My life is a series of coincidence and fate, I'm convinced.

Last week, Boy borrows Russell's scanner with intentions of preserving every photo ever. Scan scan scan, all of these wonderful (and not-so-wonderful--oh my god, remind me to tell you about getting off the plane in Zurich after 26 hours of travel, wearing sweats and a baseball cap and a surly glare) family photos safely stowed away in the confines of the iBook. Flipping through an album of photos from my sophomore year of high school, I come across photos of my biggest girlhood crushes--and being slightly giggly and girlish, I decide to add a section to the photo album I'm building (relax, as soon as it's put together, you'll see it here in the photo section--FINALLY, you all say. It's only been ten months since I promised photos, I know. Relax. If you build it, they will come. And someone else really IS going to have to build it, because I cannot.) with their photos so we can all giggle together over my foolish youthful notions of suitable boys (sounds fun, yeah?).

So I show Boy some of these photos--There's Karl during a Jr. Leader meeting (I didn't realize until now that his teeth were so disproportionately large), Ben Rathkamp at lunch one day (did you ever notice he never stood up straight? slouching is SO unsexy.), Ben Chambers (my crush) in the hall with Bry Moore (Kate's crush) (I deserve at least a smack or two for ever thinking long hair on a boy was the thing for me). Oh, haha, look at my silly girlhood crushes! we chortle, or at least I do, I think Boy was watching tv at that point, but the point is: Thursday night I scan a photo that has Bry Moore in it--Sunday afternoon, I run into him at the Honeyhole.

Every single day of my life is a Mall Experience.

Speaking of the Honeyhole! You really must go there, and soon, and when you do, sneak back into the ladies' restroom, because above the sink (which is half-falling-out-of-the-wall) is a sign that says "Please Do Not Have Sex On The Sink". Heh.

No, I didn't do it. Jeez, give me a little credit. I'd at least have the sense to--heh. never mind.

More interesting things from the weekend:

1) We have alien spines growing in our backyard.

Boy pulls up a chunk of bamboo that had made it all the way across the yard and was growing under the deck (this is very VERY bad, as bamboo is so invasive that if it grows under your house, it will BREAK THROUGH YOUR FLOOR and the deck is VERY CLOSE TO THE HOUSE.) and along with the leafy little plant comes seven feet of root growing straight towards our unsuspecting house. But it was horrible, this root--jointed every inch or two, and at each joint were spiky root formations--it really DID look like a big long alien spine! I started to get a little freaked out (okay a LOT freaked out) and couldn't even bring myself to touch it. Perhaps if images of the ravaged Nostromo hadn't come to mind...

2) Things learned from Saturday's birthday party (have I mentioned this yet? I might not have, I've been too depressed to talk about anything interesting or exciting--more on that later. Anyway, the birthday party was what I put in our auction at work--You supply the children, I'll supply the cake, decorations, entertainment and clean-up. Pretty fucking generous, I know, but it wasn't completely altruistic as I figured it'd be a great opportunity to network with other parents who might be interested in actually PAYING me to do this. I've always enjoyed doing kids' birthday parties, and as added motivation Evil-Stepmother-To-Be offered me $5k to start my own business if things went well this weekend. So. There's a long-winded explanation for the following information):

-9 year old boys are loud. It really doesn't matter what they're doing, it's going to be loud.
-9 year old boys do not like facepaint. They do love Barry Bonds.
-If you are planning on having an activity last for twenty minutes, think again. At best, you've got seven minutes of rapt attention followed by thirteen minutes of corralling and saying "if you can hear me, touch your nose".
-9 year old boys respond well to "If you can hear me, touch your nose".
-Have business cards at hand. Parents like this.
-hide your tattoo. if tattoo is in a mostly-hidden spot, remember to not wear the low-waisted pants that expose said tattoo when bending over to pick up the eight billion pieces of confetti that came out of the pinata.
-Make sure your pinata is made of something easily destroyed--apparently I bought the one and only lead pinata, because those kids had a helluva time getting it to break.
-on the subject of pinatas, rethink putting shiny glittery confetti in it. That stuff is a bitch to get out of grass.
-Drink a lot of water before the party--chasing 9 year old boys is sweaty business.

...

