On Voting

So you say you believe in the right to privacy, the right to private property, and the invisible hand? You're a progressive Canadian, you just want what's best for the nation?
Well, we can talk about it. You want to compare curves, graphs, cite the data? I'm all over it. I'll fight ya, and we'll have fun. But don't be calling yourself a "Progressive Canadian, libertarian, etc", if you feel the need to huck in those little comments about the women in power, or downplay the gay marriage issue. Don't tell me it's about figures. Don't tell me the curves don't lie.
Admit it, you're here to maintain the status quo, not because the money flows, but because you just can't handle the idea that you ain't the best, the brightest, the boldest. You're cauco-hetero-testicular genes don't mean squat, and that's just the way it's gonna be.
If you can actually come up with a "semi-libertarian" argument that doesn't infringe on the liberties of anyone who's not a straight, white, middle aged, middle to upper class man, I'll listen. Until then, you're no better than the fucking KKK.
Don't spew your numbers at me, asshole. I flunked econometrics. And that qualifies me just as much as it does you.

I Win

Why? Because I always do.
I don't know what you're doing tonight, but my guess is it's not this.
I've got Feist playing, The Kid's sleeping like an angel, Satan's Cat's sleeping like...whatever, and the fish are beating their little noggin's against the side of the tank over, and over, and over. Candles are burning, the palm tree may not be dying, and I'm perusing the web, skimming for potential politics which I could use in my "management journal" which is due tomorrow, and which I haven't quite started yet.
The rent's due tomorrow, and the bank account says $-0.43, but hey, who's counting? Not me. And you know why? Well, we already went over that: I win.
Life's a game. You win, or you lose, and if you lose, you die. The most important thing I learned, I learned while between homes, and between money. Woke up in the morning, and thought to myself; I've got two choices, find food and shelter, or let one empty stomach make me really fucking cranky before I die of exposure. And I mean, where's the choice there? When it comes down to it, dying isn't an option, so you find food, you make friends with strangers, just so you can steal a shower, dress in your best despite the fact that you're freezing your ass off, bum money from the cafe to copy your resume, get a job, cajole you're brand spankin' new coworker into letting you move in, rent pending, and get on with life. Because, really, some choices are so fucking easy.
Lesson One: Don't sweat the big stuff. Because losing is never an option. And when the Big Stuff goes wrong, you lose.
And I never lose.
Am I going to wake up tomorrow and think; Well, don't have rent, may as well get evicted, and spend the rest of the semester and the holiday's couch surfing with The Kid, leaving all my furniture behind, giving away Satan's Cat, and flushing the fish? Do I have to answer that?
Lesson One: Don't sweat the big stuff.
There's enough small shit out there to sweat out. Sure, I might land on luxury tax ever once in a while, and I always buy those stupid utilities, but I don't lose the game. Some people might, it's happened before, it'll happen again, but not to me. I don't lose. My life is so absolutely and completely mine, and you can't be me and not win.
Conceited? Nope. Well, maybe a little arrogant. But that's not the issue here. I sweat the small stuff. How'm I gonna motivate myself next semester, when I don't give a fuck anymore? Why do I keep breaking out like a fourteen year old boy when I'm going grey? What right do you have to be more pissed at me then I am at you? Who the fuck are you, and how do you know my name? Why don't I have a memory? But the big stuff? That'd entail losing. And that ain't gonna happen.
So I'm gonna have a beer, seriously consider starting my journal, listen to Feist, and snuggle with the now-conscious and chomping/purring/drooling Satan's Cat.
Because like it or not, this is what winning looks like, chump.

Cats Are Stupid

But they're funny. And this kinda made me pee my pants a little.

A Theme?

That's right, it's the start of a new series. It shall be about me, and I shall call it A Day In The Life. I can't guarantee it'll be interesting, or that I'll add more than the one that's there, really, but it'll be on my sidebar, glaring at me, and hopefully guilting me into adding posts. So there you have it. Days, picked at random, any number from day 1 to day 10130. Although I doubt I'll add day 1 because I don't remember it. And most of the other days will be estimates.
Good enough.
And if in the process of creating a new list in the sidebar, my links get really, really small, so be it. Not my fault, I may figure out how to fix it at a later date, but for now, just know that it wasn't on purpose. Just hope you don't have any avid, far-sighted, readers who only know how to reach you through me.

Day 1825

I woke up that morning in the throws of a short lived period of childish cuteness. The deathly malnourished look of a sickly newborn had passed, and the buck teeth that would be my nemesis in future years had yet to grow in.

