick stuck in the center comes out clean 'n dry.

It was pretty damned good. The sesame flavor was really evident - very mild and nutty. The seeds gave a nice texture. I might toast them first next time (if I get ambitious). PEACE, my children. And like, make some coh'n bre'd.

2006-03-22T12:25:00.000-08:00

Bar Wars
or
Your Mom Has a Nut Allergy!

Finally, an energy bar/meal replacement that EVERYONE and ANYONE can eat: THE LARA BAR!

I found this little gem in a Kroger's, minding its own business in the natural foods section. Usually I buy Luna Bars for my bar and bar-related needs, so when I saw "Lara Bar" I thought, what is this, some kind of sick joke?

Yes! It is! The Lara Bar has no: added sugar, additives, preservatives, artificial colors or flavors, animal products, genetically modified ingrediants, gluten, soy, or wheat. It is also kosher, and a raw ("living") food to boot.

Finally, a snack that even your raw-foodist, strict jewish, gmo-fearing, vegal pal with celiac disease can eat. I mean seriously, anyone can eat this fucking bar! Well, unless they have a nut allergy (INGREDIENTS: . . . walnuts . . . almonds . . .) but who gives a crap about those idiots anyhow? People with nut allergies should just curl up and die right now. If you can't eat a Lara Bar, you can't participate in LIFE, man. Your very existance is unnatural.

But that's neither here nor there. I had to buy one. I was sure it would taste like crap. But I had to know for sure. So I bought one with "apple pie flavor" and disappeared into the night.

As it turns out, the Lara Bar was pretty tasty. It aliviated my hunger and, once consumed, kept my bloodsugar pretty damned even. I give it the stamp of approval. I liked it so much, in fact, that I checked out a hippie webforum topic devoted to the Lara Bar. Their complaint? It's not organic.

DOH!

2006-03-20T10:29:00.000-08:00

Bwahahaha! *sniff*

Your Fortune Is

Man who walk through airport door sideways is going to Bangkok.

The Wacky Fortune Cookie Generator

2006-03-15T19:40:00.000-08:00

No, It's MY Space
Or
What's Your Sign?

---------- Original Message ------------
From: Pseudo Nym
Date: Feb 12, 2006 3:06 PM

hello, larkin my name is Pseudo Nym. I'm fairly new to myspace. To be honest I wasn't interested in making friends just yet until I work my profile, but I've been lookin around at other people's profiles, and iIsaw yours earlier today and was like nah I'm not going to look, but here I am lookin' now and you sound ....interesting . I would love to hear from you.

From: Larkin
Date: Feb 12, 2006 11:11 PM

I'm thrilled that you found my self-aggrandizing pleas for attention stimulating.

To see grainy web-cam pictures of my tits, press 1. To hear me read my latest poem about self-mutilation, press 2 now. For a juvinile treatise on my suspected psychological ailments, press 3. If you want to proposition me for sexual favors, press 4. To hear me sing a Christina Aguilera song in the shower, press 5 now. To leave a massage, just stay on the line, and one of our operators will assist you.

I jest.

I would have something more interesting to say - perhaps something personally relevent to the both of us - but your profile leaves me with little material. So you're a scorpio, eh? Me too.

Um, that's it. Yeah. For now. Hope to talk to you soonish.

-Larkin

P.S.: Read my blog! It cures cancer and makes your coat glisten! Http://www.shinyobjects.blogspot.com

2006-03-15T18:37:00.000-08:00

A Pound of Shrimp Is Worth An Ounce of Remorse
Or
I'm Still Not Mentioning My Cool New Hair-do

So I'm finally back in Tey-hass, gentle readers. Don't come rushing to kiss my feet just yet. There's a hitch: MAKE-UP ASSIGNMENTS.

*vomits into the potted palm*

Since I've been ill for, oh I don't know, a year and a day, I have my work cut out for me. Good thing I have a solid background in the Three R's (Reading, pRating, and cRamming). I'll manage.

In other news, I ate a pound of boiled shrimp. Vegan. Hah. Not today. Look at it this way - those shrimp were probably miserable in their over-crowded tank. Death merely set them free of their mortal suffering. And the bodies? Waste not, want not, I say.