This is what every single weblog entry should be like. I'm not sure what it is about today (could it be the crisp fall air? starting my day with a dose of vicodin? who knows!), but I am in an exceedingly good mood. Have been all day. Almost the end of my work day, and I'm still all pepped up. Crazy.

Oh! Speaking of crazy: We watched A Beautiful Mind last night, and now Boy thinks I'm schizophrenic--we were sitting on the futon in the den, and something in the living room catches my eye...that mean orange cat who kicked Moocow's ass and took a victory dump on the front porch! He's come in through Moocow's kitty door and was making himself at home! And because I'm surprised, I say "hey!" and he runs off, leading Boy to think that there was nothing there in the first place, and that I am having hallucinations. Thanks, John Nash. Thanks a lot.

Also crazy: I am listening to Wayne Newton.

I am having monstrous problems with hotmail--am I the only one? Irritating. I'd switch to Yahoo! if it didn't look so ugly. Any suggestions?

More questions:

1) Does your strange little cat ever sit on the back of the sofa and lick your hair? He chewed on it a little, too--but I swatted him away, and he's stuck to licking it since then. Why does he do that? There's nothing in my hair, and if there was, it wouldn't be edible. Gross.

2) Can I please be Annie Sprinkle when I grow up?

I was going to start this entry with some crap about this dream I had last night where some guy stuck his latex-covered toe up my ass (god, don't ask), but I have got WAY more interesting news:

I just made fun of Donny Osmond.

No no, I mean, to his face (everything else is shooting fish in barrels). He was here, in the lobby of my building! And he was waiting for his entourage to accompany him to the radio station! He did that Donny Osmond-winky-smile-nod thing, and I told him "Wow, you were great on Fox's Celebrity Boxing--oh wait! That was a different washed up child star." and headed to the elevator.

Oof, that was just mean, wasn't it. But who could resist the chance?

Olfactory weirdness: Standing in the kitchen at work, making tea and vaguely eavesdropping on two coworkers bitching about a third. My hand dips the bag up and down in hot water as coffee pours into a carafe in front of me. All I can smell is coffee. Dazedly walk back to my desk, and as I'm taking my first sip of tea, all I can taste is coffee.

...

Yeah, so I'm going back to therapy for the first time in several years (it's about time! you all say). I figured enough baggage had piled up to justify a visit or six. It's got me nervous, though--what if I start talking about my secret insecurities and fears and I never stop? What if I tell her about how I think I'm slowly going crazy--and it turns out that I really am?

What if I stopped asking questions? Too many what-ifs.

We burn our boats each new year
Silently watching the flames
And an old life disappear
We're burning a new sunrise
Into yesterday's skies

We're doing fine now, yeah we do
We don't feel sad or bad or blue
And you know we're never
Defeated or broken inside

Today is one of those days where I feel completely broken. I think perhaps I should be getting more sleep--five hours a night is NOT enough. I've been falling asleep around midnight, 1230 maybe? and then waking up at 5am. I try to fall asleep again, curl into Boy and close my eyes...but nothing works! Too awake to fall asleep, too tired to get up and be productive.

Drugs are the only answer. I'll just start taking the Vicodin again.

Speaking of drugs, someone (I can't remember who, and even if I did remember, I'd probably keep my mouth shut) told me last week that I should probably take more drugs. I'm not sure if they just thought it was an experience thing, or if they thought I could use a little relaxing, but either one is possible. I mean, I'd hate to die without ever having experienced the joy of heroin.

Auughh! Kill that kid.

Yesterday was full of crises, but I managed to scrape out a bit of an entry...Here:

Is it terribly crass to go to all the stores from which your birthday presents came to see how much your boyfriend spent on you? Why yes, yes it is. It was a horrible thing to experience--watching this particular coworker (I think you all know to whom I refer.) add up all the money her beau spent for her 25th birthday. "Let's see, that's $160 for the bracelet, $130 for the shoes, $120 on dinner, flowers twice..." And then she has the gall to complain that he didn't get her diamonds! This girl is deeply nuts.

...

We dragged ourselves (and five hundred pounds of old sails and a rudder shaft) up to my grandmother's last night, and boy was it depressing. I wish there was something I could say to convince her that it's time to sell the house and move into some sort of assisted living facility. She's 93! She does okay with most stuff, but between the threat of falling down (that's what a ten year old hip replacement and a walker will do for you) and the days when she doesn't remember who I am (that was last night), she needs more help than we can provide as a family.

