A couple quick updates, most of which are really too long in coming:


-Results are finally in and up for both of the Flash Fiction contests I recently entered. For those of you who don't know, Flash Fiction is a form of condensed form of writing, featuring stories that are always under 1000 words in length, usually 500. Generally speaking, flash fiction stories are focused on precise use of language, fiercely poetic, and start and end a scene suddenly, establishing nothing in advance about character and setting.

The two contests I entred (both erotic in nature) were as such:

-The Logical Lust Flash Fiction contest. Stories had to be under 200 words. I got fourth place. Check out all of logical-lust here, or skip to the contest section to see my entry and others (all surprisingly good.) I, for the record, write as L.M. Coull, and my entry was "Concerto in G".

-The Spring (Flash) Fling from Katy Terrega's writing site. Entries were to be one hundred words or less and include an element of spring. My entry, "Oh, Give us Pleasure in the Orchard White" (Robert Frost allusion) got an honorable mention that is featured on this page, and, hey, if you're interested in sex writing, you should definitely sign up for the free newsletter, the best free sex writing resource on the net.

So, two contests, two victories. I guess that makes me an official writer.



If that doesn't, this site's feature from The Weblog Review sure does. Sadly, the reviews weren't great, but I attribute that almost entirely to the fact that I applied to have my site reviewed months ago, when I was taking it in more of a humorous, topical direction, and trying to steer clear of the personal stuff this site has become so deeply rooted in. You remember, the good ol' days, when I was blogging up a storm with delightful wit to spew about everything from my hair's alternative lifestyle to small children dressing up as household cleaning supplies. I therefore filed it as a humor site, and when the review finally came, I was back to the norm with "SuedeCaramel.com: Adventures in Self-Pity and loathing." Both reviewers complimented my writing abilities but said, in so many words, that there wasn't so much humor as, well, this crap, so I scored only a 3.25 stars on average. I'm sure it would have been higher if I'd filed as a personal site, but since my google pagerank is higher than theirs, I find myself entirely jaded to their blaspheme. When the juggernaut of my genius is unleashed, they will be crushed under the foot of my prowess. Mwah ha ha!

But, here are the reviews, if you want a look-see.



On a non writing-related note, I saw the Movie "Van Helsing" last night. I'd like to say that it was well-written, well-acted, entertaining and visually spectacular, because it is. But I can't say that.

Because all I can think about is the freaking microphones hovering above the heads of the actors in three distinct scenes. I guess even multi-million dollar productions have to cut corners, and apparently they do this by hiring key grips and film editors from the AV club of Hellen Keller's Memorial Institute for the AV Impaired. A noble effort to empower the handicapped, but a real handicap to the movie viewing experience. As hilarious as the mess-up is, it's impossible to root for the monster hunter when you're constantly afraid that, whilst vanquishing all evil, he trip on a power cord or something.

I report about this because, against all odds, seemingly no one else has. The biggest mistake the movie industry has seen since Albert Brooks, and no one's mentioning it-- not one blog, not one message board, not one crappy online comic.

Thusly, in order to get top billing on the eventual google searches, I am going to link to myself, shamelessly and ad nauseam.

Van Helsing Microphone Mistake

Van Helsing Microphone nominated for Best Actor

Hugh Jackman Dead! Brutal Microphone Attack!



In other news, blogger's completely reworked their format, if you haven't checked it out yet, do. Also, google is starting a new E-mail service called Gmail, and as a blogger user I got in as a Beta Tester. It offers a gig of free storage, cool search options, and a neat conversation format. In general, it's cooler than your account, so there.

So, my new primary is SuedeCaramel@Gmail.com. I will slowly be phasing out SuedeCaramel@dog.com, as I'm paying for it and it still offers no protection against the droves of spam I get on an hourly basis, of which my favorite subject line for today is "Overdue smu account". How *did* they know all my smu accounts are overdue?

Smu you! And on with it.

And Casey thinks he's so big and bad for slapping some guy.


