Dead Air

In the middle of the night last night, my home computer died. The sudden prevalence of unusual silence woke me out of a sound sleep; instead of the gentle lull of the hard-drive's white-noise whirrings, I heard my husband coughing in another part of the house, a big truck lumbering down my street, and the dog scratching himself.

I don't know what's wrong with my computer yet - it's a fairly new machine - as I didn't have time to look at it before coming to work this morning, but the symptoms it is exhibiting do not induce optimism in my black little heart. I can't blog regularly from work, as my ouevre is edgy enough to cost me my job, if I were discovered. I'm nervous about even checking my e-mail here.

So - I'm off the air until further notice. I will, of course, be back as soon as possible. Ciao, you freaks. I adore you all.

Shroomage

Circa Bellum posted about his experiences with psychedelic mushrooms, back in his younger days; reading it brought back some heady memories, I can tell you. I remember with all the clarity of daylight my first experiences with organic hallucinogens. As hallucinogens go - and I'm not good with most of 'em - shrooms are the primo shit. No nasty chemical side-effects, and you're done in six hours or so. Best of all possible worlds, if you're a fucking druggie.

During my freshman year of college, I lived in an all-female dormitory, as befitted my station in life. In the spring of the year, I dated a hippie; real good-looking guy, but with a shade too much fondness for Che Guevara posters and tie-dyes for my long-term taste. Plus, on closer inspection, he smelt of ass and pit. Needless to say, this relationship was short-lived. But I digress.

One fine Saturday evening, Hippie shows up with a bag of shrooms. His also-hippie roommate was coming over with his intensely-hippiefied ultra-Nazi-vegan girlfriend, and we were going to split the bag four ways before going to a party at an apartment complex a few blocks away. We planned to crunch 'em up manual-like, by mouth, none of this labor-intensive tea stuff, and smoke a bowl afterwards, to "clear the taste" from our delicate hippie palates.

Hippie boyfriend, hippie roommate, and hippie girlfriend were firmly ensconced in my dorm room in short order, and we followed the general plan. I choked down my portion of the shrooms, fighting the urge to gag and thinking mostly about the animal shit the nasty things grew in, and hoping, unenthusiastically, they'd been washed before packaging. The Dead played Sugar Magnolia on the boombox - bootleg cassette, of course, Alpine 76. Incense curled over our heads as we smoked our bowl and listened to hippie girlfriend's lecture about the evils of organ meats.

Finally, we left for the party. Now, to my recollection, calling this gathering an actual "party" was a major stretch - twenty or so hippies laying around on pillows, beanbags and futons, by candlelight, toking on a hookah, does not a "party" make. The scene was only slightly more animated than an opium den, but they had food and beer and Jimi Hendrix music. My hippie boyfriend and I settled on a futon in the corner, rolled a joint, and commenced to socializing.

The next thing I knew I was giggling. Stinky hippies were funny. Ha! That goth-looking girl over there is getting yelled at by vegan-Nazi hippie girlfriend for eating a double bacon cheeseburger in front of her! Ha ha! Look at that stoned dude try to find his lighter! Ha ha ha! Wow - white guys with dreadlocks are soo silly! Ha ha ha ha ha! And look at the little faces on the carpet fibers! Hilarious! Ha ha haha hah ha ha ha ha...

I couldn't stop. I got my gigglebox turned over, in the worst sort of way. The mostly-quiet hippie conclave found this behavior annoying, until they were informed that we were shrooming, after which I was given a wide berth and lots of encouraging smiles. One thing you can say for hippies - they're tolerant, kindly, even, towards those who are visibly in an altered state.

I laid there and laughed my ass off, occasionally raising my head to point at someone and mutter incoherently about beaver pelts before launching into renewed peals of merriment, for five hours. When it was time to go home, my hippie escort practically had to carry me to the car; I was weak from laughing so hard and had no equilibrium, no sea legs, with my shroom trip. The walk from the apartment to the parking lot was enough to make me light-headed and seasick; I had to stop behind our ride, to bend over and vomit between uncontrollable spurts of giggling. My hippie date was, to his credit, a very understanding young gentleman; people sometimes puke from drugs, and he was prepared for it. Any stoner worth his salt can handle a puking date.