Mom needs to be here for this. No one listens to me without Mom to back me up, I'm the youngest grownup and I have little street cred. This sort of thing just shouldn't be left up to my flaky aunt and deadbeat cousins.

...

This may be an inappropriate forum, but it's still my journal: I never said you had to be perfect; I made it clear that I was nowhere near perfect myself. We both made mistakes, and the high points of our relationship were the highest imaginable. I don't hate you, you're not dead to me, memories of the last eight years are more vivid than ever--but it was time for me to cut my losses and move on. Maybe later things will be different, and until then I truly wish you the best.

Is it so unreasonable to want things to be better for myself? I know that she's tried making up for the times she let me down--but I need more stability than she can provide right now. I know that I should have visited more often when she was away at school--but it was so uncomfortable. I was the same age as her school friends, but at a completely different place in my life--and I never had much in common with them anyway.

Excuses, excuses. What can I do but tell my side of the story? Perhaps these are conversations we should have had, she and I. It's just easier now to move along, stop thinking about it. Or is it harder? I can't tell. She's right--it's painful beyond belief, this losing a friend...but what's going to be more painful in the long run?

Too many questions. If you've got answers, please do feel free to share--therapy doesn't start for another week or so.

...

Whoof, that was depressing. Today is shaping up to be a better one--any day that starts with scones and darjeeling can't be ALL bad, right?

1) Do you think in complete sentences, or in fragments?

2) Do you think Nike has a museum with one pair of every shoe they've ever made? I can't stop thinking about that.

oh! and thanks to Geegaw/Eglantine (another kind GNEer) for the links to Graham and Pixelkitty! Just beauteous.

Ah, that wacky Yoko. Who knew that Sean Lennon is only five years older than I am? I feel old.

...

Many thanks to Caterina for the link--welcome, new readers and fellow GNEers! I promise I'll stop complaining about work for a while. Promise.

I had great intentions of posting more than a link to a crappy google search, but yesterday just piled up crap upon crap upon crap--which puts journal-posting at the bottom of the list. Work, of course, was a horrible mess--I can't even begin to explain the myriad of issues that have developed. Thankfully, 99.9% of the problems are not my fault...but there's also very little I can do to fix things. Shrug. I'm moving beyond being frustrated with it and attempting a zen-like state.

Although I have to tell you: it'd be a helluva lot easier to be zen if people weren't so fucking stupid. I would like. For everyone on earth. To be absolutely perfect so I didn't have to.

And if that's not possible, then I'd like for people to stop fucking up so much. It's not even about work this time! We walk down to the bagel shop to get a mid-morning snack, and the entire experience was impossible. I ask for the same thing I always get (sun-dried tomato cream cheese on a toasted sesame bagel) and am handed an untoasted bagel with plain cream cheese. I tell the girl behind the counter that this was incorrect--it's not even what I ordered! and what does she do? Does she apologize for her mistake? Of course not! She scrapes the cream cheese off the plain bagel, slams it in the toaster, glares at me, and stomps into the back of the store. I sigh, sit down, and await the next act in this farce.

Toaster dings, the girl slams the bagel on the counter, slaps the same cream cheese on the plain bagel even though I asked for sesame (twice now) and puts it back in the same stained, crumpled bag. At this point I give up and slink back to the office, snarling with impotent fury.

Let's recap--
Asked For: Toasted Sesame Bagel with Sun-dried Tomato Cream Cheese.
Got: half-toasted plain bagel with re-used cream cheese.

I give up. People are such lousy creatures! Lousy.

I know, I'm overreacting. But why can't this crap happen to someone else right now?? I'll accept slings and arrows, I know they're inescapable--but can things just go a little easier right now? Give me a couple weeks, and you can throw whatever you want at me.

...

I'll tell you what's not lousy: Game Neverending, that's what. All I can tell you is that it's the best game I've ever played. I can't even tell you how much fun I had playing last night with Caterina and Stewart and Graham and Pixelkitty (links for the last two to come when I find them).