2006-03-14T01:17:00.000-08:00

I'm Not Going To Mention My Cool New Hair-do
or
Those Who Can't, Bitch

*swats at nothing*

Why, you're all nothing but a pack of cards!

Gentle readers, I am afraid that I can't sleep. INSOMNIA. It's hell. It doesn't matter when I wake up, how much exercise I do, or if I take melatonin. It doesn't matter how many bourbons I drink. It doesn't matter what time zone I'm in, or what the temperature is, or if i'm hungry or not, or if I'm wearing my favorite pyjamas, or if i've meditated.

I CAN'T SLEEP!

After a few days of this, I begin to obsess over the strangest things. For example, tonight, I can't stop thinking about something a friend told me - a friend with an eating disorder. She told me "It doesn't matter what I weigh; the longer I stay a particular weight, the fatter my reflection becomes."

ANd, and like, it makes so much fuckin' sense, you know? I turn it over and apply it to myself - how the more stable I become, the more I want to change - and . . . and . . . I'm too fatigued to make the leap. I just know that a few hours of rest would turn this post into something . . . I don't know. At least something coherent.

But it's so fuckin' true, man. That's perfectionism right there. When one's highest achievement becomes standard. When one's standard becomes insufficient. When one's bad becomes ugly. There's no end. It's not even about the goal anymore, it's about the chase.

But what am I chasing? What am I hungry for?

Why can't I sleep at night?

2006-03-12T16:03:00.000-08:00

Someone Ought To Write That Down
or
Shut. UP. You Dumb BITCH.

Look, it's not farging Hemmingway, but have to post SOMETHING, gentle readers. I really have been neglecting you, haven't I? The shame nearly consumes me. I most humbly beg your pardon.

Well, now that that's over with, I present to you a fresh selection of random quotes.

"It's hard to be coy when you're naked."

"Which is it? 'Jam it up your anuses' or 'Jam it up your ani'? No wait, I've got it: 'Jam it up your respective anuses."

"You're one sexy chicken. I'd like to uh, you know. Touch your tail."

Enough of that. In other news, I've been practicing throat singing. You see, gentle readers, Kay suddenly picked up an interest in it, and since I am not to be outdone, I decided to pick it up as well. Practice is going splendidly. Once I managed my first thin, beginner's harmonic, I couldn't stop.

I've been crooning and keening obsessively for about 24 hours straight. All through the night, in fact - much to the chagrin of my neighbors. Somewhere around 3.39AM this morning, I figured out how to produce three tones at once using my throat, tongue, and mouth. All I had to do was position them in a particular way and keen really loud at the upper end of my range. I didn't want to lose the trick, so I practiced it for about 45 minutes straight, sliding up and down to find the perfect shriek. Great fun. I found a few frequencies that almost split my head. Harmonics that would make Mariah Carey blush. Screams that made the windows resonate in sympathy. Palatial trills that

Not everyone was so thrilled with my discovery. At about 4.17AM, my next door neighbor descended into his living-room, banged on our mutual wall, and . . . well, the rest is history.

2006-03-06T14:24:00.000-08:00

So Broken
or
Cardiac Disease

For the record, I am not dead. Nor do I have any intentions of becoming dead in the near future.

I am sick, gentle readers. Horribly, terribly sick. Which, I suppose, explains why I haven't been posting. Some manner of fever and cough has trickled back into my lungs. I pray it's not a return of the pneumonia. What confounds me is that I'm not smoking a damned thing these days, and I'm STILL sick. I've been sick all winter long. Why did I ever quit? *pout*

And heartsick, too. If I've told you, you know why. If I haven't, well, I'm surely not going to smear my business all over the internet like a petulant 14 year old, as tempting as that may be.

So tired. So sick. So weak. If only I didn't feel so physically ill, I could use my anxiety and depression to get a lot of menial shit done. And then I'd feel better. I wouldn't have homework/dirty dishes/laundry/applications hanging over my head.

Ugh. As soon as I get off work, I had better go back to sleep.

