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.

Well, it's over. Jesusmas, that is. And it's nice. The Christmas season is a lot like taking a shit. You're sitting on the couch and you all of a sudden feel it. You just kinda know - it's coming. It builds and it builds and it builds and while it's fairly uncomfortable, you're anxious for when it's finally time. And then when it IS time it's sooo incredibly good, you're delirously happy, everything is right in the world. ... Then it's over, and you're relieved, satisfied, and only slightly disgusted.

And then it's back to work.


Now, I recently bought myself a pair of boots. A nice pair of boots, I thought. Reasonably fashionable; exceptionally functional. I wear them with pride. And then... at work yesterday, I found myself talking to this woman who comes in occasionally. She's mentally handicapped, and really sweet. She was asking me if I could hold this new book about a proffessional wrestler until Thursday, and while I was telling her that we can only hold books for three days, I glanced down and noticed that she was wearing my boots.

I have to tell you, I was discouraged. Keep in mind that I'm not discriminatory. I spent a lot of my childhood around people with mental disabilities, and in no way think them lesser. But still, it says something about one's own fashion sense if it's shared with someone who likes Eddie Geurerro.


Anyhow. Today is the day my Mum and I decided to quit smoking. The 27th of December. My grandmother's birthday. And it's before the end of 2005, thusly rendering it as NOT a new-year resolution. We're currently in possession of no-name Nicotine gum. It really doesn't taste that bad. The trick is to not chew it. BITE, BITE, PARK. BITE, BITE, PARK. Simple!

Heh, ask me if I want a cigarette, just ask me!!


You fuckin betcha.

Ah, Christmas.

The season of light and love and laughter. Of giving and sharing and eggnog and reindeer; pinetrees and turkies and denominational cheer.

Thank God for baby Jesus... you know?


I miss Christmas though. You know, the way it used to be, when I was a kid. But so does everyone. The misfortune of a lost youth, such a tragedy.


I keep sitting down to write something substantial here, and every fucking time I start talking to people on MSN, and I always lose the drive; the ambition, if you will.

Tonight has been no exception - although I did get further than I ever have.

So it is with a heavy heart that I leave the Bloggosphere, although I hope to make a return trip sometime soon.

Take care, dear friends, and don't lose faith in ol' Caro.

I got fired from that dumb smoothie place.

I've never been fired before. It wasn't like it is in the movies. But then, there are rarely short, ugly, scary football players in the movies. And that's a good thing.

Seriously though, don't get fired! It's not glamorous or righteous at all. And my dismissal was so sudden and abrupt, I didn't get to do any of the bad things I always said I'd do if I knew I was gunna quit, or get canned. Like have dirty hooker sex on all the surfaces. Or put meth in the yogurt. Or trash the place.

So the sun sets on that particular chapter of my work history, and rises on a new, and better one.


Fuck, I don't wanna write on this thing anymore. AMAGAAAAAD, I'm losing it guys.

I'm losing the Will To Blog.


It'll come back, don't you fuss.

Man, I remember back in the day when a really exhilerating night consisted of downing one too many screwdrivers and getting the courage to dance on the mini-stage at a gay bar. I'd come home feeling all mega-adventurous: "I can't believe I DID that, I'm so fucking FREEEEE!" Then I'd vomit and pass out and wake up the next morning regretting everything about the evening except the really funny episode of Boy Meets World I'd watched before I left the house.

Until recently, I'd have to pop atleast three caps, makeout with atleast three different boys, and have sex with at least two of them for my night to be anything out of the ordinary.

Of course, now that I have my Super Magic Ultra Number One Happy Time Snuggle Bunny Sugar Lips, my Saturday nights are no longer quite as risky. And yet, a trillion times more satisfying. Go figure, huh.


Don't you hate when you make a friend, and, they're a really good friend, and you spend a LOT of time with that friend, and they become one of your best friends, and you even live together for awhile... and then, one day, you realize...

That they've become a fucking MISERABLE DOUCHEBAG so convinced that their pathetic, unhappy way of life is the kind that everyone should be living, that they totally cut themselves off from the people that loved them the most because those people refuse to be all angsty and wallow in self-pity all day long?

No? Well lemme tell ya. It kinda sucks. Losing a friend is always shitty. This particular scenario I currently find myself in, however, is uncannily vicious. But I'm pretty much tired of pussy-footing around him, holding my tongue because I don't want to start shit. At last I can unleash all my fury unto him for his stupidity and total refusal to make a better life for himself, emotionally, anyways. And I gotta say, it's gunna be pretty sweet.


Now, because I have little else to contribute, I'm going to tell you about how my sex life is SO MUCH BETTER THAN YOURS. (Unless you're one of my close compadres, because I know the sex you have is fuckin awesome, as you all have spectacular taste in men.) (... ... Um, also, if you're part of mah Krew, and don't really feel like reading details of my sexual escapades, you can totally stop reading here, I fully understand.)