On with it.

Casey's been a bit of a slut lately pressuring me to update, but then, that's what I love him for. (No, no it isn't.) So, for El Casey-Nova, my bitchy little muse, an update on my fabulous life.


Yesterday, Zack and I adopted, at long last, a dog: A fabulous one-year-old Shiba Inu named "Max" who's been in an out of my pet store at the finicky whims of several owners within the past month: The original couple bought him from the store about ten months ago, but grew impatient with him as they found they couldn't quite bend him to their will. They brought him back to the store just over a month ago now, handed the leash and his medical information to the first "Petland" shirt they saw, and walked away without saying a word. We put Max (then "Meyers", but he didn't respond to his name.) up for adoption at the cost of a one-hundred dollar donation to St. Jude's children's hospital, and it was then I first considered adopting him-- he was beautiful, after all, with a dark, wolf-like appeareance and feline mannerisms. I had wanted a dog for some time, and I started to think that perhaps he was the one I'd been looking for.

At that point, however, Zack was still unemployed and I had only begun to work at the store. There simply wasn't a hundred dollars to donate, and before I could even so much as finish the last two hours of my shift so that I could try to find the needed money, two hicks and their unfortunate son walked in and took the dog they then named Max on an impulse buy, due to his overly reasonable price. It was me who was forced to walk them through the process of buying needed accessories, and I was therefore privvy to jeweled insights into the personalities of Max's new guttertrash family, onesuch being when the mother practically hit her son for suggesting they buy a red collar for a boy dog. When they left with the dog I had wanted for my own, I sat down and cried.

Three days ago, however, a benevolent God smiled on the world: the hicks decided to get a divorce. This means two happy things: it's almost guaranteed they won't have any more cross-eyed offspring, at least with each other, and Max came back to the store to go through another adoption.

The next impulse buyer wasn't a hick...far from it. A physically perfect waitress from the cafe next store and her Adonis boyfriend decided to take Max home on a trial basis, and while, in this case, I couldn't object to any specific stupidity she had uttered, I found myself enraged that she had her looks, her perfect husband, her perfect house, and now, my dog, in addition to the dogs she already owned. It just wasn't fair.

And Max must have known that. Because he bit the perfect boyfriend. And now he's with me.


More on Max-- and his absolute genius in helping me escape my in-laws-- later. For now, I have to go earn his kibbles 'n' bits.

On with it.

Because I enjoy Kory...and I can't edit this into a damn away message. Clearly.

FieryGwenivere: And here's something that I've found is central to my problem: When I put up away messages, I do it like it's art. I'll slave over each for at least twenty minutes, whether it's a song quote (I listen to three to five songs first, looking for the most appropriate), some cynical or comic piece of conversation, or one single multi-facted word. Anything I put up, it's got about a thousand meanings-- but, see, I work so hard on the message itself that once it's up, the reason I was going on away in the first place has long since past, so I've got nothing to do but give it time to be up-- so generally I go downstairs and eat.
FieryGwenivere: The miracle diet would be to stop doing this.
FieryGwenivere: So it's either stop playing this AIM-based mind games or to start looking up my chunkier friends so I'll look thin in contrast.
FieryGwenivere: I guess what I'm trying to say is, can I get your number?
Ad Nauseam IV: hahaha...you have it
FieryGwenivere: see...at this point, if you were genuinely fat, you'd say something bitter in reply and it would be a priceless away message.
FieryGwenivere: in fact, if you could just say something bitter here, I'll edit and then go make some more toast. Maybe it won't be burnt this time.
Ad Nauseam IV: oh. Yeah. Yeah I am pretty big boned. But yeah I don't give a shit about that, too much. I've got more important things to be bitter about
Ad Nauseam IV: I'm really not all that inspired right now...Uhh...Will a fuck bitches suffice?
FieryGwenivere: Oh, come on now, you've got to give me something better than that. I'm not gonna get fat just sitting here on my ass....oh...86th that.