Actually, I can tell you. By the time I quit playing last night, I was still only a level 4, with 9500 shekels and 5 vials of sheep musk. I had lots of other stuff in my backpack as well--tomatoes and ptarmigan pie and nit-pickers and a macrame monkey or three--but the sheep musk is being troublesome. What do I do to get rid of it? It's not like I can squeeze it tight and have it turn into a robot or a saxamaphone, like you can do with the macrame monkeys. I also have to figure out how to make gold nuggets into bars. You'll notice my Making Skillz are somewhat lacking.

Not surprisingly (although I'd hoped otherwise), Boy found the game uninteresting and verging on depressing--the same way he feels about the Sims. I just can't figure out why he wouldn't find controlling little people amusing! I like keeping my Sims away from the bathroom so they wet themselves. Their self-respect goes straight down the toilet. (heh.)

...

Note to GNE creators: Please do fix things so I can play using IE instead of Mozilla. I want to be able to play at work.

jeezum crow. nothing like waking up to find out you're the first result for this Google search.

Woke up from the most stressful and terrifying dream I've had in ages--another dream where I'm Buffy, so there's lots of killing (this time killing all these people I went to school with and a couple professors on the side) and then I turned into Mel Gibson. Apparently I was Mel Gibson the Vampire, and I had to break into the Mall. I kept getting shot and then I jumped in this Saturn sedan that my grandmother was driving (like that's going to help me escape). Do mall security guards get to carry guns? I hope not; I went to high school with half of them. Giving those people guns is a baaaaad idea.

Had a conversation yesterday that started out as a lament for a friend of ours--all was well and good until he met this girl, got engaged, bought a house...now we never see him. (Now, that's not entirely fair--things were well and good for us when he was single because we could command his uninterrupted attention--and lest you think I am a completely self-obsessed bitch, I am happy he's found true love, yadda yadda. Just so we're clear on that.)

Anyway, we talk about how it's a shame that it's come to this, where we never see him and how he's changed, etc--and Boy says something like "I'm glad that didn't happen to us" and oh my goodness, did I disagree.

Let's take a look at what happened when I met Boy: Started spending more and more time with him, less and less time with pals, moved in together, bought a house...To be fair (again), seeing less and less of my old pals was not entirely because of the time I was spending with Boy--they stopped coming home as often, and when they did it was hard to scrape together enough time to hang out...and then when we DID hang out, there was the weird, growing-apart business to contend with. It seemed easier to nix plans with them and just be with Boy, who became more than a lover or boyfriend or partner--he's a better friend than I've ever known, even if he doesn't like talking about shoes or hair or cute boys (heh).

He doesn't feel this way about his life--and doesn't have to. I guess it just struck me as odd, how differently we saw things.

"You look like Mussolini," he said. You be the judge.

You know, I could overlook the general rudeness--it wasn't anything new from this particular coworker--and I didn't mind so much when she hissed "sinner!" at me after finding out that I was having a baby before I got married (I mean, who even says stuff like that? She must have been joking--or at least, that would be the excuse I'd make if she were mostly friendly to me...but she's not. ever.)...But when do I say enough is enough? Should I have said it two weeks ago, during the hissing incident?

It's been a recurring theme of late--between jettisoning the last remnants of an imperfect friendship with Blondie (again, more on that later), getting fed up for the last time with the antics of the infamous Ex and now this incident with this...this...zealot! I have had enough.

You have to do this sometimes--it's like cleaning your gutters or having a pap smear (shudder.); not always the most pleasant experience, but it must be done. As I slowly work my way through adulthood (uh, did anyone else notice that I'm turning 23 in five months? holy crap. how did that happen?), I'm learning that emotional well-being is too damned precious to ruin with worrying about assholes and fair-weather friends.

And that's what this is about, yeah? The Ex being unceasingly assholish, Blondie being as fair-weather as they come--after all these years and years, it's good to get this out, over, done.

but it hurts.

It's so lonely! The Ex and I haven't seen each other in god knows how long, but we keep up lively email-banter now and again--if nothing else, it keeps me entertained at work between conversations with Steve. Now there's little to break up the tedium of doing other peoples' jobs, what with Steve being busy and Blondie being gone...

