You know I've been meaning to write about this particular occurrence
for awhile now, because it one of the most dazzling displays of
ignorance I've been witness to in a long, long time. (The last one
being that day in July when my cousinBrandyLynn thought that that East
African Mind Bender snake was a local cat, and tried to pet it, and it
bit her, and she spent the next three days in a hollow tree trunk,
thinking she was a raccoon with ESP, and ate a lot of poisonous
mushrooms, and had to have her stomach pumped. Of course that's a
different kind of ignorance, and god knows what that African snake was
doing in Cincinnati, but I'll tell ya, it was a doozy.) However, since World of Warcraft
unexpectedly entered my life again, there is obviously time for little
else, such as purging murderous thoughts via the written word, or
personal hygiene.

The Illustrious D graciously allowed me the
pleasure of accompanying him to a play that was being featured at a
theatre for which he had season tickets, if you will. It was entitled,
"Orpheus Descending" or, "Orpheus Rising," as I told everyone, because
I am in fact a complete and total idiot.
It was an amazing feat of
live theatre accomplishment; the performances given by all the actors
were unparallelled, the story itself a slow and bittersweet unfurling
of a flower you realized all too soon was doomed to perish, and the
mythological undertones combined with a haunting yet poignant
soundtrack made for one of the most profound and enjoyable plays I've
ever seen. Though at the end I was greatly saddened by the outcome, I
was still stricken at how amazing the unfolding of the events had been
to watch, and yeah, I cried a bit, what's yourfuckin ' deal?? It would
have been lovely to have been able to leave that theatre under the
assumption that everyone else had been as deeply affected as I know D
and I had been, to have been blissfully unaware that perhaps there
do exist people who
simply lack the intelligence and range of emotion to get anything
positive out of a story like the one we had just been told.
But of course, as we were putting our coats on, from behing my right shoulder I heard the unmistakable CAW of a simple-minded hen, clucking non-sensically to her poultry companions.

"I'll tell you - buhCAW! - that was the second play I've seen here, and it's the second - buh-buhCAW! - one I didn't like. One more strike and this place is - buhCAAAW! - out. BUHCAW! I know not all endings - buhcaw - are supposed to happy, but I mean come on."

No
YOU come on, lady. Or, even better, allow me to present you with a
DROPKICK TO THE SIDE OF THE HEAD, you fucking moron. I couldn't even
believe it. I KNOW to each his own, alright, I know it, and I know that
it doesn't necessarily make that woman a bad person, that she didn't
like the play, even though it obviously DOES, but for the love of god,
stay home already.


Bon Voyage, Unity

Yep,
I'm leaving for Florida in four days. I wish to god I weren't terrified
of being in an airplane these days, but hey, there it is. I know I'll
live,yaddya yaddya yaddya , but I mean, do I really know? The answer is,
in fact, NO, so if I should happen to die in a horrifying plane crash,
I'd just like to say "So long, and thanks for all the fish," only that
is clearly a direct quote from Douglas Adams, andthusly I won't. I WOULD like to say... ... Shit, nothing, this is depressing and I'm alone, I'M NOT GOING TO DIE ON THAT AIRPLANE.

Thank you, and goodnight.

So, I saw this picture today, on the box of one of our page-a-day calendars, and I tried to recreate it in paint, because I found it hilarious, but it's literally impossible to draw a dog with a laptop mouse. But it was these two dogs, standing next to each other, and one of them said to the other, "Yeah, I used to have a blog, but I decided to go back to barking and yapping incessantly."
In retrospect I don't find it quite as funny as I did earlier today, but maybe you will?

A lovely, peppy day, otherwise. I didn't think it would be; I awoke in a foul mood because apparently eight hours is not enough time to shake off Nyquil-sleep. I felt all tingy still - pretty rested, but entirely like I should still be in bed, at the least completely still and quiet and warm, if not asleep. But there was much to be done, so I had to summon the peppiness from deep, deep within.
And a BEAR came into work today! It was terrible; people screaming and running and tearing their hair out with fear. I personally found him to be beautiful and was so glad he found his way into my store... But everyone ELSE, I'll tell ya - not impressed.