On with it.

Five most relevant songs in my life at the moment, in no particular order: (I hate doing it in order of importance because I always have to sit there and debate what should go where for hours on end until I give up the whole thing. Call it journalistic ethic...neurotic journalistic ethic. Just to avoid that feeling of responsibility, I'll forewarn you that this may not be a truly accurate list. I haven't heard all of the songs in the world, for instance, and of the ones I have heard, not all of them are in my immediate memory. I'm drawing largely from the songs I happen to have downloaded on this computer so far.)

February Fifteenth, The Bright Eyes

Why Can't I Touch It, The Buzzcocks

All By Myself, Jamie O'Neal

Unkind, Tabitha's Secret

Blood and Roses, The Smithereens


"February Fifteenth" is a ballad of loss and regret. I'll never get over the genius of Conor's lyrics-- simple and precise, imagery and apologies, thoughts going through his mind. In this song, in particular, the genius of his design is clear. When you combine straightfoward and effective word usage, slow and delicate melody, and the sincerity of his shaky, unprofessional voice, the result is an undeniable masterpiece that plucks at the heartstrings of anyone who has lost a friend. The song is about the regretful honesty that comes at the end of any epic friendship-- the things you wanted to say all along, the way you want to scream them in all the fevered urgency of desperation, but can only sigh them out in reluctant acceptance: It's over, and, for what it's worth, I'm sorry, and I hope you know I love you.

I guess that it's typical
To cling to memories you'll never get back again,
And to sort through old photographs
Of a summer long ago,
Or a friend that you used to know.
And there below his frozen face
you wrote the name,
And that ancient date, that ancient date.
And you can't believe he is really gone
When all that's left is a fucking song.
I'm sorry about the phone call
And waking you;
I know that it's late,
But thank you for talking
Cause I needed to,
Yeah, Some things just can't wait.



It would be hard to go into a deep explanation of the meaning of the Buzzcock's "Why Can't I Touch It?", a song that so repetetive it just about made me motion sick the first time I heard it. Still, I can know say that I understand the merit of it-- the song is an unanswered question, repeated over and over again, as unanswered questions tend to be. And it's relevance to my life, as of late, is clear-- it happened that this song was already on my playlist after "February Fifteenth", but in thinking about it momentarily, I realized that it works: There aren't too many songs on the market right now devoted to Vaginismus, so in seeking a song to relate to the feelings I have on that subject, this is one of the closest I can get-- One of the ultimate frustrations of the problem is one of not being able to convince myself that it's really something I can't have. When I'm laying with Zack and looking into his eyes, and I know he loves me, and I know I want him, it's hard to process that there's some surreal, underlying force keeping us apart. It's hard to understand.


Well it seems so real I can see it,
And it seems so real I can feel it,
And it seems so real I can taste it,
And it seems so real I can hear it,
So why can't I touch it?

Once read somebody describe this song as "the thinking man's 'American Pie'", though. This, I don't get.


"All by Myself", a continuation on the vaginismus theme, and obviously relevant to anyone who read the last post. Many of the lyrics in the verses don't apply, but the earnest vocals of the chorus ring true for me-- what's more effective than the way something is said, after all?

All by myself,
Don't wanna be
All by myself
Anymore.


I think perhaps Rob Thomas's lyrical prowess has suffered in his efforts to improve his musical abilities-- for sure, as the years go by, he is growing as a vocalist and musician, but his lyrics, to me, have never been more poignant than they were back in the Tabitha's Secret days, back when his musical interests were probably more an extension of his love of writing. All of "Don't Play With Matches", the first (and, more or less, only) album of Tabitha's Secret, was up for consideration in this current list, with perfectly crafted lines like "She said, 'Don't Cry'/Said it only hurts forever and all we have is time" from "High" or "I don't like my neighbors/Well, they're just not my kind/I think it might be over for the whales and I really don't mind" from "Paint me Blue" dotted throughout the entire disc, but "Unkind" is the most totally relevant. I empathize with both the singer and the singee, the song's "you"-- that kind of role confusion is one of the things I love about the music of Rob Thomas. I always feel like he's singing the song from every viewpoint, which is the way I think, most of the time. The song, to me, is about the way being at a bad point in your life can put a strain on friendships-- the questions, the lies, the way anyone can become a fairweather friend if the storm lasts long enough.