Not dead-gone. Gone from MY life (don't forget, this is all about me. like I even need to say it anymore). She left for school three years ago and has been gone since then--which is not to say she never comes home, but I think things were really lost at that point. It was easy to get away with insolence and disobedience and generally subversive behavior when we were young and I didn't have a conscience, but somewhere along the line I started to grow up and have had a hard time relating to her life since then.

Disclaimer: I am not, by any standards ever, perfect. Nowhere close. I am, however, trying my hardest to be a better person than I have been. Also, my imperfections do not negate my right to do some spring-cleaning with my life--even if it's September.

...

This has been the most hellatious day--but things are looking up. I've been in ass-kicking mode for the last three hours, so things are in better shape around here...Still not done.

Maybe I wasn't clear about why I've given up on the Ex ever becoming a decent human being: It's not because he's fool enough to buy a ticket to Guadalajara two weeks after meeting some strange maybe-girl in a chat room--stranger things have indeed happened (hello, he asked me to marry him two months after we met). It's his insisting that the choices I've made are wrong and immoral and indication that I'm not ready for a serious relationship. Uh...what? I'm pretty sure that I'm the one who's in a relationship (almost two years now! Holy crap), I'm the one who's right here. There has been a time or two where he was, in fact, correct (why yes, cars do tend to get ruined if they don't have oil in them), but this is not one of those times.

Anyway. Enough about him.

Then again, I don't think you'll want to hear about me--I've been nothing mopey mopey mopey since the "miscarriage", and little has helped my spirits rise. Last night I was convinced that I had no friends and my family had stopped loving me, and it was all I could do to keep from throwing myself out the window.

Not that that would help matters--it's only about five feet to the ground.

Still! A nasty scrape and bump on the rump could have done wonders for my poor outlook.

For lack of better content, I present Nik Kershaw's Wounded:

We're wounded but walking, dumbstruck but talking still
And I don't think we've made it, don't think we ever will
We're radio rental, so accidental too
And I don't think we've made it don't care if we ever do

We're wounded but walking, dumbstruck but talking still
And I don't think we've made it, don't think we ever will
We're radio rental, so accidental too
And I don't think we've made it don't care if we ever do

Punch drunk and saddle-sore, that's for sure.

Here are the times of the day that my boss comes to my desk for a "chat":

-Right when she gets in in the morning (approximately two hours after I've arrived at work)
-Whenever there is food to be found.

I wouldn't mind so much if she'd reciprocate, but she's a mooch. (also, there are the times of the day when she slowly wanders by, peering over my shoulder at my monitor to see if I'm screwing around. Good thing I've got ears like a...thing that hears real good. so I can hear her coming.

...

Had another conflict with the ex yesterday (I hesitate to call it an argument because he's given up on trying to win these things, and I've given up on trying to make him agree with me. Can you imagine what would have happened if we'd gotten married? Insane.) over lifestyle choices; namely mine. He's always taken issue in general with my interest in chicks--he's the ONE man on earth who DOESN'T want to see his woman doing another girl (FOOL! we all scoff), and taken issue specifically with the poly side of my relationship with Boy (not that it's any of his business!). It's been two and a half years since we BROKE UP, for chrissakes--what is there left to argue over? I firmly believe he needs a LIFE, some drama of his own so he stops butting in on mine. (not that any of our drama lately has revolved around girls, because there has been a distinct lack of female influence in my life lately--but I'll get to that in a bit.)

I guess my wish will come true--he started telling me about this girl he met online, how he was already completely head over heels for her, blah blah fucking blah. And then he says "I'm flying down to meet her at the end of October", at which I scoff, making the customary jokes about meeting girls in chat rooms (how passé) and how she's likely a 40 year old man in diapers in his mother's basement etc. etc.--and then he tells me she's 19. And lives in Guadalajara. MEXICO. He's flying to a foreign country to meet a strange girl who might not even be a girl AND he's meeting her mother at the same time. I said a pre-emptory congratulations for his upcoming nuptials--told him it'd do him good to get married, show him what it's really like.

In the past, it was fairly obvious that while I'm certainly not in love with him any more (nor have I been for quite some time. we're talking years, folks), I had a bit of a soft spot (soft head, more like) for him. He plays the part of the soulful, wounded heart just looking for love, and it was hard not to feel a bit of sympathy. After all, I've been blissfully happy with Boy since the minute I met him, and that can't be fun to hear about when you're alone. (to say nothing of having been celibate since we stopped fucking in December of 2000. How sad is that? It is a little flattering, though, the idea that he's yet to find someone as hot in the sack as I am. Heh.)