As I stood there, hunched over and gagging up chunks onto the asphalt, a couple of swaggering frat-boys drifted by, towards the building. At the sight of us, the fat one looked pointedly at me, wrinkled up his nose at the stench, and asked, in a loud voice, "Damn...what'd she have for dinner?"

Challenged, I stood up straight, wiped the barf-strings off my chin, and smiled gaily through the flecks of used fungus on my incisors. "Mushrooms!" I managed to state, before cracking myself completely up and dissolving into the passenger's seat.

At that moment, I thought it was the funniest thing I'd ever said.

I don't do hallucinogens any more. Even shrooms. It's a rule.

Comment Issue

Somehow, somewhere on the central mu.nu server, someone ran blacklist. In doing so, he or she has inadvertantly banned the expression "http:'" from usage in the comments. So, if you are trying to post a comment, both a) leaving your blog-address in the URL field, and b) posting a URL in the body of the comment itself will result in your comment being rejected for "questionable content".

I'm sure that mu.nu will resolve this problem with all possible alacrity, but for the time-being, leave off your URL's and the comments should function as usual.

Jealous

I just talked to a friend of mine in Atlanta and she says they are buried in an inch of ice. Not snow, but ice, the invisible, treacherous bastard. If I had known all the meteorological predictions for that area would actually come to pass, I would have gone to her house for the weekend - they've got gas for heat, hot water, and cooking, and as of five minutes ago they still had power with no flickers. My friend is busy making up a savory, meaty stew for dinner, and baking a loaf of home-made bread to go with it. They don't have to go anywhere. Her well-mannered and impeccably-turned-out kids are rosy-cheeked from ice-sledding. They have a big, roaring fire. They have a bag of weed. They have a case of wine. They have hot chocolate. They still have their fucking pajamas on, for God's sake. Doesn't that sound heavenly?

Meanwhile, in Lower Alabama, the same shit falls out of the sky into a pane of just-above-freezing air, onto a not-cold-enough-to-freeze ground, making mud and gunk to spatter your trousers. No ice. No snow. No stew. No weed. No picturesque views, unless you count rain dripping off the eaves of the Seven-Eleven as picturesque, which I, for my part, do not.

Don't get me wrong; I'm a bitch, but not a total cunt. I do feel for those folks who suffer from the ice and snow business - tree damage, car accidents, loss of power...all that sucks. But - and this is a big but - when that shit doesn't happen, an ice storm, or a snow storm, is lovely.

Sam will be over to kick my ass in a minute. Gotta go!

Jumpy

I have a muscle in my right shoulder that has been twitching nearly constantly for the last two days. It's a weird sensation, and it's strange to look down and see your blouse jumping around when you know damn well you're not moving your arm. This muscle has not rested, therefore my arm is tired. Really, noticeably tired. I feel like I've been lifting a five-pound weight with my right arm, all night long. Intercessory curling.

Don't you think this calls for a muscle relaxer? I could swear this calls for a muscle relaxer.

For Momma

She wanted me to bring it up - all but triple dawg dared me - and girl, you know it's true:

Everyone fucking hates a suck-up.

Unless, of course, you're the one getting sucked at any given moment. Then the suck-up seems pretty cool, because you're the suck-recipient, the one being verbally or textually serviced. But to the casual, outside observer...? They thinkin', "brown nose" and "target".

I can say it. I've sucked up. I've been sucked up to, in my day. I have experience in these matters. Everyone sees it; suckupage is transparent like that.

I'm not talking about anything or anyone specific, you understand - God forbid that I be accused of casting aspersions. I don't even know any suckups personally. But there are certain undeniable patterns of human behavior, some of which Momma and I discussed in a telephone conversation this afternoon. We got to thinking. And she dared me to post on it.