Bring it on baby, what you getting into?
Is living on pain the thing that's getting to you?
Write my name, pin it up with my picture,
And say it's the only thing 'cuz I'm not around to be around.

I'm beaten and battered, hell, if my dreams get shattered then
Pain gives me the right to be unkind.


If you can't appreciate the base line leading into "Blood and Roses" for it's raw power, then there's nothing I have to say to you. The band, to my knowledge, never caught on, but it had, I think the repeating 13 notes of bass that drive the whole song would have gone down in history the way that the base line in "Iron Man" did. The song is a story of the ill-fated love of two people-- a love so strong and a will so powerful as could only be defeated by one thing-- a woman's inner demons. It's a song about how insecurities, fears, and being incomplete as a person can rip any couple apart at the seams, despite the strength of their love. The girl is faithfully devoted t the man, but, in the end, her insurmountable unhappiness forever keeps them apart.

I fear this song will one day become the most relevant of my entire lifetime, surpassing the incredible "Push".

Bought flowers in the springtime,
October, we were wed.
In winter time, the roses died.
The blood ran cold, and then she said:

I want to love, but it comes out wrong.
I want to live, but I don't belong.
I close my eyes and I see
Blood and roses.



On with it.

It must be so hard for him to hear me sobbing, as quietly as I can manage, and not turn around to see me there. It must be so hard for him to turn his head and look at me, and see the tears on my face-- they are always there, when he turns around. In my experience, the people who talk about how hard it is to make them cry are the ones who cry the most, and I gave up pretending it was hard a long time ago. When he does turn around, most times I pretend not to know he's looking. I don't move, or waiver at all. I just stare at the laptop, at the AIM conversation with tonight's perpetrator, or the sad e-mail someone's written me, back when people still wrote, or the lines I've written someone else-- the most poignant of which, as of late, were in the end paragraph of a long e-mail I wrote in the middle of the night to Nissa, who does not write back anymore, which I fear is because of my eagerness in trying to get to know her:

Zack sleeps beside me and I have to sit up in between paragaphs, and
shine the light from the moniter onto his face, and remind myself how
much I love him. I touch him and shed a tear and try to think very hard
about how I married a man, not just a circumstance.

I sent this very long e-mail to both her and Casey, but pretended sending it to him was a mistake. Because of this, he never read it, which always disappointed me: I had explained so much in there that I wanted him to understand, but I couldn't tell him that without feeling like he'd only read it out of obligation, obligating people being one of the things that scares me msot in life. I wanted him to read it because he was curious, because it was five pages of me, pure and honest and true. I guess he had no way of knowing that it was, though. I guess I'll never tell him.

When Zack stares long enough at me, crying at my computer, so that we both know that I know he's looking, I must say something to keep him away. I have grown so sadly disillusioned that there's nothing my knight in shining armor can do to save me from my inner dragons, and I so miss the days when I, and I alone, was responsible for my sadness. When I was hurt, I could cry and not have to worry about who would hear. I could hate the world and everything in it and not worry about whether or not that hurt anyone else. It was a more comfortable sadness, back when I had nothing to really be sad about. Before love. Before marriage. Before Vaginismus.

Now that I am in love, and married, and unable to take my husband in, to make love to him...now my sadnesses feels more like his failure. As well as I'll make the argument that Casey isn't a destructive force in my marriage, he is the person I tend to turn to when I want something Zack can't give me, and lately that something's been consolation.

