I am in Southern Indiana. . . for the fam. . . am defintiely collecting stories.
In the meantime, quick observation from American Apparel -- I was in there with my sister yesterday, staring slack-jawed at the walls papered with psuedo-porn, when I realized that all the hipster cotton jockeys were dancing around to the song "Don't Stop Thinkin' About Tomorrow. . . "
I was staring directly at a terrycloth shorts/tubetop combo jumper when the lyrics "YESTERDAY'S GONE/YESTERDAY'S GONE!" were blaring in my ears.
IS yesterday gone, American Apparel? If yesterday's gone, why do you keep bringing back the most heinous aspects of it?
That's all.
UPDATE: Ohmigod, y'all, what's worse than that atrocity on a hanger?
That atrocity on a bed.
Now, THAT is all.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Someone call Magnum P.I.
Dear Tivo:
I wish you could talk.
I would even learn the rudiments of a foriegn language for you, say, if you didn't speak English.
We'd have so many fascinating conversations. I would love to hear your take on things. Sometimes I think I know what you're thinking -- like, "Why did you put 'Friends' on your Season Pass Manager?'"
The answer there is, who knows? Maybe it was a fit of nostalgia for the late nineties. I wonder that every time a random episode shows up in my playlist.
But, I know I was the one who put it there.
Just like I had that whole Carey Grant fascination last year, which is why you are, even as I write this, recording Gunga Din. But enough Carey Grant.
So, I went to change the settings on my Wishlist, which is when I saw that someone, and, Tivo, I'm not saying this is you, but someone put "Spanking & movies" on my wishlist.
Tivo, I am pretty sure that wasn't me.
And, if you could talk, I'm sure you'd finger the culprit.
Then I could ask them, "Why didn't you auto record?"
Just think of all the spanking movies we've been missing out on.
Okay, TTYL, LYLAS, BFF and stuff!
RJ
I wish you could talk.
I would even learn the rudiments of a foriegn language for you, say, if you didn't speak English.
We'd have so many fascinating conversations. I would love to hear your take on things. Sometimes I think I know what you're thinking -- like, "Why did you put 'Friends' on your Season Pass Manager?'"
The answer there is, who knows? Maybe it was a fit of nostalgia for the late nineties. I wonder that every time a random episode shows up in my playlist.
But, I know I was the one who put it there.
Just like I had that whole Carey Grant fascination last year, which is why you are, even as I write this, recording Gunga Din. But enough Carey Grant.
So, I went to change the settings on my Wishlist, which is when I saw that someone, and, Tivo, I'm not saying this is you, but someone put "Spanking & movies" on my wishlist.
Tivo, I am pretty sure that wasn't me.
And, if you could talk, I'm sure you'd finger the culprit.
Then I could ask them, "Why didn't you auto record?"
Just think of all the spanking movies we've been missing out on.
Okay, TTYL, LYLAS, BFF and stuff!
RJ
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Extremely Hott and Incredibly Asleep
This New York Post article is awesome. Or, at least, the first couple of paragraphs are.
This probably could have been written by Susan and me. As she likes to say, if she met JSF, she would "scream like a Japanese girl at a Michael Jackson concert."
(via Gawker)
March 28, 2006 -- LATELY, I've been having this recurring dream where I'm alternately beating up and making out with Jonathan Safran Foer. In the dream, we are standing in a small, sunlit room. "You know, I really think your writing style is precocious," I'll say, and push him around a bit. Next, we start kissing. Then I take him to task on his narrative flow and excessive use of adjectives, while he holds my hand and tells me I'm pretty.
This probably could have been written by Susan and me. As she likes to say, if she met JSF, she would "scream like a Japanese girl at a Michael Jackson concert."
(via Gawker)
BRAIN SHIVERS! Never Coming Soon To a Venue Near You
So, due to some ugly brain chemistry situations, I have been on an antidepressant, Effexor XR, for a few years now. When I first started taking the drug, I was so completely depressed, distressed, and tearstained that I didn't do any sort of research, rather, I clung to the prescription slip from my doctor like a liferaft and waited for something to please, please, help me.