So, yeah. Suck-ups. Love. Hate.

Don't hate the playa, hate the game.

SUCKUPS, REDUX:

I see that I need to clarify my suckuppance position: this post was not a cryptic reference to something that other bloggers aren't "in" on! My blogmomma and I got to talking one afternoon, about some of the commentors you see on the Big Dawg blogs - the ones that allow comments, that is. Ninety percent of folks are nice, complimentary, friendly, normal, nine percent of folks disagree with whatever it is that the Big Dawg is barking about, and then there are the one-percenters - the suckups.

You can tell the suckups - which are mercifully few in number - from the nice, normal people, because the suckup gushes. The suckup models his or her own blog after the Big Dawg, hoping to attract via emulation. The suckup will toe the line in head-bobbing agreement, with whatever the Big Dawg posts about, whether that be masturbatory fantasies about Nazis and duct tape to off-the-wall speculations about whether or not Karl Rove has a weather-controlling device. Finally, the suckup will dump your ass cold when a Bigger Dawg comes along to suck up to.

And that was the point of the whole thing - that suckupage is noticeable, and everyone hates it when they see it.

This is not to say that any of my beloved visitors are suckups. Hell no; I appreciate each and every hair on your precious little heads. This is not to cast aspersions on anybody. If you asked me to name a suckup off the top of my head, I'd be at a loss. But - they're out there, people. You've seen it, I've seen it.

I ain't trying to be mean, and I don't have someone in my sights. I'm trying to be scrupulously honest.

Answering Sam

Sam asks:

Do you blog for yourself, or do you blog for what you believe others will think of you?
Do you want people to read your personal thoughts and opinions, or do you want the traffic?
What do you hope to gain from blogging?

At the outset, lo these many years ago now, I used to blog for myself. Over time, through search engines like google and mainstream media attention, everyone I knew seemed to find one of my old sites, and I found myself swept up in a tide of misperceptions with regard to my personality that it was to my advantage, for a time, to perpetuate. Then it got old. Now, I'm here, I'm inblognito, and I say what I damn well please. So I guess I'd fall into the "blogging for myself" category, at long last. As for the traffic, the same rule applies: years ago, when I started blogging, the traffic was a big thrill. Now I could care less. What I mean is, it's nice to get traffic, but I don't think of myself as actively seeking it, like I used to. If traffic were my main concern, I'd never have gone underground - other sites I "administer" have much higher turnover than this disused little ramble.

What do I hope to gain from blogging? Writing practice, just a daily sharpening of my language skills, not unlike solving a crossword puzzle (which I also do every day). Beyond that? It's not so much what I seek to gain as what I seek to regain. A sense of self? A measure of sanity? A shred of self-respect? Blogging is very therapeutic.

Queenie Does Washington

My irascible old uncle Robert wrote a post the other day that rang familiar bells in the Queeniebellum; he describes the potential furor over the multitude of skeletons inevitably unearthed from his various closets were he to run for public office. I've often had such thoughts myself; believe it or not, in my real life I do not appear to be such a loon on the surface. Oh, no, no, no - that would never do. One has to dig deep to find the bag-lady within. But, all this is only tangential to the point I was trying to make, which is that, strange as it may sound, I have been encouraged to run for public office several times in the past, by several unrelated gentleman of a decidedly political bent. While I look very attractive on paper, I never considered it seriously, being who and what I am. These gentlemen I reference were sweetly hopeful for my future, being friends of my father's and only cognizant of my official resume, and therefore also completely in the dark with regard to Queenie's, erm, colorful preferences, proclivities, and pleasures.