A shout-out to Illustrious D. Love ya man.

Another bath and consequent trip to Narnia? Sir, your ideas are crazy and wonderful.

"My head is killing me. I feel so fat." Suddenly the woman pushed the magazine off her lap. "Sally, I need you to take care of me, OK baby?"
"Shh, not here, Lauren. Come on. Why now with this? All day you've been..."
The woman grasped both his hands, her eyes emphatic with tears. "Sally, really, I mean it!"
"Laur, what is it, huh? The kids are OK, right?"
"They're fine. I don't know what's the matter with me. I don't know why we came out here to the boonies. I just want to go home."
"So we'll go home. We'll leave tonight if you want."
"No, the hotel's booked through Monday. We'll loose the deposit."
"When we get back to our room we'll watch Top Gun, grab a salad, aromatherapy, whatever you want."
The woman looked at him but made no reply. She stared out the care window, past her own ghostly reflection, at the bare trees rushing by in a blur and at the motionless gray sky above, like the absence of sky. She could feel the weight of each tear on her mascara-stiffened lashes, and the way her lashes seemed to spring back as each drop fell. She was aware of the cold air rising off the glass, and the cool lines on her cheeks left by her tears. Her breath passed deep into her lungs and swept through her body like wind through a canyon. She wanted Sal to comfort her but hoped even more that he wouldn't speak. Probably there were medications for this sort of thing.
They drove on in silence, the driver guiding the van with two fingers of each hand through a series of swaying turns. The hotel was an old restored mansion with a semi-circular gravel driveway out front. The driver pulled up beneath the awning and got out to retrieve their bags from the back of the van.
"Laur, you OK?" whispered the man, tilting his head to look at her face, "What's going on, Laur?"
"I don't know." Her tears had left tracks in her makeup, and the new ones ran down the same paths to form cloudy drops at the point of her chin. "I don't know," she repeated, "I just feel so weird. I need you to be here for me."
He studied her, his heavy brow knit in puzzlement. (His was a face that displayed every thought.) Then, slowly, his brows lifted, his eyes took on a light, and his lower lip was drawn up over the upper. "I'll do even better than that," he said, "We'll go back to Outlet Village. Right now. We'll get those Diesels. You can have anything you want." He grinned and pinched her cheek and then wiped his hand on his pants. "Huh, how's that?"
She sat there, sniffling, scrutinizing the car seat.
"We'll get the Diesels, Laur, and whatever else, huh?"
"You think I'll be able to fit into them?"
"Sure you will."
"Two pairs? Can we get two pairs?"
"Three, four, whatever."
A shiver went through her, and she pulled her jacket up around her shoulders. Then, as if waking from a dream, she looked at him, and a smile formed on her waxy lips.
"That's a girl," said the man, "Anything yuou want. Driver, what do you say you take us back there? Yeah, back to the outlets. There'll be a good tip in it if you wait for us."

_Peter Herman is a freelance writer and editor based in New York City.



I enjoy that little story. I'm pretty picky when it comes to fiction, though, and I definitely have to go on record and say that I don't think it reads particularly well. I don't want to drop the "P" Bomb, but it's kinda that, and it's also kinda... well, dressy. In the sense that it seems to me like the author kinda dressed up the narrative for aesthetics' sake or something; but I have no idea if that makes sense to anyone but me.