It's a sad coincidence that he's checked out of our friendship emotionally at this point. It was inevitable, and everyone knew that, though as hard as I tried, I couldn't get anyone else to acknowledge that they did. The bitch of a life spent living convinced that eventually everyone will leave you is that they always do, and having this pattern so well established in my friendships is not a great encouragement to my feeble belief that Zack will stick around. Without sex, without satiation, without sanity.



I don't want to live anymore. It's no secret. Sure, vaginismus is my biggest problem, and maybe it is treatable. Maybe I finally am at the point where I can get treatment-- maybe I'm at standing on the precipice of a happy life, a healthy marriage, success. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But will I ever really get over my anger at life that they could do this to me, if only for a little while? Will I ever really forgive God or whoever it is for not allowing to consumate my marriage on my wedding night? Will I ever forget that there are some problems in this world that you can have that absolutely no one will be able to understand, no matter how dear to you they are, no matter how close? Will I ever forgive my friends, my family, my husband for not understanding-- for not taking the time to make themselves understand?

Tell me you're sorry for me, go ahead. Tell me it's sad that I can't have sex, that it's a "bummer", that, Gee, Linda, that sure does suck. Tell me you can't imagine, even, it's a popular phrase. "Can't imagine."

But who the hell are you? You haven't tried to imagine. Of all the friends I have who claim they would do anything for me, of all the promises people have made that they would be there, of all the implications that are involved with being a parent or a husband, not one of you, not one has taken themselves away from their lives for a moment, and really tried to get it.

No one's sat down in a dark room, laid down, and thought hard about it: Imagine you're a sad person, that your whole life has seemed like a waste, and then imagine that one day you meet someone that makes you happy. Someone who makes you finally want to throw away the uselessness of being sad all the time, shown you the triviality of your youth, the possibilities of your future. Imagine that finally, inevitably, you're totally happy. Because of that one person, that one fated meeting, that dream within a dream, you finally feel like nothing is keeping you from the next stage in your life.

Imagine you take that person by the hand, and you lay down with them, and you bring them close to you. Imagine you're finally ready, and you feel so open to them that your heart wants to explode. Imagine that you're trembling at their touch, rejoicing in their kisses, imagine that you're bringing them closer and closer to you, and imagine the deep breath you both take as it's about to happen....


Then imagine anguish. Physical and mental at exactly the same time. Imagine all you want, in sudden and violent contrast, is to hit that person away, to hurt them, this person you love so much, because they've hurt you. Imagine the guilt after that moment. The reaching for them, unsure of whether to trust them for a moment but needing your arms around them so badly.

Imagine trying again.

And again.

And again.

And again. And more pain. More anguish. More crying. Imagine you hit them-- actually hit them-- without having any control over it. It just hurts too much-- you try to make love and it feels like you're being attacked. You try to open yourself up and it feels like they're invading.

You try to give yourself to someone and it turns out there's nothing to give.

But pain. And anger. And frustration.

And another night you try again. And again. And another night. And another.

And pretty soon you realize. You're

Fucking.

BROKEN.

And as much as you could love this person, you're just damaged goods.

And how could they love you?

And how could you love them, if one day they stop looking at you the way they used to.

Stop wanting you. Stop



...loving you.


And you know the only thing to do is keep trying.

AND IT HURTS. And with each and every goddamn try you feel less and less like a person, and you just know they're going to walk away. You just know that they're going to give up patience. You just know that...

...oh god. One day they'll see someone-- ANYONE-- and they'll want what you can't give them-- what ANYONE else COULD give them-- and...it's inevitable, isn't it? It's nature! You're just this unnatural freak, this problem, this disease, and everyone else, from the ugly to the insanely beautiful, all of them have something you don't.

So now every time they even mention someone else's name you're jealous. Every time they talk to someone, look at someone, every time you think they might think about talking or looking or thinking or wanting...it doesn't matter who, anyone's more complete that you are. And suddenly there's nothign at all that isn't a threat to you. And you find yourself less able to love them because you can no longer appreciate anything in their life that's not about you. Everyone represents something that will one day lead to them wanting someone else-- because you can't do it.