Today was Father-Daughter day, and the Big Sister was not invited. Preparation began. Clothes were layered, more layers were added, then topped off with another layer for good measure. The front hall closet was raided, stripped, and repacked, after the discovery of two matching mittens. Or not, the closet may have been raided, stripped, and defeat admitted with the donning of two mismatched mittens.

The car was plugged in and ready to go, the snow was thick, and the fields waited.

Leaving a heated car in the middle of winter in the middle of Saskatchewan is one of the hardest things a person can do. The fact that this act is demanded of countless five year old girls time and time again, is a testament to the true strength of human nature. I, young, unknowing of the battle that this entailed, laced a pair of second hand boots, lost, then panicked, then found, one miscreant mitten, and left the car. Poles flailed, skis hit the snow, and one father-daughter team headed across the bounty of flat for a day of cross-country skiing.

Cross-country skiing isn't something you do for fun. It's not enjoyable, it doesn't offer any thrills, or challenge, and in Saskatchewan, it isn't even about the scenery. After all, you've seen it all the second you stepped out of the car. But it is about the noise. That endless, repetitive Shh-shh, shh-shh of your skis cutting through the silence is similar to the sound of a dryer going around. Buddhist monks would love cross-country skiing.

Did I say it offered no challenge? That is true. What it offers is the slow break down of ability. That constant expenditure of near minimal effort, while you slowly grow more conscious of how many layers of clothing you really are wearing, and how much those layers hinder your movements. The heat of exertion from the inside, combined with a bone-chilling cold seeping in from the outside, until your body is so confused it just wants to give up, go home.

But when you're five, you can't do that. Because this is Father-Daughter day, and the Older Sister wasn't invited. You have to keep going, because this here, this is special time. So you go. And your toes get colder, and colder. After a while, they start to hurt, and the hurt grows. Soon, they burn, and you have to tell your dad. Because you can't stop crying, and the tears are freezing to your cheeks, and making your cheeks burn too.

Then you turn back, and you cry the whole way back to the car. Then you cry the whole way back to the house. And when you get home, your dad carries you, barefoot, into the house, and into the bathroom, where he runs a tub of lukewarm water. You sit on the edge of the tub, wrapped in a blanket, drowned in hot chocolate, with only your feet in the water. Your dad comes in every five minutes to raise the temperature of the water, just a touch.
When he's not in the bathroom, you can hear them yelling at each other. Your mom is furious, terrified. Your dad is terrified, and furious. Every time he comes in to pour more hot water into the tub (just a bit at a time, mind you), he yells at you for not telling him your feet were cold sooner.

You're tired, and your feet still hurt. When your older, you'll understand that your dad was furious because he felt guilty. He should have known better, should have taken you home sooner. He's a nurse, for Christ's sake, in med school. When you're five, you don't understand the terrors inherent with child rearing. The idea that you can take your child out for a day, and frost bite may take their toes for life. All you know is that your feet hurt.

But you, you hadn't said anything. And he hadn't asked. Because for him too, this was special Father-Daughter time, and all there was to think about was those endless expanses of white, broken only by two long tracks. (His tracks, my skis followed the trail he broke.) The gray sky, the shh-shh sound of the skis on snow, the knowledge that this is special time. Following, leading, two little lumps of heat in an infinity of cold.

And who wants to worry about toes then?

Morbid? Nah, It's Eddie.

You will drink too much gin. Not the worst way to
die, but you won't remember too much of your
life. Hey, at least you made some people laugh!

What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?

Bad, Bad Blogger

I post. I do. Really.

Anywho, my parent's cat died a couple of weeks ago. (Not dialysis cat, that's the other parents.) I fully meant to write a eulogy to that cat, but I forgot, or got distracted, or never really cared that much in the first place. But this does give me a great excuse to post this pretty little pic of father and cat for all your viewing pleasure:





Sniklefritz loves long walks on the beach, boat life, and fucking with the rotties.





Cute, no? It makes me think it should have some kind of theme song, something sweet, but a little morose. Sort of along the lines of that song, you know, by that band? Cat's in the Cradle? Something like that.

Leads to a couple of questions, though:
1) Who the hell names a cat Sniklefritz?
2) Who takes his cat for a walk on the beach?
3) Rottweilers are kind of dangerous, aren't they?