After yesterday, it's lost, every bit of sympathy I might have had, every soft-headed urge is gone. It's not like this is the first incident that's made me want to strangle him, but it's certainly going to be the last.

It feels almost foreign, coming back here--all this silence, building over months and months, it's like picking up again with an uncomfortable friend (minus the awkward "soo...coffee?" business). It'll get better, right? I'll settle back into my mocking and moody ways, you'll keep reading, popping in a couple times a day to check on my increasing brilliance...

All of this recent turmoil has given me a bit of stage fright--it's easy to talk a big game, regaling you with tales of threesomes and callgirls; easy, that is, when I don't know you're there.

You've heard this from me before--I just wanted to let you know it's still on my mind.

...

Also on my mind: We're having our first official "dinner" at the house this week--Dad, Evil-Stepmother-To-Be, Evil Grandmother and her Ineffectual and Closet-Drinking Husband (this is only notable in that there are few things this family does in the closet, especially when it comes to drinking. Our genes will get the best of us, I just know it). I'm debating between lemon-garlic roasted chicken and rosemary-crusted pork roast. Either way, I'll finally get to use my giant Calphalon roasting pan and rack before Thanksgiving. It's only taken 9 months to get around to it.

Food's been on my mind a lot lately, too--now that the nausea is gone, every goddamned thing I see sounds good. Lucky Charms? Rawk. Corndogs at 1am? I'm there. (two nights in a row. curse you, indigestion!) I am at war with my body once again, and lately it's winning.

It's not just the weird urge to stuff my face with highly-processed-and-sugar-coated grain-shapes! (okay, i had this crazy moment during last week's doldrums where I sat down and drew the piece of machinery in the kellogg's factory that pumps out lucky charms marshmallows. shut up. it's not nearly as weird as reverse-engineering campbell's vegetable beef soup.) Dreamed last night that Illustrious Stepfather was hosting a luncheon for 18 world leaders, and he was doing it in MY office. Guess who was in charge of the entire affaire! That's right! First, try getting 18 world leaders to show up in the same place at the same time. Next, try planning a luncheon for 18 world leaders and your Type-A stepfather for whom nothing is ever good enough. My menu consisted of lobster and wilted greens, and everything was running smoothly by 1130 (guests at noon, of course)...but I still hadn't gotten the last okay from illustrious stepfather. He finally calls to confirm that I've procured the linens and china and flatware and stemware and...all I could find was a spotted tablecloth and two forks. lots of butterknives (welcome to our kitchen at work) and some plastic cups.

What's even more terrifying is how closely this mirrored real life. Frightening.

...

Another thing on my mind: You know how when you get really depressed (that would be me for the last two weeks), you start remembering all the horrible things you've ever done to anyone ever even that time when you thought you'd returned that phone call but you hadn't and you assumed that the person you thought you'd called was going to be really angry but then you find out they thought they were the ones who hadn't called? I had another Todd moment on Sunday (it always happens when we come home from Dave and Quincy's, our favorite route takes us by his old apartment) and ooooh it felt bad. Such a heartless bitch was I, and no chance to redeem myself.

And then today, I drop by dear Bubbles' weblog, and what do I see? Age-old lamenting over the birthday fiasco of last year, refreshing my guilt over that mess.

Gah! I have got enough to feel guilty for, I don't need to take responsibility for that stuff. I mean, I know the Todd thing was totally my fault (and yours, Spike. Too sexy to resist, and that was the death of any remote chance Todd had of fucking me), but the thing with Bubbles...that's just the way things go.

I mean, isn't it? I'm forgetting how casual relationships work, it's been so long. Shrug. That's the way of things.

I got a whopping four hours of sleep last night--it's really made my first day back at work just that much better. I'm looking forward to going home, turning the fireplace on, and reading until my eyes cross.

Probably won't happen, the to-be-folded pile of laundry is almost touching the ceiling at this point. I was afraid to dig too far into it to find a shirt to wear to work, so can you guess what I'm wearing? Boy's Caterpillar t-shirt, which is cozy and soft--but I look like a freak. Much like Steve, I am NOT a t-shirt person. Reminds me of sixth grade.