And it did help me. A lot. I'm more or less a normal human being these days.
Unless, as I have been known to do upon occasion, I neglect to take my meds.
The alarming thing about the drug that I am on, the thing that might have freaked me out to no end if I had done some googling prior to popping the pills, is that it has hellish withdrawal symptoms. The symptoms begin within hours of a missed dose. So, for example, if I miss a dose in the morning, by 3 PM I am starting to feel a weird dizziness, by 7PM I am nauseous, and, on the rare occasion that I go to bed without having swallowed a capsule, I sleep very hard and dream Technicolor fever dreams.
So, I try not to miss a dose. In fact, I try very hard to make sure I'm never without -- I have pills stashed all over the place. Somehow, though, this month, I waited until the last minute to refill my meds -- I took every pill in the house, then I called Walgreen's on Sunday and didn't get there in time to pick up my refill. Which meant a forced full 48 hours between doses.
This has happened before, when I've been traveling, for example, and have forgotten to grab my pill bottle off the kitchen counter. What happens is that I become a Raving Lunatic.
I walk down the street with a full understanding of why homeless people twitch and scream at phantom enemies and pull their hair out. Because that's what it is like inside my head.
Yesterday, waiting for the pharmacy to (please please) open at 9AM, I did some Internet research, and found a brilliant explanation of That Thing That Happens In My Brain -- it's incredibly, called BRAIN SHIVERS! Man, I wish I could play an instrument, because that would so be my band name. I very happily stumbled upon this explanation, which beautifully articulates the whole thing. "The Electric Brain Thing!" Yes! That is both absolutely accurate AND a great album name! Sort of retro seventies, how very.
It's bizarre and torturous, and because I'm me, I also think it's weirdly hilarious.
I wrote this email to Sarah yesterday, as she is my clinical consultant AND BFF so, like, she can think it's funny but also let me know if I need professional help. I mean, beyond what I'm already getting. You know. Oh, and, technically, she also prescribes me my meds, so, it's good to let her know what's up.
-----Original Message-----
From: RJ
Sent: Monday, March 27, 2006 11:41 AM
To: Sarah
Subject: meds
I am tempted to write a post about how loopy and goofy I am today as I forgot to take my Crazy Pills yesterday and therefore am like a Drooling Lunatic in a normal person's body. Have done things today like:
- scared the eff out of the cat by walking into the kitchen for coffee, seeing her, and screaming, "TIME TO MAKE THE DONUTS!" then laughing maniacally while she runs away.
- Realized I was twitching on the train platform as this old lady stared at me.
- Using Random CAPS
On 3/27/06, Sarah wrote:
What do you mean you were "twitching"??
On 3/27/06, RJ wrote:
Well, I had a cramp in my leg that I was trying to stretch and I was making faces like, "I'm annoyed at this cramp and in pain" and was maybe mouthing words to myself like, "motherfucker" and such. Basically raving like a lunatic.
On 3/27/06, Sarah wrote:
Ok, that's different. I wanted to rule out true neurological symptoms.
Now take your meds!!
PHEW! Neurological symptoms RULED OUT!
Now, I gotta go, cuz, IT IS TIME TO MAKE THE MOTHERFUCKING DONUTS, Y'ALL!
And it did help me. A lot. I'm more or less a normal human being these days.
Unless, as I have been known to do upon occasion, I neglect to take my meds.
The alarming thing about the drug that I am on, the thing that might have freaked me out to no end if I had done some googling prior to popping the pills, is that it has hellish withdrawal symptoms. The symptoms begin within hours of a missed dose. So, for example, if I miss a dose in the morning, by 3 PM I am starting to feel a weird dizziness, by 7PM I am nauseous, and, on the rare occasion that I go to bed without having swallowed a capsule, I sleep very hard and dream Technicolor fever dreams.