You can't do it.

You can't do it.

It doesn't matter where you are or what you're doing. Anytime you're in a crowd, you're the only one there they couldn't make love to. Anytime you're watching TV, all those beautiful people who were never a threat before might be able to give your lover something that you aren't man or woman enough to give them. And it's your fault. It's your fault. How could it be anyone else's fault? It's yours.

And your friendships start falling apart because your never happy anymore. You're so afraid while your with your lover all day that you've become nothing that it starts effecting the way you are with everyone. You're so insecure, so afraid. You're never happy, and they start getting annoyed because they miss the happy, carefree you. The witty, self-assured you. The you they liked in the first place-- and why shouldn't they leave? They've made no promises. The deal was always that you'd hang around each other as long as it was mutually worth it and, let's face it

you aren't worth it anymore.

So you start lashing out at even the ones that aren't hinting that they might leave. And the ones you control yourself with, well, god, you never noticed how often they talk about sex. And how often sex is on TV. And on the Radio. And in books, magazines, printed on fucking napkins-- suddenly the whole goddamn world revolves around something that YOU CAN'T DO. It's like one giant club that you'll never be a part of.

And you start to think how much easier it would be if you weren't alive anymore. And you start to think that even if you were fixed, things would never be the same. You start to think that now you know all of your friendships are temporary, that your faith in your love isn't boundless, that things that once seemed magical are really just used-up and played out. You start to realize that life isn't fair, and it never was, and you hate it.

And now you know that being sad all the time wasn't worth it when you were younger. You never did know what real loss was. You were a fraud the whole time.

But now that you know what it is to really lose something-- what it's like to be happier than you could ever imagine and have that taken away at fate's sadistic whim-- you miss being a fraud.

You, in fact, miss everything you ever had. And you start to regret the one thing that ever brought you real joy in the first place. And that...that instant you give in to regret, my friends...that's real loss.


Just so you fucking know.


Every one of these sentences represents hours and hours of my life, but most of you won't even give it an hour. You'll put it on your "to-do list", maybe, if we're real friends. You'll give it maybe fifteen minutes and then exaggerate it in your mind. You'll lie. You'll make yourself feel okay about it.

But you won't shed a tear. You won't break a sweat. You won't kick and scream like I have more times than I can count now and you won't come close the realization, the genuine epiphany, that life's unfair.

And hey, that's probably how it should be. But don't come offering me your false pity, your lies that you'd do anything for me. Don't tell me that you "can't imagine" because, trust me, I know.

What I need now is someone who can.


On with it.

Just a few quick update to let you all know I'm still alive. Some thoughts:


--Penny Arcade and Monty Python alike have poked fun at a theme brave soldiers going in, unprepared, to battle with a bunny that turns out to be ironically ferocious. I'll have you know that this sin't quite the fiction everyone makes it out to be. My first week at Petland has taught me a few things, and one of them is this ageless truth: Bunnies have motherfucking claws.


--If I ever turn out like Debra from "Everybody Loves Raymond", I expect one of you to shoot me. Please. Enough with this "empowered bitchy woman/awkward husband" formula on television-- If I see one more episode of anything where Mr. So and So is made to reluctantly apologize to his wife after some innocent mistake that she rubs his nose in like a naughty puppy, I am sueing the Networks. This is what's going wrong with marraiges today, this sick feminism of the neurotic but empowered housewife on TV. We're all getting a little too much Debra Ramone. I have to rate her in one of my top five most hated sitcom characters, rivalled by Fran's mom on "The Nanny". Carrie from "The King of Queens" is what I'm aiming for-- Smart, sensible, beautiful, and clearly superior to her husband. Sounds about right.