If I ever ran for office, it would have to be on the "Everything You've Ever Heard About Me Is True" ticket, the "Yep, I Done That, Too" plank. I mean, seriously. If it will change your reality, your attitude, or your latitude, I've smoked it, snorted it, drunk it, dropped it, eaten it, shot it, or put it up my ass (dilaudid suppository, anyone?) If it can be fucked up, I have fucked it up - cars, credit scores, and contractual obligations. Yes, I probably slept with that guy over there, too. Oh, and her. Hey, hon! How y'all been? Yes, I've nailed a politician. Yes, I've nailed a rock star and lived to tell the tale, after several thorough courses of antibiotics. I've never stolen anything, never been arrested for anything, have no police record whatsoever, other than a few traffic violations...but I sure as hell have engaged in some stuff that would get my ass locked up in most of the countries in the free (and unfree) world. Hell, if I was a muslim, they'd have "honor" kilt me years ago. Or stoned me, maybe, and I don't mean stoned in the good way.

Personally? I don't care. I'd just as soon shout it from the housetops: hey, look at me! I'm a highly successful, motivated, and energetic punk rock stoner freak, and I live next door! How you doin'? I don't give a rat's ass...but I know that my mother and father would die of humiliation behind that sort of revelation. My husband wouldn't give a rat's ass, either...but my kids might, someday. I have to remind myself sometimes - earth to Queenie - you is not the only person up on this planet, biatch; somebody else might have a opinion, too....

You know - and God forbid that this come to pass, knock wood - if my parents weren't around to feel the carnage as my private life was laid bare, I might would just try it. Running for office, I mean, on the "I Done It" approach. After all, my existence - since 1998 - has been almost blameless. Moreover, there's a precedent. George Bush had a drinkin' problem, sobered up, and look where that landed him. Teddy Kennedy is an infamous rummy who fucking killed a lady through cowardice, and the people of Massachusetts keep on keepin' on with him. And besides - run for office, tell the truth about all my various and sundry foibles, right up front...nobody could ever say I was out of touch with the American people, now could they? Because, and I really believe this, you know 75% of the American people are, despite all the above, waaaay more "out there" than I've ever been.

No, really. I'm only an anomaly in that I tell the truth.

Since Everyone Else Is Doing It...

...I'll fucking cave and post that I'm a Sober Emotional Constructive Leader.

You are a SECL--Sober Emotional Constructive Leader. This makes you a Politician.

Of the 83558 people who have taken this quiz since tracking began (8/17/2004), 7.3 % are this type.

Happy now? Bunch of horseshit. Hah! Ask Key just exactly how hell-bent I am on "pleasing" other people. And sober? Riiiight. Bullroar.

Watch

Wow.

Thanks, Joe.

Tsunami Joke

So today I read all about this morning radio crew that got "suspended" (whatever that means) for playing a "tasteless" and "offensive" song mocking tsunami victims on the air. Being the inquisitive little ferret that I am, I could not rest until google laid at my feet, like a foxhound with its quarry, a (limp and bleeding) mp3 of the tsunami song and the five minutes of air time that preceded it. I wanted to hear this allegedly offensive song, to judge for myself; I'm a complete asshole, really, so I often find extremely tasteless crap just as funny as all get out. I thought perhaps I could make the case, intellectually speaking, that these people were being mistreated. A trampling of the first amendment, and all that good stuff. I thought it might be one of those things where laughter and the certain knowledge that you are going straight to hell go hand-in-hand.

I listened to the mp3. What a bunch of shitheads. I mean, can I say it any plainer? These people are just nasty, trashy, overtly racist, foul-mouthed, egotistical little prima-donna bitches; this "tsunami song" is so rancid that even I couldn't see the humor in it. It wasn't even well produced, or well thought-out, or well-executed, or well anything - it was just stupid, irritating, home-made crap that also happened to be offensive to even a thick-skinned old battleaxe like me.

Nuh-uh. That radio station has every reason to pull 'em off the air. Nobody's rights are getting ridden rough-shod over in this instance; individuals and corporate entities have the right to distance themselves from acts they find repugnant and contrary to their personal code of ethics or their mission statement, whichever applies. If I found that one of my employees had used company resources to produce and distribute something that might damage my shareholder's value, I have an obligation to take care of the situation. No. Case closed. These particular "shock jocks" are just buttheads.