Aaanyhow, it was a lovely Day of Rest for me today. Perhaps I won't die. Immediately, that is. Bear was in lots of pain though, and it made Bear edgy, and when Bear is edgy, and I is sick (and thusly, edgy) it makes for lots of growling and teeth baring and hissing and swiping. But we survived, with minimal blood loss. AND I got to watch Labyrinth and half of Spirited Away, since I was in a Dayquil-induced coma (non-drowsy my FAT DROWSY ASS) for the other half. Bear had never seen that last one before! He liked it.
I'm also thinking I'd like a Labyrinth tattoo. Something elaborate. HOLY SHIT, like I could get the poster image of Jareth at the top holding a crystal, the castle and the labyrinth underneath him, with Sarah in her White Dress underneath that, and Hoggle and the Fire Gang and goblins and Ludo and Sir Didymus and the and the Old Man In The Hat and everyone else on the sides! Good god... I wants it! I could get it on my back... It'd take a million years and dollars but I'll tell ya. It'd be worth it.
Except in twenty years when I realize I was young and foolish and terribly idealistic to think that permanantely imprinting a movie poster (albeit the most influential, meaningful, and wonderful movie of my entire life) onto my skin was a good and sound idea.

I'm going to take a bath now, and take a quick visit to Narnia. Then, it's a Nyquil-induced coma!! God DAMN I'm set.

I forgot to bring the damn magazine with me to Bear's house. So I'll put some more of the story up, but I won't finish, because I have to leave for work in a half hour.


The man surveyed her with distaste out of the corner of his eye. He was tall and solid of build, bronze-skinned, with a wedge of pomaded black hair sprouting from close upon his thick brow. His lower lip was heavy and slack, and he wore a shiny red and white tracksuit with the sleeves pushed up over hairy forearms, one of which sported a gold Rolex, his pride and joy.l Looking down at his cell phone, he began to press some buttons. His wife took out hers as well.
"Carson!" she cried into the cell, "It's mommy. Yeah, it's all right. There's nothing here but trees. We bought you something. No, I can't tell you. It's a surprise. OK, it's a jacket. You're gonna love it. It's suede, made out of lambs or something. It's so soft. Sara will love you in it. She will. Absolutely. Right. Right. Uh-huh. That's nice, honey. You're not drinking too much Diet Coke, are you? You know it makes you fat, right? There's a new study. It fools your body into thinking it's skinny. All right. Take care of your little brother and sister. Kisses for mommy. Mmmm. Mmm." The woman snapped her cell phone shut and stowed it in her coat pocket. "Carson's good," she said, "He says Tommy got a Lexus."
"The white and gold?"
"Of course."
"Now Carson's gonna want one."
"Why shouldn't he? What are we, poor?"
As she said this she spread her colour-tipped fingers and rolled her eyes toward heaven or Saks Fifth Avenue. "Oh, my head. Maybe I'll go work out. It's cause I haven't had any fresh air. When we get back I want you to call down and tell them to change the water in our humidifier."
"What, call them just to change the water? So I'll change the water."
"Just call them. It's better that way. Get my magazine from my bag, will you? It's right there, in my Coach."
She flopped the glossy magazine open on her lap,licked her fingertips, and began leafing through it without looking at the pages. The man nodded toward the driver, who met his eyes in the rear view mirror.
"So, what do you people do out here?"
"Oh,k this and that. Watch the clouds go by."
"What, so do you have county fairs and what not?"
"Every year."
"Don't you even have a movie theater around?" asked the woman.
"Yup, we've got the cinemaplex out at the mall, ten theaters."
"That's good," sniffed the woman.
"Probably lots of berry picking, too,"? said the man, grinning at his wife as if he'd made a joke. She looked back down at her magazine, licked her finger and flipped a page. The man reached into the back and dug into one of the shopping bags. "These Baccos are fantastic. I should've bought them in black, too. I mean, why not? With shoes like these, you can use brown and black. Shoes make the man, like they say."
"Clothes."
"What?"
"Clothes make the man."
"Shoes aren't clothes?"
"No, they're shoes."
"They cover your body, so they're clothes. What, so you want to stop for a salad somewhere?"

To Be Continued...


I'll be able to finish it next time, whenever that is. Hopefully tonight. We'll see. I'm deathly ill, you realize. Sick as a dog. Can barely remain upright for extended periods of time. Mucus leaking out of every orifice. Terrible sight, I am. Do pray for me, if you wouldn't mind. I'm too young to die. *sigh* What a world we live in...