2006-03-04T18:01:00.000-08:00

Chock-a-BLOC
or
Bohemian Revelry

The Carpe Diem Society had its first meeting this afternoon - a brief period during which we made numerous sexual puns, tapdanced on the coffee table, and figured out who will be rooming with whom. Most successful.

For anyone who's interested, the roster reads as follows:

GIRLS:
Larkin
Caitlin McArthur
Desiree Gerringer
Kenzie Allen
Mysti Niermann

BOYS:
Kay
Alex Radunz
Greg Galloway
Zi Teng Wang
Tim Ryan
Hubert Chang
Michael Browning
Cesar Lizarraga

Which leaves us with a perfect total of 13! We have enough people for a common room! YESSSS!

Oh, how it did my heart good to see the smiling mugs of my dearest friends on every side. What a year it shall be! We'll all live together and get into all sorts of mischief!

STAY TUNED!

2006-03-01T13:07:00.000-08:00

Endorphin Afternoon
or
How I Wasted Time By Being Kind To Myself

I did something rather rare today, gentle readers. Rare for me, at least. In the mmiddle of my busy day, I took two hours - which I could have used to do my homework or feed my neuroses - to de-stress.

But what does that mean exactly, "de-stress?" It's a popular word in our culture, that's for sure. Almost everyone you meet these days is simply paralyzed with stress, flapping about like disembodied tail come straight from the lizard, drinking or smoking or eating too much to make up for the hours of self-control they must impose upon themselves to function "adequately" in modern society.

Well. Ironic, isn't it, that the people who should most benefit from an hour to themselves can't afford to take it? Most afternoons, I sit indian style, hunched over a text book, balancing my laptop on my knee. At my right sits a can of energy drink. At my left sits a cup of tea or diet coke - they alternate. And this is how I waste my life, from sunset to sunrise, almost every day of the week.

Not today. Today, I let myself go. I worked out for 70 minutes, watched porn for another 30, ate a snack, and ran to work. Boy do I feel better! My tension headache hasn't come back yet. Let's see how long the calm lasts . . .

2006-02-28T22:08:00.000-08:00

Adult Palates ROCK!
or
Larkin's This-Does-Not-Contain-Alcohol Spinach

Heat wok or frying pan. Throw a small glob of minced bottled garlic in there with a bit of Pam or (if you aren't afraid of lipids) olive oil. Sizzle a moment. Throw in the spinach. All of it. No it's not too much. BEHOLD the magic of wilting! See how the leaves shrink to a mere fraction of their original bulk. Fascinating. Stir it up. Add a sqeeze or three of lemon/lime, a pinch of pepper, salt to taste. Stir it again. When the leaves are glossy, small, and dark green, take them off the heat. Serve.

I like 'em alone or as a main course over whole wheat pasta or brown rice. Try stuffing them in a tortilla or pita with chunks of feta cheese. Or eat them off your lover's sternum (let them cool first!). Whatever. It's all good. Trust me.

(DISCLAIMER: There name of the dish does not imply that its converse - "Larkin's This-Contains-Alcohol Spinach" - exists. I just thought that it would be a good title. There is no Alcohol anywhere. Do you hear me? NONE! It's a JOKE.)

(Believe me, I looked.)

2006-02-24T12:58:00.000-08:00

Standing Room Only
or
Hopelandic 101

Well, it sure has been a while, hasn't it? Sorry I haven't been around to entertain you, gentle readers. I've been busy round the clock just keeping my grades up and demolishing all my close personal relationships. You know. The usual bill of mayhem.

What you don't know is that I'm now the third biggest Sigur Ros fan on the face of the planet.

Sigur WHAT? That's right. I am in love with "an Icelandic post-rock band with shoe-gazing and minimalist elements." I can hear the protests already. Pourquoi, Larkin, pourquooooiiii! (Pronounced "poohr-kwah")

They played at the Pagent on Tuesday night. By the grace of god (Adam Olansky) Kay and I had free tickets AND a ride to the show (bless the man). When we arrived at the sold-out show, the place was already packed. Standing room only. Whatever, I thought. I've got strong legs.