So, I try not to miss a dose. In fact, I try very hard to make sure I'm never without -- I have pills stashed all over the place. Somehow, though, this month, I waited until the last minute to refill my meds -- I took every pill in the house, then I called Walgreen's on Sunday and didn't get there in time to pick up my refill. Which meant a forced full 48 hours between doses.
This has happened before, when I've been traveling, for example, and have forgotten to grab my pill bottle off the kitchen counter. What happens is that I become a Raving Lunatic.
I walk down the street with a full understanding of why homeless people twitch and scream at phantom enemies and pull their hair out. Because that's what it is like inside my head.
Yesterday, waiting for the pharmacy to (please please) open at 9AM, I did some Internet research, and found a brilliant explanation of That Thing That Happens In My Brain -- it's incredibly, called BRAIN SHIVERS! Man, I wish I could play an instrument, because that would so be my band name. I very happily stumbled upon this explanation, which beautifully articulates the whole thing. "The Electric Brain Thing!" Yes! That is both absolutely accurate AND a great album name! Sort of retro seventies, how very.
It's bizarre and torturous, and because I'm me, I also think it's weirdly hilarious.
I wrote this email to Sarah yesterday, as she is my clinical consultant AND BFF so, like, she can think it's funny but also let me know if I need professional help. I mean, beyond what I'm already getting. You know. Oh, and, technically, she also prescribes me my meds, so, it's good to let her know what's up.
-----Original Message-----
From: RJ
Sent: Monday, March 27, 2006 11:41 AM
To: Sarah
Subject: meds
I am tempted to write a post about how loopy and goofy I am today as I forgot to take my Crazy Pills yesterday and therefore am like a Drooling Lunatic in a normal person's body. Have done things today like:
- scared the eff out of the cat by walking into the kitchen for coffee, seeing her, and screaming, "TIME TO MAKE THE DONUTS!" then laughing maniacally while she runs away.
- Realized I was twitching on the train platform as this old lady stared at me.
- Using Random CAPS
On 3/27/06, Sarah wrote:
What do you mean you were "twitching"??
On 3/27/06, RJ wrote:
Well, I had a cramp in my leg that I was trying to stretch and I was making faces like, "I'm annoyed at this cramp and in pain" and was maybe mouthing words to myself like, "motherfucker" and such. Basically raving like a lunatic.
On 3/27/06, Sarah wrote:
Ok, that's different. I wanted to rule out true neurological symptoms.
Now take your meds!!
PHEW! Neurological symptoms RULED OUT!
Now, I gotta go, cuz, IT IS TIME TO MAKE THE MOTHERFUCKING DONUTS, Y'ALL!
Monday, March 27, 2006
The head that knew too much
Dear Diary:
Heather told me she teaches people "real life." She said, real life sucks losers dry. You want to fuck with the eagles, you have to learn to fly. I said, so, you teach people how to spread their wings and fly? She said, yes. I said, you're beautiful.
- Heathers is on Showtime right now. Though I don't think I've seen it in years, I just realized that I still know most of the dialog. A small sampling:
Heather: I brought you to a Remington party and what's my thanks? It's on a hallway carpet. I got paid in puke.
Veronica: Lick it up, baby. Lick. It. Up.
This is taking up space in my brain right now. I can't remember all the state capitols or even all of my multiplication tables, but I remember that Heather Chandler is the Red Heather, Heather McNamara is the Yellow Heather, and Heather Duke is Brenda from 90210 -- and I remember Christian Slater is feeling superior because, "Seven schools in seven states and the only thing different is my locker combination. . . our love is God. . . let's go get a slushy." It's unnerving. And somewhat disappointing -- like, why couldn't my 15-year-old self have focused all that energy to memorizing something more useful than icklugha bullets??
I would also give my 15-year-old self some other tips, like, dude, lay off the bangs. And the black eyeliner. That shit's wack.