Oh, hey, look! A bowl of mini chocolate bars! *runs away*

Does anyone else find Adbusters pretentious?

I mean I like it, I think it's a good publication... The cover art is generally provocative, or at the very least interesting. Like this month's - I can't fucking believe how much I love this month's cover. A beautiful young woman: golden tresses, crimson lips, smokey eyes, wearing just the most *divine* little red dress, with killer fuckin gams, lemme tell ya, tipped off at the end with smart black stiletto pumps... And bitch is on the receiving end of a finely tuned restraint, being administered by an exceptionally angry officer of the law. We're talkin face-down, hands behind the back, legs spread, the whole shuhbang. And like, the dude is really angry. So's the other officer dude, in the background. She's been pulled out of what I can only assume is some kind of Sports Utility Vehicle, and laying next to her on the asphalt is a Grande Starbucks cup, in a splattered pool of it's milky sugarfreelowfat ex-contents.

"A model getting her just desserts," said the gentleman who bought the magazine today, after I commented on how much I enjoyed the imagery.

I'm definitely going to put it up somewhere. But cool cover art aside, when one takes the time to actually commit (and it IS a commitment) to reading the offerings of the Journal of Mental Environment... One can't help but feel that they are subjecting themselves to WAY too much fucking jargon, and not nearly enough practicality, which in my opinion is a pretty lethal combination. Sometimes the articles just read like a freakin 4th grader trying as hard as they can to sound like they know what the fuck they're talking about by thesaurus-ah-rizing every god damn word they can, and by making up brand new ones to substitute for which there IS no synonym, until it's gotten to the point where the writing makes absolutely no sense, and yet all the smart and aware kids think it does because... well because it's in Adbusters. And yes, I am WELL AWARE that 'thesaurus-ah-rizing' is in fact not a word, and that I did in fact make it up. But I don't write for a well respected magazine, so it's okay.

And like, my old roommate and best friend, let's call him... JERKFACE - he to me epitomizes the regular Adbusters reader. This is of course a sweeping generality, but aren't those the best kind? He like, totally doesn't eat meat, but don't ask him why, and he can't fucking stand people who wear brand name clothes and shit, like, why can't they find they're OWN style, why do they have to cater to the media's expectations of what they should look like. Oh, yeah, those are Nikes he's wearing, but, he's inked out the label, so it makes it okay. I remember one night when he had a friend over, a guy he was kinda seeing at the time, and I was in bed, trying to sleep, and they were... attempting to have a conversation about politics. It was the most pathetic thing I've ever heard. All Jerkface really talked about was how he was a Communist, because it's such a great method of governing, even though it doesn't really work in practice, but he's a big fan of the important Communists in history, like Marx... ... ...
And basically they just sat there and regurgitated grade ten history class like it was some kind of fucking spectacle, that they knew these things, and it was just really funny to me.

There's tons of people like that out there, so concerned about NOT being stylish that they create a style of their own; so concerned about the state of the world yet not quite willing to find the relative knowledge; so aware and learned, yet so completely and entirely not... And I'll bet you money my friends, that most of them have a subscription to Adbusters.

Seems like I'm talkin a lotta trash about the mag, and I reckon that's pretty unfair, since I do like a lot of it. If you'll give me a moment, I'm going to take a quick gander at my own copy to see if the story I read and loved will take me a million years to type out for you. Stay with me now.