Well, I'm sure you're thrilled to hear that I do have the answers for you:
1) My dad. And Granny off The Big Comfy Couch. Don't think my dad's ever seen that show, so there's no connection there.
2) Boaters. To a cat, a beach is a giant litterbox. Just like the ocean is a giant toilet. Boaters love cats. My stats may be a little skewed, because I've only spent time at two live aboard marinas, but an inordinate number of boats seem to have cats on them. It may be a throwback to the old plague days, when rats were more than a pain in the ass, it may just be that sharing close quarters with a great dane that can't be walked is rather unfeasible. Sniklefritz was a great boat cat. Satan's Cat is not a great boat cat. She had some problems with geese. But then again, Satan's Cat has never been lucky with wildlife. Kind of like my old room mate Pam. Remind me to tell you about Pam and The Elk one day. Okay, back on the original tangent. Or topic one, or where ever the heck I am.
3) Yes, Virginia, rottweilers are kinda dangerous. Hence, the ex-cat.

Now that that's out of the way I'd like to say that I'm gonna try to work on a more regular posting schedule here. Chances are not writing simply because I have nothing to say will only lead to writers atrophy (not that I'm calling myself a writer, you don't have to be pro to get tennis elbow, you know....) and writers atrophy will only lead to the death of one more pointless and irrelevant blog. And that would be a sad, sad demise. Much worse than the cat, that.
On the other hand, dosing out a daily (or bi-weekly) edition of innanity may actually lead to some increase in capability. You never know until you try, I say no I don't somebody says.
Hold me to it. Go on. I dare ya.

Hmmmm, that pic isn't quite right, is it? What's up with the white semi-border? Well, not much to do, I'm not gonna try to fix that now. So we'll live with imperfection. Oh, and remind me next time to just put the picture at the top of the post. It shouldn't take this much effort to try to position the fucking thing.

So Now You Know

Haymaker

You are one of life’s enjoyers, determined to get the most you can out of your brief spell on Earth. Probably what first attracted you to atheism was the prospect of liberation from the Ten Commandments, few of which are compatible with a life of pleasure. You play hard and work quite hard, have a strong sense of loyalty and a relaxed but consistent approach to your philosophy.

You can’t see the point of abstract principles and probably wouldn’t lay down your life for a concept though you might for a friend. Something of a champagne humanist, you admire George Bernard Shaw for his cheerful agnosticism and pursuit of sensual rewards and your Hollywood hero is Marlon Brando, who was beautiful, irascible and aimed for goodness in his own tortured way.

Sometimes you might be tempted to allow your own pleasures to take precedence over your ethics. But everyone is striving for that elusive balance between the good and the happy life. You’d probably open another bottle and say there’s no contest.
What kind of humanist are you? Click here to find out.

May 16

Why? Because Shadow likes that day.
Why Shadow? Let me count the ways....
First, lets start with the obvious/redundant:
Well, her mom's funeral sucked. Those who did care about her, hadn't seen her in years. Those who "knew her", hadn't known her for days.
But it doesn't really matter how much of an extrovert or introvert you are, when it comes down to it, no one will know you, or love you, like your children.
And so we have: Shadow.
And it's her turn to take life like she wants too. (You know I'm dying to take up the fight and kick some ass here). But It's her day, to do as she wants, even if that means restraining me from any asskickery that oughta be done.
Why?

Because:

Shadow will hate you, unerringly, and without pity, if she wants to.
She won't fake her way through life, she knows. And she will be.

Shadow will help you, with anything, on anyday, if you need it.
She just will. Because she can. Even if she can't, she'll find a way.

Shadow will cry. At any moment. And it will make you cry too.
She understands the most precious seconds are the best.

Shadow will kick your ass. Trust me. She's kicked my ass.
And it hurts. Either drink lots, or don't piss her off.

Shadow will accept anything. Unerringly. She will not compare it to her life, she will not devalue it, whatever you say, Shadow will take at face value, and rate it on her own private scale. And then, whatever the weights, in Shadow's world you will come out as human. It doesn't matter what you do, to her, you are a fuckup who needs a bitch slap, or a dummass who needs a wake up call.
Whatever she decrees, to Shadow, all people are human, and equal. Although Shadow doesn't define herself as a socialist (she's an environmentalist), she lives equality in a way that most people can only strive for.
She hates people. She loves people. Either way, it's always on her own terms.

One last note: Shadow is one of the most level headed people I know, which is why it always makes my giddy with delight when I can make her rage, or cry. So Shadow, if I've made you rage, or cry lately, it was probably on purpose. My bad. Except for that tonight thing. That was "differerent".