--On a related note, in the same way I don't like comics or shows that are just people making jokes about how black they are, I've realized that "The Nanny" is the same thing about being Jewish-- a lot of idiotic stereotypes and stupid wordplay, and absolutely nothing of substance. "Will and Grace" is getting dangerously close to this with Gay humor-- I find it increasingly hard to believe that they aren't using a laugh track after the twentieth time this season Karen calls Will "Wilma". But at least they explore a variety of stereotypes-- they go into the Jew (/frazzled dependent woman), the Lush, and the Latin housekeeper as well as two different kinds of Gays: The professional homo and the hyper-homo. Jack is gay to the 10th power, giving his character a little something extra. (Sadly, that something is plausibility.)


--I've written this entire entry so far on the toilet.


--I've been meaning to write an entry devoted to making fun of Will and Grace for some time now, and no longer recall whether or not I already have. If I weren't sick of this toilet, I'd check for you, but I'm looking to wrap this up.


--I know what with working (and sleeping!) now being a major part of my schedule I've been slacking a little with this, but I've been brainstorming like crazy as to what quality future entries I will produce soon. You, my loyal readers, can look forward to the following:

The results of my own personal research as to which Travel site really gets you the best deals. (So far, Orbitz.)

A mini-tribute to the new, revitalized VH1, no longer just a sub-par knock off of MTV, but my one and only TV source for trivial bits of information that I'd probably know if I were more in tune with pop-culture (Like the fact that Milli Vinalli were exposed as being a pair of lip-syncing pretty boys rather than actual musicians when the recording they were using decided to skip repeatedly during a concert, as sourced from "I love the Eighties", or that many Rap Artists today are selling their own energy drinks, like Ice T's "Liquid Ice", as I found out while watching "Best Week Ever". Man, Liquid Ice is such a great idea, they should have come up with that before...and called it water. Thanks to Wil Wheaton for pointing out what should have been obvious on that one.)

Vaginismus- a more in-depth look. I really need people to begin to have some understanding of what this really is to me, and to everyone who has it. I've been angry that no one so far has even begun to understand, but I haven't been explaining it well enough. The world needs to change-- there are lots of problems, and I've finally found one I care about. Time to do my part.


--My legs fell asleep while sitting on the toilet all that time. Pity.


On with it.

The weekend started out strong. Friday morning I was offered a job at Petland, the only place I applied to that I actually wanted to work. And I met my future boss, a businessman with honest-to-goodness integrity. Absolute high point of the day was when he said "Customers aren't always right." I knew right then and there that I wanted to work for that man.

I came home and celebrated to that for a while before celebrating to the idea that I was going to see Casey on Saturday. What a rockin' weekend I'm gonna have, I thought to my naive self, before having to rejoin the work force on Monday. After some unremarkable daytime activities, I talk to Casey that night and he annoys the shit out of me, as he's been doing for weeks now, . This is because after not having seen him in life for months, I have been wearing thin on the understanding of what makes him a wonderful person. To my mind, it's nearly impossible to maintain a real-life friendship on the internet alone. But, hell, that doesn't matter anymore. I'm seeing him tomorrow, right?

Saturday morning I wake up. Not to the sounds of my birds, or Zack's snoring. As lava is to magma, vomit is to what I woke up to. I am about to become Mount Freaking St. Helen's, but I lay there in bed thinking "You can't puke, you can't fucking puke, you're seeing Casey tonight, you cannot be sick." My last chance to see him before, like, May. Motherfucking May.

Beyond that, it's definitely one of the top-ten all-time most uncomfortable sicknesses of my life. I'm nauseous, hungry, going through hot and cold flashes, and very achy, but unable to keep any kind of medication down.

So. Yeah. That was fucking Saturday.

Sunday, much the same, except replace most of the vomiting with pain from a muscle I sprained dry-heaving yesterday, and make Zack sick, too. I go to my computer a few times, and it seems lots of people are getting whiny about *their* weekends in their away messages, and as I sit here, constantly on the verge of blowing chunks all over my laptop, probably about to lose my best friend to the unavoidable impatience I have on him which can no longer be blamed, logically, on either one of us, unsure of whether or not I'm going to have to call out of my first day of work for the first job I've ever wanted, and next to an aching, sickly husband, I realize that I want one thing, and one thing only: To kill every who thinks they've got a motherfucking thing on my misery*.