Okay it's not, so here I go.

outlet village
by peterherman

"I need to eat a salad," said the woman, steam rising from her magenta lips. "It's freezing. A person could, like, die out here or something. I should've bought those Diesels, don't you think? I bet I could've fit into them by Christmas. It'd be something to shoot for."
"So you go take a steam and a sauna," said her husband. "You'll come out feeling like a million bucks."
"The steam room makes me retain water."
The man grunted and looked down at his cell phone. They were standing in the Outlet Village parking lot, their legs nearly hidden behind shopping bags. The outlets were designed to resemble a medieval hamlet, sans slop pails and the Plague, and with colourful brand-name logos in place of coats of arms. Beyond the village rose wave upon wave of wooded, snow-covered hills bare of foliage save for the hemlock, spruce and pine sprinkled throughout. Looking up into this wilderness, the woman's mascara-rimmed eyes narrowed; she might have been surveying a wasteland of yellow brimstone.
A red van pulled up, the husband and wife climbed inside with the driver retrieved their bags, and they sped off onto a narrow road that wound between the trees. As the couple watched the outlets disappear from sight a disquiet came over them.
"We'll get a DVD," said the man, brightening, "They've got Top Gun down there at the front desk."
"I really just need to relax, Sal. Maybe I'll get an aromatherapy."
The woman was in her mid-thirties, well put together, with all the right clothes. Her burgundy nails looked fit for killing, her hair was designed by New York City's best and gayest stylists, and a rich scent like furniture polish mixed with cotton candy rose off her pampered skin. Her eyes looked tired, though, and in her abdomen she seemed to carry excess weight and grief.
"You just got aromatherapy. You said it bothered your sinuses."
"Sal, I really need you to support me right now, okay? I think I might have the driver stop for a Diet Coke, or some Tums."
"Tums, I got Tums right here."
"No, I think it's Rolaids. Rolaids are the ones that work for me."
"You want Rolaids? We'll get Rolaids. Driver, where can we find a Duane Reade? You know, a drug store."
"I can take you to a drug store," said the driver, an older gentleman with a lined ruddy face and age-spotted hands, "but it's about ten minutes out of the way."
"Forget it, Sal. Forget it." The woman's voice was a dry monotone. "I just want to get back to the hotel. My head is killing me. They'll have something there."

To Be Continued...

Okay I've been typing for 15 minutes and am only 1/4 of the way through, and like, that's too fuckin long y'all. So I'm going to go and take a bath, then see a movie with my Secret Agent Lover Man, because he had a tooth pulled, and he needz treetz, and theeen I'll put another part up. Sound good?

Yay, I'm back for awhile!

http://www.armorofgodpjs.com/

NNNNNNnnnnn, I just ate a whole bunch of Taco Bell, knowing full well that I'd be needing to go to bed almost immediately afterwards. Do you know how stupid that is? Blech, it is SO teh stupid.

I just went shopping - FOR FUN - for the first time in... Well gawsh, I derno, a real long time. I've always bought clothes because I needed them, for work or otherwise. But no, this time... I mean yeah I needed new shoes, but that top was purely for fun.

Yeahyeah, I know about all the expensive and important dentistry that needs to be applied to a certain tooth, but like, let a girl live a little for once will ya?

God damn it, there was something else I thought of that I wanted to mention, and then talking to good people and porn distracted me. Burn in hell, all of you.

Adso, of Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose fame, upon seeing the great stone door of the abbey for the first time, thought, and then later wrote, these words:

And beneath the feet of the ancients, and arched over them and over the throne and over the tetramorphic group, arranged in symmetrical bands, barely distinguishable one from another because the artist's skill had made them all so mutually proportionate, united their variety and varied in their apt assembly, in wondrous congruency of the parts with the delightful sweetness of hues, miracle of consonance and concord of voices amoung themselves dissimilar, a company arrayed like the strings of the zither, consentient and conspiring continued cognition through deep and interior force suited to perform univocally in the same alternating play of the equivocal, decoration and collage of creatures beyond reduction to vicissitudes and to vicissitudes reduced, work of amourous connecting sustained by a law at once heavenly and worldly (bond and stable nexus of peace, love, virtue, regimen, power, order, origin, life, light, splendor, species, and figure), numerous and resplendent equality through the shining of the form over the proportionate parts of the material--there, all the flowers and leaves and vines and bushes and corymbs were entwined, of all the grasses that adorn the gardens of earth and heaven, violet, cystus, thyme, lily, privet, narcissus, taro, acanthus, mallow, myrrh, and Mecca balsam.