On Wildlife: Fuck It

So I rolled out of bed this morning and stepped right on a motherfucking parakeet. Stepping on a parakeet first thing in the morning kicks the ass of getting up on the wrong side of the bed, and let me tell you, those motherfucking parakeets are the worst. Not only do you have squashed parakeet to cope with, you also have all the incest-related parakeet goo slathered to your naked soles.
So that put an end to my oft reinstated, rarely abided by oath of grime, because I may go weeks without bathing, but paraslime is beyond even me. Needless to say, the necessary podiasterilization process took some time, making me late, and a little fucking cranky.
Hopped out of the shower, and my cat gave me a friendly reminder that her breakfast was sorely missed by slitting my throat from ear to ear. Tossed her some parakeet corpses, dropped the kid at daycare, and headed over to the O.R. to visit my parents old buds and get my throat stitched back together.
Course the whole process ended with me missing my morning lecture, and sent my well planned day of productivity into a tailspin. So I smoked. A lot. Wrote a couple of medleys on candy and fruit, sang said medleys, smoked some more, tried to toss a cigarette song into said medleys, couldn't come up with any....the day generally improved.
Until.....
Fucking camel. It's all about the fucking camel. Thought things were good, had some lunch, (turkey sandwich, on sourdough, with edam), headed out for yet another nicotine fix, and tripped over a motherfucking camel.
That there's not literal. The camel was not fucking his mother, at that time. Wouldn't put it passed 'im though.
Then that fucker gave me lip. Oh yeah, he did too. So you know how it goes from there, don't you? Yeah? Well, I'm gonna tell you about it anyway:

So first I kicked that camel in the shins. Cause it doesn't matter how many times you tell them your gonna do it, they always think you're gonna aim for the balls. Well fuck that shit, the shins double em up just as fast, and ain't nothin better then watching their little camel snouts comin down to meet up with your knee. I say kapow, I do.
Anyway, security's pretty speedy round my parts, so I dragged that battered camel out of the public eye and to the elevator where I could relive my fav scene from Silence of the Lambs. Ripped that little camel face off with my teeth, and stuffed into the florecents. No, not the whole camel, you think I can lift a camel over my head? Lets get a little reality here, people. Just the face. The rest of the camel, I dragged home with me.
Once home, I struck a deal with the cat. I'd let her live, despite the murder attempt of the morning, and not even lay charges, if she'd aid me with the really dirty work. So she set those twenty little razor claws to action, and sliced that cloven hooved quadruped neatly into shish kebabs. Then, we reveled in our sado-bonding experience (that's bonding, not bondage, you sick fuck), had a couple hot buttered rums, and feasted on kabobs.
Had some rum left, but why waste the good stuff? So to further our mission (the cat was now my full accomplice. Don't get me wrong, she has nothing against camels, she just likes torture), we headed back up the the college and busted in to the chem lab. Rambo-style chaos ensued, and we vacated in proud possession of one of those thingy's that you heat, and some shit goes one way, while some shit goes another. What are those? What ev.
Anyway, back to not wasting the good shit:
So robbed the liquor store (not blasphemous, Scruffy's has shitty selection anyway), and gots us some Wildcat, king of the crappiest beer ever made. Hucked it in that chem lab thang, and filtered out the water until that Wildcat beer was pure Wildcat gold.
Good timing too, those kebabs were starting to kick things up a notch in the old intestines. Whipped together a pentagram on the balcony, shit out some camel kebab dead center in that pentegram, and summoned one very unhappy camel spirit back into it's now digested body. Let me tell you, by that point, he was one fucking miserable camel.
Mocked the steaming pile of possessed camel-shit for a bit (nothing hurts like mockery), then poured our 40 proof Wildcat over the shitcamel, and lit that pile on fire.
Burn, camel baby, burn. Ever seen a camel scream? Well, I have.
Me and the cat are gonna keep that bonfire goin all night long. Watch the sun set, have some hot buttered rums, maybe make a rum cake. Tell some scary stories.
What about the SPCA? Animal cruelty prevention, and all that? Yeah, fuck them. Me and the cat, we's bonding.
The Kid, where's she at? You gonna submit her to this lunacy? Fuck no, I got a babysitter. Saving her morality/sanity? Hell, no. This is family shit here.

She's just allergic to camels.

What....Is That Thing?