But when I took a good look at the crowd around me, I began to grow apprehensive. What is this, an audience of kids in hoodies? And HIPSTERS? SHWAH? But wait, who are those hilbilly guys in the back there? The crowd was so mixed, I hardly knew what to expect. Was it a good sign or a bad sign that I couldn't spot a homogenous group in the bunch?

I almost left. The opening band sucked so bad, I scarcely wanted to stay for the main act. "This is WOMEN'S MUSIC," I proclaimed. "It is at once harvest-like and masterbatory. I'LL HAVE NO MORE OF IT!" At length, I was calmed, though the band - an experimental string, xylophone, and voice quartet - had given me a raging headache.

I'm so glad I stayed. Dear Lord. Sigur Ros. Where had they been all my life? Within minutes, the lead singer's epic keening had reduced me to tears.

From The Sigur Ros FAQ:

What language does jónsi sing in?

on von, ágætis byrjun and takk, jónsi sang most songs in icelandic but a few of the songs were sung in 'hopelandic'. all of the vocals ( ) are however in hopelandic. hopelandic (vonlenska in icelandic) is the 'invented language' in which jónsi sings before lyrics are written to the vocals. it's of course not an actual language by definition (no vocabulary, grammar, etc.), it's rather a form of gibberish vocals that fits to the music and acts as another instrument. jónsi likens it with what singers sometimes do when they've decided on the melody but haven't written the lyrics yet. many languages were considered to be used on ( ), including english, but they decided on hopelandic. hopelandic (vonlenska) got its name from first song which jónsi sang it on, hope (von). tracks 7-9 on takk are in hopelandic.

The music's fugue-like repetition, sustained tones, and soaring vocals made me think of Opera, Fado, and Bjork, deftly blended into one. Staggering sound built of simple layers. An opera from 6,000 years in the future. A holy polyphonic wedding cake - and I was the maid of honor.

Did I mention the lighting? I don't think I've mentioned the lighting yet.

The band had rigged lights of every color and quality around the stage. Some could move. Others changed shape. Some projected textures. There was a disco ball. There was a white sheetlike screen on which the band projected images of people marching, water crashing, blood dripping, whatever was appropriate to the song. It was brilliant. The audience was spellbound. I was out of my skull!

Long story short: I highly reccomend Sigur Ros, especially if you are into musical performance or theory. This band is really on to something. They made me cry.

2006-02-18T18:35:00.000-08:00

Forty Calories With a Wet Noodle
or
SHIRATAKIIIII!

So I found out about these noodles made out of tofu and yam flour, the other day. Apparently, there's only 40 calories in an 8oz package of the stuff. Compared to 100 calories for 1oz of normal pasta? I knew I had to try them. Hopefully, they don't taste like death itself.

Call me crazy, but I prefer to buy the product first, and THEN read the reviews. I don't know why, but confirming the "facts" makes more sense to me than making an informed purchase. Go figure.

Here's what I found:

Pros
- 40 calories per 8 fucking ounces. You could eat this stuff all day and night and NEVER get fat. EVER.
- Tofu? Yam? Meh. Sounds healthy to me.
- Become a member of the pasta elite!

Cons
- They require parboiling and subsequent blotting to get rid of the excess water.
- most people who tried it say that the noodles have a distinct odor, at least until you parboil them. Descriptions of this odor range from "fishy" to "ammonia-like."
- Descriptions of the texture range from "delightfully chewy" to "like weird glue-covered plastic stings."
- They're rather expensive, and the shipping costs (they have to be kept cold) are astronomical.

I'll tell you guys more once I've actually tried them!

2006-02-17T12:28:00.000-08:00

Brain Stew
or
For The Benefit of Mr. Snipes

Valentines Day went pretty damned well this year, gentle readers. Kay, the little sweety-pants, bought me a huge clutch of cream colored roses, a bar of 85% cocoa chocolate (I only really like the very dark stuff), and a plush ducky. He knows me well. I named the duck Westley, in honor of Westley Snipes, one of the greatest actors of our century.

As for Kay's present, I commissioned a piece of artwork - a portrait of the lad - from my friend Kenzie. She's really amazing folks. Just check out her Deviant Art Account to see more of her work.