I toyed with the idea of posting a link to the article, but that's just too much trouble (bad Queenie! Bad!) - suffice it to say that I saw it on CNN dot com and not at another blog, otherwise I'd probably take the trouble, just to shine in on the old blogging ethics thing. Likewise, I was going to post the audio clip...but I just can't bring myself down to the level necessary to perpetrate such an act on my own environment. It really is gross. If you want it bad enough, send google after it, like I did. In my opinion, that'd be a colossal waste of your fucking time, but hey. Judge for yourself.

Last Quivering

The constant, droning prattle in the television media on all this snow in the northeast is working my nerves. I remain totally unmoved; after all, here it is, Lower Alabama, cold as shit (just wrong on so many levels), colder than the proverbial witch's titty, and I would sell my soul for a snow day, a day to legitimately lay out of work (a tree fell on my driveway, sorry!), drink hot cocoa by the family hearth, with my chirn, and schlump around in my pyjamas all day long. Winter fucking wonderland! My slacker fantasies, realized, in a very concrete way.

Earlier today, The Weather Channel was predicting a "wintry mix" for my house on Friday night. That forecast lasted all of seventeen minutes; now the prediction for my zip code is "nasty cold drizzle". Shit. Typical.

Snow day. I know, I know, you yankees don't get snow days. Well, fuck all that, you're yankees, you knew what you were getting into when you decided to live up there. Do you think we get "heat days" off down here, during the summer? No, we do not. My people drive poorly on slippery cold stuff, producing news footage of jaws-of-life level auto wreckage that your people laugh at. Your people die like flies in heat that we experience on a daily basis in the summer, and we laugh at you pussies, too. It is the way of things. That doesn't mean I can't be just the teensiest bit jonesy for some of your weather. Just a day or two. That's all I ask.

I'd even settle for an ice storm. Okay...hail?

Paean

Velociman brought up Lileks in the comments section of a post below. I remembered I hadn't checked up on ol' Lileks in a while. So I went, I perused. I cackled, I spiritedly guffawed, I threw back my head and roared. Now I need to go change my unders.

I'm sorry...if you don't find shit like this hilarious, I don't know what to do for you.

Everyday Haiku

I'm in a haiku frame of mind. Plus, once I've had this much wine, it's just easier to think in this meter.

winter skin itching;
unkempt nails claw at the breast
titties is too hot

look! way over there
asshole hammers wood by night
wake my chirn and die

"middle class wage slave"
you can whine like a pansy
or get up and work

crocodile city
scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch whimper
my shit still itches

sneezing releases
all sorts of sinus demons
orgasm for face

body spreading out
white flesh over white sheets
to sleep a deep sleep

Inblognito

Speculation with regard to my "real" identity was a given. Just bound to happen, people being what they are, right? No biggie, in the scheme of things. I am sure there are plenty of people who've sussed me out by now, and ninety-nine point seven of them have been cool about it, even happy to see whichever one of my identities they "know" online having a good time. Shit, two or three of you nailed me, like, the first day I posted, back on blogspot. You sent mails. We bonded. It was good.

Know this, though: some very public speculations, however wide of the mark they may or may not be, are not winning any friends or influencing any people over here. I hate that shit; immature online strivings to appear "in the know" are a) pitiable, in an adult, and b) pissing me off. If you just have to wonder, wonder via e-mail, won't you? Or, alternatively, couldn't you just be content to enjoy the occasional show, to let me have a little fun? What do you do for good times, anyway...go around telling four-year-olds that Santa Claus is a big, fat, lie?

The anonymity thing is part of the whole thrill. You want to fuck that up for me? Then go right ahead, you destructive ass. You sure can do it, if you feel you have something to prove. As for my part...you bust me out? To my family, to my community? I will never forget and I will never forgive. I will despise you in some measure until I flatline, and do everything in my admittedly somewhat meager powers to make your life a living hell from now on.

So just cut it the fuck out already.

Set In Stone

What can I say? I love a man in cuneiform.