Is it even possible to see and to speak of such things anymore, in this day and age? The art of the written word as it was ceases to be almost entirely. Pamela Anderson is writing books; volume after volume of, indeed, trite albeit occasionally poetic nothings are manufactured and then put up for sale and then destroyed. Do you know how many people have come up to me and said, 'Nora Roberts is a really good writer,'? That almost inspires rage in me. Not at the time, and not entirely directed at that person themselves, but now, in retrospect does it make me rather furious. Only because I read things like The Name of the Rose, and I read words like that, and I remember, or rather, it is that much easier for me to imagine, a time when words were all we had. When language held so much more pith than as now, wherein it acts as more of a segway to events, rather than as a force all on it's own, in and of itself.

I shed a tear for mankind, you betcha I do.

Also, I have made it my immediate life's work to learn how to speak French. I already have a basic understanding of the language, I'm 1/3 of the way there! And then? Ooooh man, you better believe Latin. Maybe not, like, you know, in a couple months or anything. Or like even a couple years. BY THE TIME I'M 30, yeah. Yeah that sounds good. I'll know how to speak French and Latin by the time I'm 30. Mmm-hm.

... So, uh, Laurimus, Illustrious D... French lessons are yes?

Something to be considered:

Why is it that whenever I fart in the elevator, there's always someone getting on on the next floor? It's not like I do it a lot. And I mean, no one ever gets on when I'm on - unless I had to let one go. Seriously. It's so embarassing.


I just finished going through my gmail archives - 500 emails from the past. It was really interesting, I haven't done it in a long time. There were a couple re-occurring themes; one of them being how many people there were out there who really didn't like my old blog. So many negative comments I received. Repugnant, unfaithful, biased, naive... All terms used to describe the things that I wrote. It stressed me out a little, mostly because I couldn't go back and read what they thought was so terrible, since I deleted it all. I really regret that. There was so much of me in that Snarfblast, so much of what I was back then. I wish that I could go back and visit; remember what it was like. Because all I really have are smokey memories, and even though you and I both know that I wasn't happy, it was a tumultuous time - one worth remembering as well as one can.

Alas, the mistakes of youth. I think I'm going to start using my real name again, and posting pictures. Anonymity is only cool if you're a wicked smart prostitute, like Belle De Jour, or someone important. I'm not either of those things, yet, so hey, RL, here I come.


My hetero-lifemate blew back into town for a week or so, having just left on Friday. It was wonderful to see her, beautiful and glowing as she always, always is, and seeming a bit less down on herself. I was a bit of an ass, however, by not saying goodbye before she left... And on that same night, I let down another friend immensely, by not attending his show. It was not a great night for decisions for Unity, but I really did try my best.

I love you Laurimus Maximus.


I'm teaching myself how to read tarot cards, so if you need a mystically-divined answer to a question or something, you should ask me. ... Later.


Tell your friends about The Love Rhombus! Because I miss being anonymously harassed, it needs to happen more. Keeps my ass in check, don't you know. And chances are your friends don't like me. Why? Because you're friends are stupid, and stupid people hate me, because they rarely understand what I'm saying.

No offense, mind you. I'm sure they're really nice. Like in that stupid way.

Just - don't - don't even talk to me about how long it's been. I know. Listen, it'd probably just be easier for you to go and buy a copy of Warcraft, and come play with me. You'd have a lot of fun. And I'd totally let you join my guild.


At this point I'd say it's fairly safe to say that The Love Rhombus is going on an indefinate hiatus. You know how much I love those.

Go read what Rich has to say. He's a fuckin righteous dude - way smarter, funnier, insightful and talented in the way of the written word than I could ever hope to be.

I suppose you're all wondering where the hell I've gone to.