Here's the boy, in all his glory:

Looks just like him, no? And of course, he loved it. Tee hee.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: for those of you who take things too literally, Kay is not a nazi, nor does he necessarily espouse nazi philosophy or nazi moral values. The armband in the portrait is an aesthetic accent and nothing more.)

In other news, I am extremely frickin' tired. Which means it must be a day that ends in "Y." Or rather, "Y oh Y do I do this to myself?" Hahah! Sometimes I laugh so hard at my own witticisms that I choke on my own saliva.

2006-02-16T08:09:00.000-08:00

Addled
or
Prozac Nation? Bah.

Is your child listless? Soporific? A lazy-no-good-son-of-a-bitch?

WELL FRET NO MORE! A new pharmaceutical has come to town!

*Pied-piper-esque figure wearing an orange suit with a big "A" on the chest comes frolicking by, playing his flute. A crowd of small children follow after him screaming with joy, as if chasing an ice-cream truck*

Why are these kids so energetic? Because they're . . .
. . . . . . . . ADDLED for ADDERALL!

*cartoon molecule bumbles onscreen*
"Heeyyy, kids. I'm Mr. Dopamine! I'm going to f**k around with your striatum and then you and I can do some math homework!"

(children) "YAY!!! MATH!!!"

(Mr. Dopamine) "And then we can clean the whole goddamn house!"

(children) "YAY!"

(announcer, becoming more agitated) ADDERALL - aka mixed amphetamine salts - is the only stimulant proven to both get kids' asses off the couch and shut them the f**k up.

Caffeine? Forgetabout it.

Ritalin? RITAL-OUT!

Get addled for Adderall today!

2006-02-12T10:21:00.000-08:00

Shameless Plugs
or
This One Goes Out To All The Ladies

Hey. Psssst. If you're a Wash U student (or just a fan of our Student Life Newspaper), look for my op-ed on Monday. It'll be a scream. SCREAMING ORGASM, that is. Bwahaha!

Yes, the rumors are true. It's a How-to on how to perform cunnilingus.

I know what you're thinking: how shocking! How tasteless! But it's not my fault! It wasn't my idea. The paper needed someone to give the female side of things, because last year, there was only a fellatio article, which sent the feminists into a tizzy. And I don't blame them. So I did my civic duty and wrote an article about muff diving, and everyone's happy. Especially me, because I'll get all sorts of attention. Which I love. A lot.

*sets self on fire and throws charring body into a stack of filled gas cans*

LOOOK AT MEEEEEEEEEE!!!! READ MY ARTICLE!!!!

2006-02-11T17:18:00.000-08:00

Love Song
or
Dreams of Dying Alone

Valentine's Day is just around the corner, gentle readers. Yup. Good ol' time-to-feel-bad-about-yourself-and-eat-an-entire-box-of-cordials day. Whooo!

I've always hated valentine's day. I haven't ever really had a good one. I've definately had a lot of bad ones. The three worst I've had are as follows:

My oh-so-goth boyfriend of two months made me a floppy heart-shaped valentine out of construction paper and crayola markers. That night, he attempted suicide by taking 25 tablets of asprin. It didn't work so well. He just threw up his stomach lining.

My boyfriend of one month and I had a respiratory flu so bad that we spent two weeks in bed, applying Vick's vapor rub to each other's chest. We forgot that it was Valentine's Day altogether.

I had a crush on this guy named Paul for about two years. My desire for him was overpowering. I had never wanted anything so badly in my entire life as I wanted him. I kept it secret for ages. Finally, one Valentine's Day, I got up the nerve to write him a love letter and leave it in his locker. The next morning, I saw him in the auditorium before class started. "Larkin! Come here!" he called, smiling broadly. He beckoned me into the shadows at the back of the stage. Heart pounding, I obeyed.

"I got your letter a few minutes ago," he said, "and there's something I want to tell you." He put his hands on my shoulders. My mouth went dry. Would he try to kiss me? I wondered if my breath was ok. "That was the worst love letter I've ever received in my life," he said. "Your poem sucked. Your handwriting was almost unreadable. And what made you think I'd ever like you, anyway?"

"I . . . I don't know," I said, stunned.

"You're too fat to be pretty. You don't even have tits."