Heather told me she teaches people "real life." She said, real life sucks losers dry. You want to fuck with the eagles, you have to learn to fly. I said, so, you teach people how to spread their wings and fly? She said, yes. I said, you're beautiful.
- Heathers is on Showtime right now. Though I don't think I've seen it in years, I just realized that I still know most of the dialog. A small sampling:
Heather: I brought you to a Remington party and what's my thanks? It's on a hallway carpet. I got paid in puke.
Veronica: Lick it up, baby. Lick. It. Up.
This is taking up space in my brain right now. I can't remember all the state capitols or even all of my multiplication tables, but I remember that Heather Chandler is the Red Heather, Heather McNamara is the Yellow Heather, and Heather Duke is Brenda from 90210 -- and I remember Christian Slater is feeling superior because, "Seven schools in seven states and the only thing different is my locker combination. . . our love is God. . . let's go get a slushy." It's unnerving. And somewhat disappointing -- like, why couldn't my 15-year-old self have focused all that energy to memorizing something more useful than icklugha bullets??
I would also give my 15-year-old self some other tips, like, dude, lay off the bangs. And the black eyeliner. That shit's wack.
Totally.
As a priviledged white girl who has it pretty good, good enough to afford therapy twice a week, I often feel really guilty about feeling bad. I just read this post that articulated it quite well, I think:
Because unless you've been raped, homeless, molested, or abused (and it better have been recently) -- or starved, tortured, swept up in a flood, made the victim of ethnic cleansing, forced to work in a sweatshop at the age of eight, had your hands chopped off in a diamond mine, seen atrocities beyond description, etc. -- you'd better be fucking happy all the goddamn time, or you are the WORST KIND OF ASSHOLE IN THE WORLD.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Your Karate Tricks Won't Save You This Time!
First off, will someone please make this for me? I would love so much to have a cryogenic chamber mouse. So delightfully creepy. Someone out there, someone who is crafty and good at making things? I am abysmal at making thing -- sewing, carpentry, name a craft and I will be piss poor at it. I can't even paint a bathroom. But, I can take your picture or write a story about you or bake you some sweet motherfucking cupcakes. So, consider it, please.
Last night, we went to see V for Vendetta -- in IMAX, which geeks me out to no end. I love gigantic movies with gigantic sound. The drawback, in this case, is that we have to venture down to Navy Pier for the IMAX experience. Navy Pier on a Saturday night can be an upsetting experience. So many tourists and children and flashing lights and endless kiosks filled with puzzling, inexpensive merchandise! Strangely-themed stores (Chicago Heroes Store -- for Police and Fire Department gear! Russian Doll Store! Christian T-Shirt store -- including this tshirt!) The experience of getting into the theater itself made us all a bit edgy and anxious.
The film was a delight, although we kept laughing at inappropriate places, and we were completely slap-happy giggly after.
The best moment was as we were exiting the theater, when a flat-voiced announcer came on and encouraged us to exit via the designated exits.
Someone behind me yelled, "NO! WE'RE GONNA STAY HERE AND FIGHT!"
Navy Pier was alllll riled up. It's just that kind of film.
Then we went to an old, familiar haunt and consumed many beers, and persued the following topics of conversation:
- Various deformed and mentally challenged and otherwise handicapped types we went to high school with. Apparently, though Susanne's high school had only 57 students, she had an unsually high number of odditities, including a very small hydrocephelatic woman who kept stats for the girls' basketball team, a hairlipped girl named Ruth who, unfortunately, was unable to pronounce her own name, and a mentally retarded night janitor named Jimmy.
Me: How did you know the night janitor?
Susanne: Oooooh. I knew EVERYONE.
Huh.
Ellen told us about a friend in high school who had a deaf, socially-challenged admirer. Once, she was fighting with her boyfriend in the hallway, when he called her a "Stupid Bitch."