And I wish I could say that is was somewhere successful, and/or productive.

But it isn't.

Azeroth called to me, my friends.

'Help me...' it said.

'Roll a Night Elf Priestess on the Kirin Tor server and heeeeelp meeee...'

And who am I to resist the will of such a magical place as Azeroth?


Seriously though, World of Warcraft has taken over my life. It's too much fun to even be believed. I nearly pee my pants with excitement, every time I see that sweet, sweet login screen. It's the most prettiest, most biggest, most interactive, most AWESOMEST game evar.

And Senor N is a total fuckin enabler. Like, he buys another copy of the game just so I can play. AND a game card, which run at a fairly hefty price. Oh, and brand-new CPU? Yeah, he got me one of those. So, like, it's ridiculous. I love him because he buys me things. And don't worry, it's not like I bring the computer over to his house all the time, set it up next to his, and use it to play WoW with him. That would just be dysfunctional and creepy.


So, right, there's stuff that's been going on, here and there, I think. Mostly quips about The Bookstore that I always think "Oh man, I so have to blog about that," and then don't. OH. I have a really funny one about a Conservative I saw on the news this morning. Well I mean it's not that funny. Not funny in a laugh-out-loud kind of way, anyre just a, "Omg, our country is so going to explode now," kind of way.


And I'm still a non-smoker! Very happily so, I might add. I've even had two or three since I quit, and all it's made me do is want to vomit. Not run to the nearest convenience store with a ten dollar bill flapping in my hand and some change jingling in my pocket. It's gross and I really hate it, and I'm totally going to turn into one of those non-smokers that all us smokers used to hate.


Fin.

So I've been a non-smoker for pretty much a whole week now.

It's, um... ...It's good.

Yeah, but, I mean, I'm still not sure I'm entirely sold on this whole idea that smoking will make me a better, healthier person. And here's why:

I'M EATING EVERYTHING.

No, like I'm serious. I am actually putting anything and everything in my mouth that enters my line of sight, and that tastes good. NO, I'm not talking about cocks.

(*Dreamy Sigh* Although the one I do munch on from time to time does taste really good...)

Ahem - ANYWAY.

Would I rather be a non-smoker and die of a heart attack? Or be a smoker and die of cancer?


Le sigh... I'd totally rather die of a heart attack.

FUCK.

I thought for sure I was on to something there.

You know, on that fateful night when I sat with my beautiful best friend's beautiful sister, listening to music and shooting the shit, and the term "love rhombus" came to me, I thought myself pretty god damn clever.

"It's brilliant!" I thought to myself with pride the next day. "The rhombus is such an overlooked geometrical shape, combined with the fact that 'love triangle' is such a well-used term, making a 'love rhombus' delightfully new and different and kind of sexy... - I'm a fucking genius!"

And then I Googled "the love rhombus". Do you know how much shit comes up?! A lot. Too fucking much. Apparantely I'm not as clever as I thought. Which is just totally ridiculous, because I am that clever. And you know what really hurts? This god damn blog isn't even included in the results! Like, why don't you get me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it? (Props to my main man, Miracle Max, keeping it real.)


So, like, welcome to 2006, right? What did you do on New Year's Eve??

Heh, like I care, here's what I did:

I went to a rave, go fucking figure.

But this rave was different, and, my darling wonderful companion and confidante, the Illustrious D, made a rather poignant theory as to why that was, which I will get to.

This was the first party I've ever attended with a mate, you see. And I didn't think that would make a difference, I truly didn't. As I've spent more time in the scene, become more accustomed with the atmosphere and the people and the drugs, my time at raves slowly became more about the music and the movement of my body to that music. Turning into this hot, free, wild thing, with my heart beating in time with the synthesized rythyms, and feeling looked at and alone, all at the same time. It was wonderful, and sure the bumps of E made it a little better, but I look back to when I first started, when chowing down as many pills as I could was the name of the game, and I really realize that the drugs played less a role in the whole experience now than they did then.