I started to cry. "Don't ever bother me again," he said.

So I didn't.

Yeah, Valentine's Day pretty much sucks donkey balls, as far as I'm concerned. But enough of that. Here, for your enjoyment, is an excerpt from an impromptu love song by my friend Bryan:

I had sex with a pig last night
Boy your mom sure put up a fight
She was pretty good in bed
She gave me satisfactory head

Guess what I'm trying to say is that I fucked your mom . . .

Does that mean I'm kinda like your dad?
Will it make the hair fall off my 'nads?
I had sex with a pig last night
Boy your mom sure put up a fight

What I'm trying to say is that I fucked your mom!

EVERYBODY!

2006-02-06T01:07:00.000-08:00

Dial K for Kooky
or
Impressionism

When Kay isn't being his usual sweet 'n gloomy self, he likes to try out new disguises. Can you believe it's really him?

As a sea anemone.

Fancy Chicken, fifth horseman of the apocolypse.

As a frenchwoman overcome by ennui in an American diner.

As a peanut.

Kay-thulu calls for you-lu! Ooggah boooga!

2006-02-06T00:47:00.000-08:00

Trussed Issues
or
Give Him an Inch, and He'll Take Forty Feet of Hemp Rope

For your enjoyment, gentle readers, I submit two pictures from the Alternative Lifestyles Association's latest workshop on recreational rope-binding. Behold, your authress trussed like a freshly slain doe. Zounds! And who to hold the leash but my favorite maniac, Kay.

Ah, check out that handiwork. Yeah, my shoulders are hyperextended, but it doesn't hurt me.

Don't try this at home - unless you come to meetings and learn the right way to do it. It would be easy to give your playmate rope burn or nerve damage if you didn't know what you were doing.

2006-02-05T17:50:00.000-08:00

Aversion Served Daily: Second Helping
or
Them Bones

Just to make things even, I give you the top five reasons why I'm terrified of abnormally skinny people.

Eating disorders have a contageous effect. This is well demonstrated by actors on the same tv show, sisters in the same sorority, or atheletes on the same team.

Really spikey hipbones, elbows, etc. There's something not only anti-erotic, but hostile, about skeletal bodies.

Irritability from ingesting high doses of caffeine, nicotine, and god knows what other -ine substances. Every good girl knows that stimulants can help keep that waifish figure, and give you a hair-trigger temper to go along with it.

The effects of bulimia. Bulimics purge one of two ways - either they throw up their food or they take laxatives. Needless to say, either method wrecks the digestive system. For example, some might eventually experience the inability to control their bowel functions. Some have chronic vomit-breath and rotten teeth. SEXY!

You can't take them out to dinner. You can't make them dinner. You can't share a candy bar with them. You can't bake them a birthday cake. You can't bring them breakfast in bed. You can't go out for ice cream. Need I go on?

2006-02-03T07:56:00.000-08:00

The What-Heap?
or
Miracle Diets

Frou Frou, gentle readers. Why had I not found them before? They are quite sublime. I stumbled upon them quite by accident, too. My god, what lovely female vocals; Imogen Heap - I knew I'd heard that name somewhere before. I just never payed attention to it. Man, I have to buy her solo CD now.

Oh, an update on the anorexic chick that freaked me out at the Baron's (Andrew's) party: she has been exposed. Her parents flew up to see her. The school is going to make her sign a contract that says she can only remain a student here at wash U if she enters a rehab program and afterwards maintains a healthy weight. Hah. Poor thing. Now you've gone and done it. Thank god people care about you!

Speaking of a distinct lack of fat, influenza is nothing short of a miracle diet. I mean, it's gotta be the only program that lives up to those "lose 5lbs in 5 days" claims you see in the back of women's magazines. Seriously. I woke up this morning a hip-jutting 115lbs. GAH! I was 120lbs on sunday. Despite the extra snax and bedrest granted by my week off, you can now see my ribs through the top of my chest.

There is only one cure. It begins with Ch- and ends with -eesecake. Hot diggity damn!

If you want in, ladies, you better hurry. This flu won't last forever. The innoculation is a very simple procedure - just come over, and i'll make out with you for a while. My number is . . .