So, Super Magic Ultra Number One Happy Time Snuggle Bunny Sugar Lips, or, S.M.U.N.O.H.Y.S.B.S.L, as I like to call him, has serious fucking skills in the sack. You wouldn't think it to look at him, with his youthful blue eyes, sweet smile, and nerdy glasses. But maaa-aan. Dude can fuck like no one I've ever encountered. I've had more ridonkulously intense orgasms in the past three weeks than I've had in... well in probably my entire sexual history. And he loves it! He fucking LOVES being sweet to me aaalmost as much as likes The Big O for himself. One of the Yucky Ones used to proffess a love of making me come, that it was his passion, and yet, he rarely EVER did, but just assumed that he had in fact - as per always! - succeeded in doing just so, after he climaxed maaaaaaaaybe fifteen minutes post "I'm gunna fuck you aaaaaall night long."

Listen, everyone, I'm really sorry for doing this, because I fucking loooaathe people who boast and chatter about their respective lovebirds with very little care or concern as to your level of interest in such a subject, but I need to do it. I know that many of you, near and dear to my heart as you are, have lately undergone more than your share of frustration at the hands of a stupid, stupid boy, and truly trust me when I say that in no way do I desire to rub my happiness in your face, nor do I believe my situation untouchable from the many circumstances that inflicted your respective relationships, and indeed those of many before us. But I just... I guess I just really want you to know all the things that this boy does for me.

I mean... he listens to me. He really, really listens to me; doesn't use what I'm talking about as a segway for something to tell me about him. He asks me questions, about the things that I like and the person I am; what I want for myself in life, and my favourite kinds of music. Not only does he ask these questions, but he truly pays attention to the answers - he REMEMBERS things, to a fucking tee. Heh, he retains the shit that I say way more than I even do myself. He comes to visit me at work atleast twice a day, always with that smile on his face and kind words on his lips. And he'll take me anywhere. Anywhere I need to be, he's at my side to bring me there, almost entirely regardless of his situation. When he looks at me.. he really sees me. I'm not a fuck toy, or a manifestation of some deep-seeded fantasy of the sexy school teacher he used to masturbate to. I'm the person I've always longed to be to a man, yet thought totally impossible of being. He loves me.

I guess it's a bit hard for me to really convey how... foreign these feelings that I have for him are. Try... try imagining having come to - and in fact, enjoying - the realization that at this point in your life, you simply would not involve yourself in a relationship. You're 87% sure that it's the last thing you need or want, and are totally enjoying fucking whomever you see fit, with absolutely no one to answer to or reprecussions for what you do. It's wicked fun and entirely care-free. The independence and empowerment are exhileratingly thrilling. You know that men are for one thing only - your friends and family and everyone else are who you draw your support and affection from.

And then, like, imagine meeting, by some retarded stroke of what I can only refer to as LUCK, this boy who just pretty much does and is almost everything you've secretly wished for.

BLINDSIGHTED!!

When you're totally fuckin taken by suprise in a way that just really wasn't possible, it kinda breaks your brain. I dunno... I think at this point I'm probably not making a whole lot of sense. This isn't where I saw this thing going - the post, I mean. I should go back and proof read it; delete most of, I bet. But it's done, and I'm not entirely convinced that I actually care what it turns out as.

A POX ON YOU INTERNET, YOU HAVE GRANTED US TOO MUCH POWER.

I'm totally alive, and totally wanting to write about shit, but I just DOON'T HAVE THE POOWUR!

Meaning I'll get to it soon.

Keep on truckin,

Caro.

I so adore closing my store when I open the next morning.

Because I can fuck the dog so friggin royally. Although with our newly installed survelance system, I'm sure that I will, in due time, recieve some variation of slack about my aforementioned screwing of the pooch.

But fuck em, I do whut ah WAN'.


I pretty much loathe Everybody Loves Raymond. I have been watching it every day for almost two months, due to Madre's undying love for TBS, and because I can't bring myself to make her part with it, even for the duration of the show. Which, I should add, is on like, THREE TIMES IN A ROW, every fucking night. The thing is, I like Ray Romano. I thought for the the longest time that he was East-Indian, instead of Italian. He's kind of sexy, I think. In a really... you know, non-obvious way.

But I hate the show, because despite it's occasionally funny moments, it boasts the most irritating cast of characters in the history of situation comedies. His wife, his mother, his father, his brother, even the character Romano plays - they're all fucking douchebags. The whole lot of em. The show should be called Everybody Loves This Buncha Douchebags.

... Man am I ever clever.


I was under the impression that I was going to have an extended period of time to sit here and dig up shit to transform into hilarious and shiney pearls of wisdom, but I have just made some vague plans for the rest of my evening, and as such must depart, so to ready myself.