In a romantic, gallant moment of pure chivalry, he admirer came running up, apparently having read the profanities on the boyfriend's lips.
Admirer: DON'T CALL HER A BITCH! SHE'S BEATIFUL!
Friend: SHUT THE FUCK UP! I CAN DEFEND MYSELF!
D'oh.
- Fern Gully. The term "Fern Gully" as an unfortunate euphemism for women's parts. We went into great detail about how "Fern Gully" was appropriate -- including metaphors about machetes, adventures, and moist, musky things. Perhaps not best to reproduce in detail, although I invite you to explore the possibilities yourself. I would like to see it come into more common usage.
- I also took a picture, on my cell phone, of the framed Minnie Mouse poster above the toilet in the women's restroom. That's a sign of a good effing bar.
I wanted to post that picture here, but I can't get it to show up on my Flickr account.
You can't have everything, I suppose.
Finally, Ellen and Katie and I hit Santullo's for a late-night slice and met a curly-haired, flamboyant gay man named Brian who, apparently, is a performer in a one-man play about having a single testicle, called "Balls." He performs the play for audiences at hospitals and medical centers.
Then I went home and passed the eff out. Good times.
Last night, we went to see V for Vendetta -- in IMAX, which geeks me out to no end. I love gigantic movies with gigantic sound. The drawback, in this case, is that we have to venture down to Navy Pier for the IMAX experience. Navy Pier on a Saturday night can be an upsetting experience. So many tourists and children and flashing lights and endless kiosks filled with puzzling, inexpensive merchandise! Strangely-themed stores (Chicago Heroes Store -- for Police and Fire Department gear! Russian Doll Store! Christian T-Shirt store -- including this tshirt!) The experience of getting into the theater itself made us all a bit edgy and anxious.
The film was a delight, although we kept laughing at inappropriate places, and we were completely slap-happy giggly after.
The best moment was as we were exiting the theater, when a flat-voiced announcer came on and encouraged us to exit via the designated exits.
Someone behind me yelled, "NO! WE'RE GONNA STAY HERE AND FIGHT!"
Navy Pier was alllll riled up. It's just that kind of film.
Then we went to an old, familiar haunt and consumed many beers, and persued the following topics of conversation:
- Various deformed and mentally challenged and otherwise handicapped types we went to high school with. Apparently, though Susanne's high school had only 57 students, she had an unsually high number of odditities, including a very small hydrocephelatic woman who kept stats for the girls' basketball team, a hairlipped girl named Ruth who, unfortunately, was unable to pronounce her own name, and a mentally retarded night janitor named Jimmy.
Me: How did you know the night janitor?
Susanne: Oooooh. I knew EVERYONE.
Huh.
Ellen told us about a friend in high school who had a deaf, socially-challenged admirer. Once, she was fighting with her boyfriend in the hallway, when he called her a "Stupid Bitch."
In a romantic, gallant moment of pure chivalry, he admirer came running up, apparently having read the profanities on the boyfriend's lips.
Admirer: DON'T CALL HER A BITCH! SHE'S BEATIFUL!
Friend: SHUT THE FUCK UP! I CAN DEFEND MYSELF!
D'oh.
- Fern Gully. The term "Fern Gully" as an unfortunate euphemism for women's parts. We went into great detail about how "Fern Gully" was appropriate -- including metaphors about machetes, adventures, and moist, musky things. Perhaps not best to reproduce in detail, although I invite you to explore the possibilities yourself. I would like to see it come into more common usage.
- I also took a picture, on my cell phone, of the framed Minnie Mouse poster above the toilet in the women's restroom. That's a sign of a good effing bar.
I wanted to post that picture here, but I can't get it to show up on my Flickr account.
You can't have everything, I suppose.
Finally, Ellen and Katie and I hit Santullo's for a late-night slice and met a curly-haired, flamboyant gay man named Brian who, apparently, is a performer in a one-man play about having a single testicle, called "Balls." He performs the play for audiences at hospitals and medical centers.