Thusly, I thought that going and dropping a cap or two, and just dancing the night away with my lover and my friends at my side would be SUPAR PHUN 2 TEH MAXX!!11!1! and not much different from the way it's always been.

But, wouldn't you know? - it was. Which isn't to say that it wasn't a good time, because it was. I mean it's a rave! Raves are always fun. And I mean I was READY for this party. I looked like a rock star, my boyfriend looked like a rock star, Illustrious D and Starlet A looked like rock stars; I did my drugs and was feeling pretty nice; I was armed with water and glow sticks. Everything was in place for it to be a spectacular night of epic proportions. But something wasn't clicking, I couldn't tune myself into the vibe, the electricity just wasn't there. A little under two hours of being there, I was ready to leave; we both were. So we did.

I came to the conclusion, fairly soon after our departure, that I was done raving. A fairly huge decision, and when I told N, he told me that I should take some time to think about it, and make sure it's really what I wanted. I spent most of today thinking on it from time to time, and I definitely connected my lack of real enjoyment of the party to N, but not in a negative way. It's just that for me there was always a certain... frivolity and promiscuity attached to raves, right from the beginning. Raves were like a manifestation of sex, and although they didn't always end in such a way, it was always in the air, and part of the excitement.

And that's what I realized, that raves weren't about the dancing and the drugs for me, they were about SEX. In one form or another. Well I mean, sex and drugs. So that's what was different. Just having N near me is enough of a sexual charge to satisfy my appetite, all-consuming as it is, and thusly the rave just sort of... fell short.

Now earlier this evening, at our weekly Sunday Night Coffee Date, D and I sat discussing our respective evenings. He had a fairly okay time - the music and the drugs and the people all having been good to him, but to his displeasure fell victim to a series of unforunate events later on in the evening that rather sundered his overall impression. Regardless, I told him of my retirement from the Rave Scene, and suprisingly enough he understood completely, and had an interesting take on why that might be.

"Raves are for people who are missing something," is what he said. "And it isn't that raves fill the void, necessarily, they just... give me something to keep my mind off it." I would never be so... proud and vain so as to think that I am not missing anything from my life, for truly the absurdity of such a thought is undoubtedly clear, but it did make me think. Ever since N came around, it seems as though I've done a lot of growing up. I rarely smoke weed anymore. I do a lot less stupid things. Even ecstasy didn't quite do it for me the way it used to. So maybe raves ARE for people who are missing something. And maybe if you're a raver and you're reading this, you should try to figure out what that something is and how you can go about getting it.

So, my point. My point is... I'm done ravin! Although D and I did decide that we'll probably hit a couple of the outdoor ones in the summer, but other than that... It was a good way to go out.


Now, I have two cats. One is fat and orange, and a drain on the economy. The other is grey and sassy, and totally a ninja. And he's a ninja because I'll be sitting on the couch, or in front of this here laptop, and he'll be nowhere in sight, and then two minutes later I'll look down and just - WHAM - he's on my leg. Seriously, we're talking mega-stealth skillz, it's fuckin insane. Miyagi-san would be t3h proud.


I think I am ready for my bed now. Oh my goodness, my mom TOTALLY cleaned my room a couple of days ago. Like how stupidly awesome is that? I come home for a couple of hours after having spent the last couple days totally ditching her for my boyfriend - and only so that she could braid my hair, I should add - and the woman's gone and cleaned the swirling vortex of death that was my room. Truly, she rocks the cazba. So now it's all pretty and glowing with those cool lights I have and OMG SHE EVEN SET UP A VANITY TYPE THING FOR ME TO DO MY MAKEUP AT SO THAT I STOP GETTING EYE SHADOW ALL OVER THE CARPET.

Yes I'm 14, go to hell.


AND, if any random person happens to cross paths with The Love Rhombus, and also happens to play World of Warcraft, I play on Kirin Tor, as Unaleska, a Night Elf Priest.


Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.