Peace out playas.

Day one today at The Place of Books. Having previous experience in such a setting, I shelved like a motherfucking bitch-whore.

I... don't know why I used that term as a positive.

But shelving is great. It's totally like those puzzles where you have to piece a picture together by sliding the little squares around. Though much, much easier. I can never solve those fucking things.

So I'm beginning the first stages of what will be a MASSIVE rearrangement of part of the fiction section, when Miss T walks by, glances down at what I'm doing, and stops.

"Um. Are you leaving those there?"

"... Pshhh. No. I was just setting them there so I could get these other ones in."

"Oh thank god, you almost gave me a heart attack! I was like, 'Steele does NOT belong next to Sparks!'"

"Haha, I know, huh?!"

She continues on.

... Man, I was sooo gunna leave those there. I'm a little terrified that I will be working under Nazi reign during the most stressful time of the year. At Chapters it was a little better; there were literally a hundred employees, and as such blame was difficult to delegate. Here, there are like, ten. So if something gets fucked up, we are all. Going. To pay.


If I'm not getting nailed to the MAX in the next 15 minutes, I am going to kill everyone withinin a ten-foot radius.

Blog-a-log-a-ding-dong!


What's that? Accesso permanente del Internet?

Sì, i miei amici!

That's friggin right, I can now blog from the Maxi Pad. Which is going to cause such a ruckus, since Mia Madre is as huge a fan of the information superhighway as I am. We will squabble over it like so many squirrels over so many nuts.

I don't suppose I have much to report, although I'm finding this whole monogamy thing to be quite an interesting change of pace. I've never done it before, and while I was fully expecting to be chomping at the bit, having a boy as sweet as mine, who can do things to me that this one can, is really pretty much the coolest thing ever.


So, the stay with Mia Padre was pretty much the worst thing ever. Uh, that is, the aftermath. I almost killed his fish. I didn't check the mail, OR walk the dog. The latter of which defecated all over the house, and which I then proceeded to not clean up properly, because, ew, that shit smells bad. Pun intended. And condoms? Unused and otherwise? Yeah, I left em aaaall over the place. I swear to GOD though, I really thought I hadn't. Padre came home and was all, "So... you're cut."

He had a miserable time in the Dominicana Rupublica. My father is the only person on the planet physically capable of being unhappy in a tropical paradise. It's actually kind of impressive.

Yes, well, I really must head in the direction of my bed, which has laid unslept-in for almost a fortnight. I have an early meeting with my may-unnn.


Sogni dolci, pubblici delicati.


OH, and turns out, Gilmore Girls is actually really cute and only slightly irritating. Who knew!

If anyone attempts to ask me what a love rhombus is, I'm going to explode your brain with my Super Magic Exploding powers that you totally know I have. So don't fuck with that.

Hmm, what tales to spin you on this frosty, November eve...

Perhaps a bit on Rave Life? Sure.

Raves - or, parties, as they are called by those in the know to avoid the negative connotations that surround the term 'rave' - are beautiful things. They truly are, because everything is happiness. The music and people and drugs; everything is happy, and there is very little belligerence or discord. ...Although there is a lot of vomitting. And at the end of the night, almost everyone goes home and gets their respective MDMA-fried brains fucked right out.

But, with all that awesomeness, parties can be a pretty scary place to be. A bad trip can take you to some really awful places, both physically and emotionally. It's so easy to feel alone and trapped, which is actually the worst thing ever, especially when you're high, and horny as all fuck. That happened to D, last weekend at the Halloween rave; it's happened to us all, I think, at least once, and it forever taints every experience you have thereafter. You tell yourself that it ain't gunna, that it was just that night, you know, what the fuck ever. But the next time, there's always that memory of the awfulness hovering around up there, and a lot of the time, you end up totally sabatoging yourself with that memory. It's fuckin sick.

Woo, brain farts!


So, I have a boyfriend. It's delicious and perplexing, and so... NOT WHAT I WAS EXPECTING. Oh please, I know that that's what they say. "Never when you expect it," I fucking know. And yet here it is, and like... I don't know what to do with myself, I just really don't.

The dog got into all the pizza boxes that I left lying around here. Massacred, they were. Strewn about the kitchen, bent and bitten every which way. If they were anything other than greasy food containers, it might almost be a little bit sad..

Greetings.

Welcome, to The Love Rhombus.

This is a brief continuation of a web log that used to exist, and that I loved and was awesome, but had to be shutdown, due to unwanted readers.

Everything was deleted; destroyed; stricken from the record.

Which is kinda fuckin lame because... it was good shit, and served as a reminder to me of some of the things I've done with my life - small, unremarkable things; the memories of which will probably get swept away altogether in time - and I no longer have any proof that those things ever really happened at all.

But who gives a shit. I start anew.


The name's Caro. Come join The Love Rhombus, won't you?