Then I went home and passed the eff out. Good times.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
So, so, so GIRLY
I just watched this entire movie. The whole thing. Showtime made me do it. Let me explain. I had Mean Girls on for background noise while I cleaned my kitchen. Also, because Mean Girls is an important film. Each time I view Mean Girls, I get something new out of Lindsay Lohan's nuanced performance. But Showtime went and put a late nineties Sarah Jessica Parker film about quirky late twenty somethings on as a follow.
Watching this film was a little like eating an entire package of old fig newtons because that's the only sweet thing you have in the house. It's a little nostalgic, somewhat enjoyable through the beginning but only finished through some sort of compulsion that, in the end, leaves you feeling a bit ill.
I can't believe I consumed the whole thing.
How incredibly indulgent of me.
Watching this film was a little like eating an entire package of old fig newtons because that's the only sweet thing you have in the house. It's a little nostalgic, somewhat enjoyable through the beginning but only finished through some sort of compulsion that, in the end, leaves you feeling a bit ill.
I can't believe I consumed the whole thing.
How incredibly indulgent of me.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Prodigal Robot
Dear God:
If I ever have a kid, make it this kid.
Okay, well, not really THIS kid, exactly, but. . . listen. I would so much rather have a punk rock robot prodigy kid than any other kind of prodigy kid. Or prodigal kid. I mean, I want a, like, cute smart healthy happy kid.
But I REALLY want him or her to make some kick ass rock and roll about robots.
Thanks,
RJ
If I ever have a kid, make it this kid.
Okay, well, not really THIS kid, exactly, but. . . listen. I would so much rather have a punk rock robot prodigy kid than any other kind of prodigy kid. Or prodigal kid. I mean, I want a, like, cute smart healthy happy kid.
But I REALLY want him or her to make some kick ass rock and roll about robots.
Thanks,
RJ
Rattling About
You know how, sometimes, it feels a bit like there are pebbles rattling about in your head instead of brains? (mmm, brains?)
I feel that way today. Like I make rattling noises when I walk, like everyone is glancing over, like, 'is that a person? or a giant walking Maraca?'
Anyhow, I'm sad because I lost a very important document.
It is a list I made while drinking bloody marys with Ellen and Susan. I made it on a paper placemat at Silver Cloud in the few days after I lost my last job. I've been carrying it about with me and adding to it periodically.
It was my List Of Things To be Happy About. It included (from memory) some of the following things:
Tater Tots
Snazzy Bloody Marys
Dancing
Drinking
Laughing
Susantha Malatestes
Ellen
Melrose Bitches
Blogs, blogging, blogosphere, bloggity blog blog blog
Other People's Babies
Peeing
Charlie's
Singing loud to music in the car
being funny
This American Life
Ira Glass
Thunder Storms
Summer
Drinking outside
riding my bike
going to the beach
fires
Beyonce Barbie Dolls
Lindsay Lohan Party Limo
Gossip
Eating Brunch
Smelling grass
Suddenly thinking something normal is actually hilariously funny
my digital camera
Maria
Sarah-n-chad
Waking up to sunshine
finding money in the dryer
tax returns
people with English or Southern accents
really awesome random paintings from garage sales
And on. . . and on. . .
And it may seem silly, but it actually is something that made me feel better. And I lost it. And I want to recreate it, because, it's pretty funny to read "disco balls shaped like cowboy boots" and remember that there are so many marvelous things to be happy about.
I feel that way today. Like I make rattling noises when I walk, like everyone is glancing over, like, 'is that a person? or a giant walking Maraca?'
Anyhow, I'm sad because I lost a very important document.
It is a list I made while drinking bloody marys with Ellen and Susan. I made it on a paper placemat at Silver Cloud in the few days after I lost my last job. I've been carrying it about with me and adding to it periodically.