(I've been waiting for a chance to use that line for, like, years. Thanks, Dong.)

Dammit!

Can't you people just cut it the fuck out already?

I mean, really. It's embarassing. What, all the souls were saved, so you had to find something else to fill your time with? All the hungry children in Africa fattened up? All the crime, all the hate, totally wiped out by everyone's perfect knowledge of God's Love? No, take a minute and ask yourself if you really want to stand here and try to tell me that the most important thing you could be doing with your time, your pulpit, and your massive, capital-generating, faith machine is to pick nits with a cartoon character?

Don't you have any idea how ridiculous you're making yourselves look, now, at a time when any fool can see that your faith is under massive attack, when those who espouse your beliefs in any sort of public argument are immediately dismissed as Jesus freaks, right-wing nutjobs, a bunch of fruit-loops? Unbelievable. Shit like this is, for the Christian faith as a whole, like the Dukakis helmet picture, or the snaps of Kerry in the blue NASA cleansuit, looking for all the world like a French sperm. It's bad PR. Makes the whole idea of the church a focal point for derision.

I understand that a lot of Christians are morally opposed to any perceived permissiveness with regard to homosexuality; I don't agree with that position, but I admit that this is an issue where reasonable people disagree. If, however, preachers insist on standing up and making broad proclamations on the topic, I wish to hell they'd do it in a manner that shows some forethought for how this advances Christ's work as a whole - is what I do now going to reflect well on my faith? How will the media be inclined to portray it to the millions and millions and millions of unsaved they service? Will my actions bring souls to the Lord, or push them away? I'm sorry, but picking an argument with Spongebob Squarepants is just doomed to failure; even if you're right, you still look like an asshole.

Dumbasses. Fucking fiddling, and Rome a complete tinderbox.

Pound Foolish

How do you spell relief? Well, if you're me, tonight you're spelling it b-r-a-k-e j-o-b. After flying by the seat of my pants and relying mainly on the handbrake to bring my vehicle to a stop for weeks and weeks, I've finally handed my car over to the ass-rapers mechanics for a brake job and oil change. I cannot tell you what a load off my mind having brakes again will be; when you're the mother of three, life suddenly becomes mighty inconvenient when you deem your own car too unsafe to carry your children. Mister MacFarland was getting mighty sick of chauffeur duty, too.

This morning, on the way to work, my car barely ground to a stop at all, and the noise it was making was downright embarrassing. I know that every male in a mile radius would have taken my husband out for a horsewhipping, if they could have located the man who was "responsible" for that noise, for "letting" me drive around like that, as I was "obviously" a deaf, dumb, and foolish skirt who had no idea the car screeched like a banshee at every tap of the brakes. My own cash siphon mechanic was shocked that I made it as long as I did. Whatever. Blame whoever you like; I was not using that bloody credit card, and would brook no discussion on the matter.

Hey - fortune smiled upon me this time. And I will pay no exorbitant credit-card interest on this brake job, either. When the man hands me my keys back, I will hand him a wad of honest cash, instead. My plastic remains on ice, and I have once again avoided spending a got-damn dime more than I have to.

Yeah, I'm a cheap Scot bastard. I make an Abe Lincoln scream in agony on a daily basis. It's a lifestyle thing. Debt scares me.

Diverse Membership

On the evening of my seventeenth birthday, I lost my virginity. I was a junior in high school, and had been dating the perpetrator of the act for a number of months; as high school romances go, we were lifers. We were in loooove. We spent hours on the phone. We spent all our time between classes and at lunch together, every possible second of extracurricular fraternization was wrung from each and every day. We drove to school together, we went to church together…it was an affair straight out of a John Hughes movie: New Romantic girl with money meets Punked-Out working-class boy in a Theater course, wacky hijinks ensue.

Months and months and months of making out, of getting all hot and bothered in the back seat, all while holding a symbolic dime between my knees…it finally proved to be too much for Queenie’s burgeoning young womanhood. I gave it up, after much agonizing. I capitulated.