...

I was feeling so much better yesterday--the cramping had subsided (thank you, Vicodin) and the weather was slightly cool, so we headed down to the Puyallup Fair with Dave and Quincy. 1/2lb. onion burgers, funnel cakes, hand-dipped ice cream bars and (drumroll) deep-fried Twinkies were the order of the day; by the time we made it to the barn full of pigs, I was zonked. It's a good thing none of us are into crazy loopdeeloop rides, that could have been disastrous.

That single bite of deep-fried Twinkie shortened my life by at least three months.

I have to say, life is a LOT easier with Vicodin--it's wreaked havoc on my digestive system, but it's nice to be able to stand up without dying. That's what woke me up this morning, the Vicodin wearing off--I think I'll start taking some right before going to bed.

Is that a bad sign? Am I becoming addicted to prescription narcotics? When I was fifteen and had my tonsils out, my parents kept my painkilling meds locked up (it was this crazy green syrup that made everything go in slow-mo. I wish I still had some of that stuff.) because they knew I had an addictive personality. What a couple of freaks.

Speaking of the 'rents, I MISS THEM SO GODDAMNED MUCH. You people aren't the only one who've been kept in the dark with stuff--in a strangely selfless moment, I decided to just leave all my troubles out of my conversations with them (although word of my fainting spell reached them through the office grapevine, so I had a bit of explaining to do). If they knew what was happening, they'd want to come home and be supportive, and I don't want that! Well, of COURSE I want them to come home, but I don't want to rain on their parade.

hmmph. I wish that I could still be selfish and self-obsessed, doing who-knows-what without a second thought for anyone else. It was reeeally easy to do that for longer than I should admit to, but I just can't do it anymore, I don't have the heart for it.

Good: The Food Network.

Bad: The Food Network showing the same Sara's Secrets two days in a row.

You know what I really like about FoodTV? There is absolutely no emotional investment. There's no storyline to follow, no climaxes to lead up to--it's just food and smiling people.

Everything else is too much work right now.

I don't have anything to add to the cacophany--the choruses of blogs and journals sending out messages of remembrance, of moving on, of peace and of war--What can I say that is any different than anyone else? Scared, angry, sorrowful, hopeful, tired beyond tears.

(To be honest...the more tributes I see, the less real this all is. That's been a problem for me the last couple days, deciding what is real, and what is not. Jeb Bartlett? Yep, that's our President. The Daily Show? News, not parody! More evidence of the creeping insanity I'm sure, but it's true--the sheer repetition of images and catchphrases have rendered the entire event almost meaningless. The tears I shed are no more personal than the tears I shed at poingnant hollywood moments--there is nothing to make it real.

I wasn't there, no one I know died, and I haven't been to New York in years. While in the recesses of my weary brain rests the truth--our world has changed forever, and not for the better--my hazy present is numb with saturation.

"I saw hell", the fireman says. "Please, dear God, spare me". Someone scripted this horrible moment, I'm sure of it. It really is too horrible to be real.)

...

Does it take much to figure out why I've been so pukey? I've debated back and forth about talking about this; figured it was easier to just ignore. Last time we were in this situation, things were completely different. There were ten, maybe twelve people reading this, and most of them strangers--now there are tons of you. Friends and lovers (former, for the most part), strangers and the occasional enemy (You know who you are. Just one of you.), so many people reading the most intimate details of my life--and I got scared.

I was suddenly afraid to talk about the most important thing happening in my life (not important, it's tragic and heartbreaking for the most part, but isn't that life? a series of tragedies and heartbreaks punctuated by the sweetest happiness ever), which is the polar opposite of what I've always tried to do here.

This, here, now, this is where I am the most Me, here and with Boy--every other facet of my life requires some degree of cloaking. I hide my base and perverted tendencies from my family and coworkers; I keep the serious bits out of conversation with my friends. There is NO need for that here.

I guess this means I'm back--but my general mood hasn't improved much, despite having resolved these unspoken issues. I've watched about fifty hours of television, barely eaten anything, haven't slept for more than four hours in a row--Nothing is amusing.