It started last night. I went to bed, and felt this strange tingling in my limbs. This odd, yet enthralling sensation....I think....I'm pretty sure...Oh yes, it is....A combination of motivation and energy.
Channel that shit? I don't fucking think so. I've got sporadic attacks of creativity to use and abuse here. Fuck focus.
Alrighty then, I'm gonna need:
5 cans paint
1 computer information systems major
2 curtains
1 turkey
A whole whack of testicles
Laundry detergent.

Yeah, baby, I'm on my way!

How Did I Not Plan This?

Work less party party?
Naked in public, and I'm not the only one?
Body painting and spanking booths?
Why was this not my idea?

I guess I know what I'm too old for now....It's all about time and place. Kissin' and spankin' random strangers oughta be for charity, and when getting drunk and naked, there oughta be more naked people around than just me. Time and place it is.
Now what are the odds that I can get away with ditching my parents with The Kid while they're here visiting by saying I'm going to a political event....dressed in paint?

On another note, I have proven once again that I am a complete and total hypochondriac. I've had a bit of an ear infection for the past month or so, and my hearing statics out on me, and then I've got nothin. But they ban you from the parenthood club if you can't diagnose a simple ear infection, so I'm not about to go the a doctor for that shit.
Last night, Mr. Holland's Opus was on tv, and you guessed it, this morning I headed straight to the doctors, convinced that I'm going deaf. Yeah, tv moves me.
Verdict? Blow up balloons. Doctor's orders. So now you know. Of course, I hate balloons, but I hate not hearing more, and they are a hell of a lot cheaper than drugs. Less side effects, too.
Balloons it is.

Shit. I just realized that the fact that I hate:
1. Balloons
2. Clowns
3. Monkeys
Probably qualifies me for worst mother of the year. Damn.
Or quite possibly just an evil person.

Well, at least I have great tits.
I'm gonna go blow some balloons now.

Random Lyrics Combined With Excessive Obscenities

And The weight is crushing down
On my lungs,
And I can't breath
When it comes down to it, I'm to fucking old for this shit.
What shit, you say? Fucked if I know. If I knew what, exactly, it is that I'm to old for, I'd just cull that shit from the list of things that I do, and stick with what's age appropriate.
No I wouldn't.
Maybe to old to be makin' out with the buds. How many those boys did I sneak a quicky (no, I'm being facetious, I did not fuck anyone in the potty) with in the bar washroom last night? All of them? Fuck no. I can name at least two people I did not make out with last night. And define makin' out, will ya? Cause kissin ain't applicable, I kiss pretty much anyone. Hell, I kiss my ma with this mouth, chances are I can kiss you too. Still, I'm too fucking old for something, give me a minute, I'll figure out what the fuck that is. Maybe it's this potty mouth of mine. Dunno. All's I can say is Momma needs a beer, and soon as that liquor store opens, I'm on my way
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKIt's Remembrance Day. Ain't no way that liquor stores gonna openMOTHER FUCKING SON OF A WHORE COCKSUCKING BITCH FACED CUNT OF A HOLIDAY, MOMMA NEEDS A BEER
I'm okay. I'm okay, I just need a beer. That's not a problem. I am not an alchoholic, I just need a beer some days. And if that's Remembrance Day at eight in the morning, well hell, so be it.
Your ship may be coming in,
You're weak but not giving in,
You'll fight, and go on,
Fighting all of them.
Them fun and funky Swedes that I do love so have come up with a new way of ditching the corpse when you die. Freeze dry the fucker, then work from there, and Hey Presto, no carcinogenes. (What with the cremation and all.)
You'll fight, and you'll make it through,
You'll fake it, if you have to,
And you'll show off the world, with a smile.
When I die, I wanna be freeze dried. Maybe I'm morbid, but I've been a little concerned with the fact that I can't even die without fucking up the environment.
Now, I've got a way. And by the time I kick the bucket (84 yrs, emphysema), they oughta have perfected that shit. I will die in an environmentally friendly manner, dammit.
I still want an open casket funeral, though. They can freeze dry me after that. I need to get in one last grand Fuck You. I want my corpse with one arm out, finger pointed at the sky. I think people would feel better about me passing, if they could make some racist, or right wing, or anti-feminist, comment to my body, and see that ol' bird flipped off in their face. One last go.
You'll be a Real Good Listener,
You'll be honest, You'll be brave,
You'll be handsome, You'll be beautiful
Why can't I get beer again? Oh yeah, Remembrance Day. I'd down one for you, gramps, but I don't have any. So here's to you. I never met you, but hey, I owe ya one. You fought wars, and they didn't kill you. Made you old when you were still young, unforgiving and uncompromising. And without you? They just would have fucked up some other boys life. Paschendale ate far better men for breakfast. But you lived.
I never knew you, but I owe ya. If you hadn't have died, the parents wouldn't have returned to Saskatchewan. But you did die. And set the ball in motion that started my life (technically, there are infinite points in history that could have been the start of my life, but we're working with the theory that it all started when Egg met Sperm.)
Did you die for a good cause? Fuck no. Heart attack. Did you fight for a good cause? Fuck no. You we're young, scared, and living in a trench. You just pointed, and shot, and tried like hell not to be shot back. But you did play football with the Germans on Christmas Day, and that made the history books.
Cheers, gramps, you're famous. You don't really give a fuck though, do you?
Well, Dad doesn't play anymore, but he still loves the marching bands. So there ya go. Something you cared about lived on. It was worth it.
Your ship may be coming in,
You're weak but not giving in,
You'll fight it, you'll go on
Fighting all of them.
And Gramps, without you, I would not be here trying to figure out how to find a beer at nine on a Remembrance Day morning. You shoulda drank more buddy. Then maybe we'd have something in common.