It was my List Of Things To be Happy About. It included (from memory) some of the following things:
Tater Tots
Snazzy Bloody Marys
Dancing
Drinking
Laughing
Susantha Malatestes
Ellen
Melrose Bitches
Blogs, blogging, blogosphere, bloggity blog blog blog
Other People's Babies
Peeing
Charlie's
Singing loud to music in the car
being funny
This American Life
Ira Glass
Thunder Storms
Summer
Drinking outside
riding my bike
going to the beach
fires
Beyonce Barbie Dolls
Lindsay Lohan Party Limo
Gossip
Eating Brunch
Smelling grass
Suddenly thinking something normal is actually hilariously funny
my digital camera
Maria
Sarah-n-chad
Waking up to sunshine
finding money in the dryer
tax returns
people with English or Southern accents
really awesome random paintings from garage sales
And on. . . and on. . .
And it may seem silly, but it actually is something that made me feel better. And I lost it. And I want to recreate it, because, it's pretty funny to read "disco balls shaped like cowboy boots" and remember that there are so many marvelous things to be happy about.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Making me Pee My Panties.
Okay, this was posted in the comments a few posts down by Barney Boy, but it deserves everyone's attention, so, I'm reposting.
I read these aloud to Susan and Ellen and we almost hyperventilated.
I hope you will enjoy.
(By the way, the title of this post reminds me of an old job, where I did PR for a company that made maxi pads. I once had to write a memo to my client about how women really hate the term "panties.")
Anyway, I'm writing to you while bare-chested again. It just feels more honest.
I read these aloud to Susan and Ellen and we almost hyperventilated.
I hope you will enjoy.
(By the way, the title of this post reminds me of an old job, where I did PR for a company that made maxi pads. I once had to write a memo to my client about how women really hate the term "panties.")
Dear Jennifer Aniston:
You can buy a sweet motherfucking pad in Chicago with $23 million. Just don't start hanging out at my bars and get everybody all riled up with your celebrity-ness.
Horrific Reality Today
I'm so freaked out about women's rights, people -- when I read about out and out attacks on women's healthcare and reproductive rights -- and then there's this:
All I have to say is, SWEET JESUS, this neocon crap has got to end.
And then there's just the phrase "sodomized as bad as you can possibly make it." I want to scrub my eyeballs with bleach in the hopes that I can erase the memory of having read those words coming from the mouth of an elected official.
All I have to say is, SWEET JESUS, this neocon crap has got to end.
I'm Really Trying, Here
So, I've been struggling a bit with figuring out how to present this week's flip DeeP exchanges. Yes, therapy has its moments of high comedy, but you also have the serious aspects of delving about in the muck between your ears. When you're plunging headfirst into Dealing With Things, specifically, The Shit You Do Not Want To Deal With, it can be less fun and more excruciating.
So, you have to work, and you have to do it, and by you, I mean me -- I have to do this. I have to get in there and fix the shit that's holding me back and making me depressed and then I'll be fine. Or closer to fine. (But not in the Indigo Girls sense, I don't think.) In the meantime, I spend time on the couch crawling out of my skin and fighting the urge to get up and run away. I also cry a lot.
A lot of the funny exchanges stem from the fact that a big way that I avoid the more uncomfortable bits is by throwing out little glib barbs and being generally joke-y. And lately, as we roll up our sleeves and get serious, I've been less barb-ing.
DeeP apparently is tri-lingual. He speaks English, French, and some other language which he refuses to tell me about. I think he refuses to tell me out of some weird boundary issue, also because I think he's afraid I'll make fun of him. He's correct, of course.
It has become an ongoing thing, a nice deflection point, that every week or so I ask him again, "now, what is that other language you speak? Is it Finnish?" And he just half-smiles and refuses to tell me.
Last week he informed me, with the air of some kind of psychic who was sensing the chilling presense of a dead loved one in the room, "I think I'm getting closer to telling you what language I speak."
I just stared at him, mostly because he was acting so corny.