"They will detail their pain
In some standard refrain.
They will recite their sadness
Like it's some kind of contest.
Well, if it is, I think I am winning it,
All beaming with confidence
as I make my final lap.
The gold medal gleams
so hang it around my neck
cause I am deserving it:
the champion of idiots. "
~An all-too relevant quote from the Bright Eyes (as all Bright Eyes quotes are all-too relevant), "Going For the Gold"

I'm trying to pass on this band, as of late, the way Christina L. was so magnanimous in passing it on to me. It's either that Bright Eyes fans are so genuinely devoted that they want to spread their love to deserving people, or that we're so scarred and bitter on the inside that we want to give to others the kind of raw pain that can only come with an understand of Conor's lyrics onto the whole world, eventually causing one willing demise of the human race-- The world won't end because of nuclear war, not because of race riots or some geological disaster, no, we'll simply all experience the same kind of power and superb misery that I feel when I listen to "No Lies, Just Love", and every last one of us will lay down to die, simultaneously (despite it's hopeful message at the end). I suppose if I had to rally behind one cause, at this point in my life, it would be that we stop looking down so on suicide. It's the safest alternative, after all.

If you'll pardon me, it's been a bad weekend.

Also, I watched a "CNN Presents" special tonight on Howard Dean's own "go for the gold". It's funny, I meant to educate myself, at one point, genuinely interested in the turn that the presidential race might take this time around. But, as ever, I was always too busy with something else-- watching "Family Guy" or writing blog entries about Nike ads with 50-year-old-ass-- and tonight, I sat and watched this whole stretch of very recent history, thinking of how I just missed it, as I seem doomed to just miss everything, by my own sickly volition. I sat and watched and thought, as people always do when they didn't act on something they meant to act on, that I could have been the one to make the difference. Anyways, my inability to write, as disoriented and dehydrated as I am, is skewing the one point I had any intention of making when I came here to post-- I know there are a few die-hard Kerry supporters out there, and if you read this, I'd very much like at least on one of you to convince me that Dean losing isn't a total loss. I can only take so much heartbreak in one weekend.

On with it.



*Except for Jeremey. Because, fuck, man. Fuck.

The Friday Five:

1. ...your first grade teacher's name?
Mrs. Sellars

2. ...your favorite Saturday morning cartoon?
Ha! Cartoon! Not Comic. I get it now. Previously I had answered: "Isn't sunday the big colorful day? Or am I missing something here? (Garfield or Dilbert.) " Uhm. I had a crush on the Ninja Turtles. And I very much miss that whole unexplained singing cowboy claymation thing. "After these messages, we'll be riiiight back."

3. ...the name of your very first best friend?
Shit. What *was* her name. She was the one who lived in the house across the street before Amanda (about the third best friend) lived there. I want to go with something like "Amber". I was like 3. If not her, than Leigh.

4. ...your favorite breakfast cereal? Cinnamon Toast Crunch obviously takes first place, though I've been giving a lot of thought about which would rank in the next four spots lately, by complete coincidence. I think it goes Honey Nut Cheerios, Rice Crispies, Honeycomb, then maybe Captain Crunch. Never a fan of anything fruit-related.

5. ...your favorite thing to do after school? If I were still in school, hang out in Floyd's room. The LSG for life, baby.


On with it.

Go GirlyDyke!

The above is a link to what I know to be the first blog to get in on my penis underneath robe sensation. Also, she's got that hot picture of two lesbians kissing on her site, the REALLY hot one as opposed to the really hot one on Serena's site.

At current, if you google search for Penis Underneath Robe, the first search result is a post I wrote about the movement on a forum, which was pretty much copying entirely the one I wrote on this. Still, progress is the name of the game people. That or "Strip Yahtzee." Good fun.

On with it.