On The Guilt of Abstinence

So my week of solitude has come to an end, and what have I got to say? Sweet fuck all. But I'm starting to feel that pressure of obligation, my blog stares at me blankly, and I've still got nothing.
Something to do with a week's worth of silence, I've grown accustomed to it. Not saying I have nothing to say, but do we really need another bout of random song lyrics here? I don't think so.

I did promise C. I'd write a glorious eulogy to her mothers sleepover party, but I need inspiration to do justice to the event. All I can say about it now is:
a) C., your mom is coming to your birthday. Fuck your say in the matter, she's coming out. And you will do her justice. The tequila's a waitin'.
b) I'm counting down the days 'till menopause. If that justifies me acting like those women, I'm all over it.

Well, a weeks worth of nothing leads to a total lack of original thought, but I think I've already mentioned that. Let's just fill in the blanks with one liners, shall we? Here goes:

• I can't save every pigeon. Despite my unrelenting efforts, I lost a pigeon yesterday. I then left the corpse in the biology lab, they don't mind that sort of thing kicking around, do they? Nah.
• No matter what you might have heard, Bill Bryson does not write about fucking. It's a bald faced lie.
• After a week of obsessive yoga, I can now touch my toes. But only when I can catch them. Still, I'm 5'10", they are pretty freakin' far away. Be impressed.
• C.'s mom rocks. But don't drink anything she serves you, you will suffer. And suffer some more. She is a cruel and evil woman, do not trust her.
• If you wear bunny slippers to a pub, it doesn't matter how long you huck them in the back of the closet for, they will still smell like stale beer. But who the fuck is actually gonna wash bunny slippers? Do you know how long those take to dry? Four days. Fuck that.
• Doesn't matter if I'm wearing stale-beer-bunny-slippers or not, I still don't want you sniffing my feet. Just don't.
• Erica is angry. That's just a general statement of fact. Not in relation to anything. Just wanted another link here.
• Like porn? Click here, click here!
• Hah! Suckas! Bet I had you fooled, didn't I? Is there something wrong with me that a) I find Women Against Feminism the funniest thing on the face of the planet and b) that article strikes me as slightly less funny, and a little more disturbing?
• One of my closest friends had a baby a couple of days ago, and I keep forgetting to call her, because I keep forgetting she had a baby. There is a chance I may be the most self-absorbed person ever born. Shoot for the stars, baby.
• Yup. I got nothin'. There was some great reads in the news lately, but I don't remember what they were, and they'd be old hat by now, anyway. Some I'm done.
• Late entry: Apparently God made the world on October 23. I'd link you to the source of this info, but I was overwhelmed by giddy amusment by this little tidbit, and closed the page, never to be found again. Can anyone explain to me why I find this so dang funny?

To My Local Schmoes

I know, my week of solitude is supposed to be up today, but I just don't feel like coming back yet. I'm not in the best of moods, and I'm not cruel enough to inflict me on the rest of you. Yes, C., if your husband will watch The Kid, I'll be out tomorrow, but I'm not promising to be good company.
Oh, and if anyone feels like entertaining The Kid this weekend, I'm sure you're much more fun than me right now, so feel free to take her day tripping. I'll love you forever, as I'm sure she will too. Of course, she already loves you forever, but she's got a lot of love to give, I'm sure she could drum up some more.
Anyway, I'll probably return sometime next week, I know you're all waiting with your panties in a knot. What can I say, coffee's just not the same without me, is it?