He said, "It is an indication that I'm feeling less threatened by you, I think, which is good. You're letting down some of your defenses."
I said, "Therapy is so ludicrously meta."
He said, "Sister, you have no idea."
So, this week, as I was melting into a jiggly pile of weeping emotional jell-o on his leather porn couch, he said, "You know, I'm so amazed at how you've really taken down your defenses with me in the last couple of weeks!"
I hiccupped through my tears, wiped some snot from my nose, and said, "It's because I want you to tell me what language you speak."
He still didn't tell me.
Bastard.
So, you have to work, and you have to do it, and by you, I mean me -- I have to do this. I have to get in there and fix the shit that's holding me back and making me depressed and then I'll be fine. Or closer to fine. (But not in the Indigo Girls sense, I don't think.) In the meantime, I spend time on the couch crawling out of my skin and fighting the urge to get up and run away. I also cry a lot.
A lot of the funny exchanges stem from the fact that a big way that I avoid the more uncomfortable bits is by throwing out little glib barbs and being generally joke-y. And lately, as we roll up our sleeves and get serious, I've been less barb-ing.
DeeP apparently is tri-lingual. He speaks English, French, and some other language which he refuses to tell me about. I think he refuses to tell me out of some weird boundary issue, also because I think he's afraid I'll make fun of him. He's correct, of course.
It has become an ongoing thing, a nice deflection point, that every week or so I ask him again, "now, what is that other language you speak? Is it Finnish?" And he just half-smiles and refuses to tell me.
Last week he informed me, with the air of some kind of psychic who was sensing the chilling presense of a dead loved one in the room, "I think I'm getting closer to telling you what language I speak."
I just stared at him, mostly because he was acting so corny.
He said, "It is an indication that I'm feeling less threatened by you, I think, which is good. You're letting down some of your defenses."
I said, "Therapy is so ludicrously meta."
He said, "Sister, you have no idea."
So, this week, as I was melting into a jiggly pile of weeping emotional jell-o on his leather porn couch, he said, "You know, I'm so amazed at how you've really taken down your defenses with me in the last couple of weeks!"
I hiccupped through my tears, wiped some snot from my nose, and said, "It's because I want you to tell me what language you speak."
He still didn't tell me.
Bastard.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Quick Follow Up
To yesterday's post on animal-human hybrids.
Apparently, their sole pleasure is beer.
It's hard out there for a human-animal hybrid.
Apparently, their sole pleasure is beer.
It's hard out there for a human-animal hybrid.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Sofas and Sensibility
A friend once told me that Craigslist is the full of black leather couches that women make their boyfriends sell -- a true sign of getting serious. Oh, but, as this blog shows us, there's so much more. . .
Sunday Night Dinner -- Dog for Dessert?
Holy cow. Is there nothing more likely to induce a roomful of full-grown adults to babble in high-pitched baby voices all night than a sweet, freaking cute puppy with huge paws and soft ears? I mean, one that isn't an actual human baby. And with actual human babies, you can't get all blitzed on wine and chase them around the living room while they nip at your pants legs, now, can you?
Best conversation hinged on dog:
Me: Jason! Now you're not the youngest one anymore!
Mark: Or the blackest.
You can drown in puppy goodness here.
Best conversation hinged on dog:
Me: Jason! Now you're not the youngest one anymore!
Mark: Or the blackest.
You can drown in puppy goodness here.
Rock the Vote, Y'all!
My lovely friend Maria has passed on a link to the state of Missouri's latest proposed constitutional ammendment, which reads like a fabulous pulp sci-fi novel.
Unfortunately, the ammendment would ban "the genetic creation of a half-human slave race to serve humankind." Mothereffer -- I was seriously hoping I could get one of those little critters for some light housework.
Unfortunately, the ammendment would ban "the genetic creation of a half-human slave race to serve humankind." Mothereffer -- I was seriously hoping I could get one of those little critters for some light housework.
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