My boyfriend and I drove out to the river side, out in the country, to a sweet, dark bower made of kudzu and tree-roots. He’d picked the spot earlier in the day – knowing that he was about to finally lose his, too - and he’d made sort of a nest there, with layers of blankets and pillows, ringed with candles. Really, as feminine virginity-loss tales go, it was pretty fucking cool. I won’t get graphic – who, me? never! – but there was no blood and very little pain and the whole experience was one of those “the earth moved!” things that puts you in a goofy daze and makes you walk bowlegged for days afterwards.

Although that boyfriend and I broke up when he went off to college, I never regretted the experience. I wasn’t an especially promiscuous person; I only throw in the “especially” as a nod to those who will be horrified by the idea that I lost my virginity at seventeen. By modern standards I was practically a nun; it was some while before I went out and found myself another boyfriend to love on. Until my marriage in 1998, I was a serial monogamist.

At any rate, up until I was nearly twenty, this young man was the only “grown” man I had ever seen up close, naked. Ever. So understand that my, erm, perceptions of reality were somewhat shaped my that one unique experience. Also, remember that this was in the eighties; porn wasn’t everywhere the way it is today. There was no internet to see this shit on. I had no brothers, my father was an exceedingly modest gentleman…and we were churchy people, anyway.

Two years pass between the first penis and the second one. When I am presented with the second one, only the years of friendship with its owner and months of heavy-petting horniness kept me from hollering out loud from shock at the sight of it. What the hell was wrong with the boy? Did he hurt himself, or something? Where’s the rest of it? I was upset. I went through with the act, and everything was fine and dandy, but my mind wasn’t there at all. I went through the motions, mind running in circles, making cartwheels, training for the Olympics, stunned at the penile diversity that had just now, at the age of twenty, occurred to me.

Only by puzzling out this deeply personal topic with my best girlfriend did I understand what was going on, much to the merriment of the girlfriend in question. Boyfriend A was uncircumcised, and, apparently, Girthzilla to boot. Boyfriend B was cut, and just a nice regular size. I’d had no idea; I had no frame of reference, no clue what either one looked like, and, contrary to popular belief, girls don’t come pre-equipped with a mental sizing chart. I just could not believe that two penises could be that different. Penises sure were funny things.

Lo these many years later, I reflect on those early sexual experiences with not a little humor, as well as with a small measure of pride. I was sheltered, dammit. My parents did about as good a job protecting the Flower of Southern Womanhood as anyone could have, especially when that flower was dangerously determined to swing from the rafters. My girlfriend has been telling this story, laughing at me these twenty years, for having to ask her about it, and I am still grumbling with every retelling, and calling her a slut for knowing.

NSFW

Just now, while browsing Electric Venom, some small mental alarm began beeping as I noted, in passing, that Kate, kindly, warns her readers when she posts something "Not Safe For Work". I don't think I've ever done that. I think I probably better start. After all, you don't want your head tech guy finding my stories in your cookies. I can't be held responsible for what happens to your sorry ass after your boss finds out. Come on, people. Drunk and coked-up cracker artist's model attempts to fuck tranny Irish photographer? Dangerous, cranked-out bikers watching porn and slipping mickeys on innocents? Incoherent ravings, punctuated with foul language and writ large on a parchment of illegal activity? Oh, man. Bend over, 'cause you can kiss that ass goodbye.

Now that I'm thinking about it, maybe it would be easier to just change my tagline. "Inblognito - NSFW".

Triple Happiness Blessing

invisible blog
a girl strains to write a line
ghost in the machine

silver tower looms
pyramid of Diet Coke
OCD is cool

promises broken
cigarettes are demon-things
smoke curls heavenward

google sits right there
fountains of distraction in
Anna Nicole Smith

king size pillow top
down and soft cotton beckon
Queenie say "sleep good"

Whoops

There was a post there that wasn't supposed to be there. Draft-mode pity-party. It's gone now. Move along. Nothing to see here, folks.