Wait! That's a lie. I got some pr0n spam the other day--the subject line had something to do with some college student spreading her legs on her webcam...but it really only gets funny when you see which college she's claiming to be from:

Smith.

That was way funny.

Here is how greatly my level of nausea risen: For the most part, I've survived by avoiding strong smells or flavors, no spicyness, lots of rainbow sherbet (it's the only thing that will reliably stay down in the depths of my stomach for more than three minutes). Ten minutes ago I watched a scene in Tin Cup where Cheech Marin sniffs a carton of milk and makes a nasty face, implying that the milk had turned...and just the idea of spoiled milk made me run straight to the bathroom and make an offering to the porcelain powers that be.

I passed out in illustrious stepfather's office today; I'd been standing at his assistant's desk, leaning against a file cabinet talking about "So Graham Norton" and eating grapes (another formerly-reasonable food, but just wait and see what happens) when my ears began ringing, my vision faded and my knees collapsed. It felt like hours, being there on the floor--cool and quiet but for the rushing that wouldn't leave my ears. They told me later that it was barely half a minute, not even long enough to call 911 or check my pulse (wasn't much to check by the time I thought about it, prone on the sofa in my stepfather's office, ice pack on my forehead--I could barely feel my heart, my blood, nothing there. I sat up and immediately felt the six grapes and cup of sherbet rise, so off to the ladies' room I stumbled. My legs barely worked, so between that and the rushing deafness in my ears and the darkness surrounding my field of vision, I was underwater, drowning, unable to breathe.

I crumbled on the floor, cool tiles matching the sweat on my brow in temperature. Seconds, minutes, maybe half an hour? later, I rose on shaky legs, stumbled back to the office. Drank some water. Made bad jokes about my stepfather killing me if I dared to die in his office. Promised I was fine, headed to my car, fought with the parking attendant. Drove home. Ran out of gas. walked inside. collapsed.

Pardon me--that was a "Branding Survey".

Did you know that Starbucks uses pop-unders for market research? Here's what I got in the middle of my favorite multimedia guilty pleasure (e! online's Fashion Police):

1. Which of the following ready-to-drink bottled coffee beverages have you ever seen or heard of?
      [SELECT ALL THAT APPLY]
 Planet Java Arizona Iced Latte/Mocha
 Starbucks Bottled Frappuccino
 Starbucks DoubleShot
 Folgers Jakada
 None of the Above

5. Now I'd like you to rate your image of Starbucks Bottled Frappuccino on a few attributes. On a scale of 1 to 10, where 10 means you strongly agree and 1 means you strongly disagree, please say how much you agree or disagree with the following statements about Starbucks Bottled Frappuccino:
a) Bottled Frappuccino provides a break in my day
b) Bottled Frappuccino is for someone like me
c) Bottled Frappuccino is a cool new beverage concept
d) Bottled Frappuccino is refreshing
e) Bottled Frappuccino re-energizes me
f) Bottled Frappuccino tastes great
g) Bottled Frappuccino has the highest quality ingredients

Bottled Frappuccino is for People Like Me.

Happy 1300th entry.

...

It's hard to decide which experience was worse:

Driving to work, heading west on Stewart Street, we see a man in a silver Miata convertible. Top down, wind blowing in his...bald head (which isn't really part of the story, I just thought it was funny, this big bald guy in a leeeettle tiny miata) and he's digging in his ear. Gross enough, imagining all the gunk piling up under his fingernail...but then he puts his finger in his mouth and eats it. Top down! In traffic!

I am almost vomiting remembering.

The other option:

Driving home from work a few days later. I pull of the freeway and drive north on Lake City Way towards home. Stop at 15th, notice a strange apparatus in the lap of the man in the truck next to me. He pulls up a few feet. Curious, I pull up as well and shamelessly peer into his vehicle. I see a clear plastic cylindrical thing...some plastic tubing...and his fist is madly clutching at something...You can guess, right?

He was using a penis pump. In his car. In traffic.

...

Why must I be the one to witness these things?

...

You're still not going to get much out of me--work is busy and life is tough.

Housewarming Party: Keeping Score.

Guests: 27
Tours given: 14
Empty bottles and cans: 102
Hours spent in the emergency room: 3
Instances of vomiting: 9, distributed between three people.
Happy Homeowners: 2

But man, I can't wait to have a night alone.