Lit blog

[bluebell]

bluebell, you are a beautiful person and a compelling writer.

Dearest Dora. I will thank you for the first and mostly refute the second (save for a few moments when I manage to please myself with my words), but thank you all the same. You are most assuredly both.

If the error doesn't follow their troubleshooting script, Symantec analysts can't help you.

I spent the better part of an hour explaining the problem and how they might help me, but they're complete morons that follow script of questions to ask you. More annoying is going through this over a chat window. I type my issue and question, a full paragraph and I get, "May I ask what country you are in?"

STFU, Symantec.

It sounds like they replied "STFU, Jamison" right back to you, but from Oblivion. The land of This Won't Help A Damn Bit. Bastards.
If you want to stage a coup, I'm in.

 

[Senna Jawa]

"Happy end" for a change

My new friend had the common sense to go to a hospital. Got medicines at a discount, got a program, came back to me the next day in good shape.

A few days ago I found him his dream job--taking care, one-on-one, of a 95 year old marxist Jew, AE, of Russian descend, who had recently a mishap with his leg but who otherwise is in amazingly good form and has clear mind (plus lots of stories, of historical value, about his revolutionary parents, and about his friends). Today my friend moved to AE, and AE himself from the care house, where AE stayed three rooms away from my father. After a month of sharing my "1bdr junior" apt it will take me a week to get back to my old ways or rather to feel the routine to take over.

My friend in Ohio finally, after two and a half years of being homeless, made it possible for me to send him some money. Then, in the next email, he writes me in one breath "forget it" (don't send money), and "I had only water the past four days"), but the money were already on its way. He got it and writes me again about taking new college courses, and about the list, made by his psychology professor, of things to do, when my Ohio friend takes (ends by his own hand) his life. Oh, how cheerful! Can't this professor give my friend some things to do, like grading homeworks or tutoring? Or repositioning books in the university library? No, he made a list, how scientifically (what an idiot! he must think that he's funny and sophisticated).

Best regards,

 

[WickedEve]

My new friend had the common sense to go to a hospital. Got medicines at a discount, got a program, came back to me the next day in good shape.

A few days ago I found him his dream job--taking care, one-on-one, of a 95 year old marxist Jew, AE, of Russian descend, who had recently a mishap with his leg but who otherwise is in amazingly good form and has clear mind (plus lots of stories, of historical value, about his revolutionary parents, and about his friends). Today my friend moved to AE, and AE himself from the care house, where AE stayed three rooms away from my father. After a month of sharing my "1bdr junior" apt it will take me a week to get back to my old ways or rather to feel the routine to take over.

My friend in Ohio finally, after two and a half, made it possible for me to send him some money. Then, in the next email, he writes me in one breath "forget it" (don't send money), and "I had only water the past four days"), but the money were already on its way. He got it and writes me again about taking new college courses, and about the list, made by his psychology professor, of things to do, when my Ohio friend takes (ends by his own hand) his life. Oh, how cheerful! Can't this professor give my friend some things to do, like grading homeworks or tutoring? Or repositioning books in the university library? No, he made a list, how scientifically (what an idiot! he must think that he's funny and sophisticated).

Best regards,

Glad the new friend is doing so much better.
The Ohio friend? Sounds like more drama/tragedy will ensue.

 

[Senna Jawa]

Glad the new friend is doing so much better.

He got the best of his jobs in years or ever.

Times are funny. First days his family and friends were worried about him--possibly I am "Jack the Ripper" or something like this. Somehow I didn't hear anybody worried about him when he was on the street. Also, nobody worried about... me . After all, I didn't know him, he is a former football player, 6'4" tall, weighs way over two hundred pounds.

The Ohio friend? Sounds like more drama/tragedy will ensue.

I am afraid that this is unfortunately true. He asked for twenty. For instance, $4 buys a bus daily ticket. You can get here and there, and the bus is like a hotel room too. I went to Western Union, filled the form with my name (it overflew ), etc. Then the clerk did his job. I got from him a stapled, 3-sheet receipt (which included the form). "Is this all?"--the clerk confirmed that it was it, and I folded the sheets, put in my back pocket, and left. My friend wanted me to do it over the Internet, a "minute" arrangement--"do you hear urgency in my voice? " he asked with a smile. But I trust more the peasant ways, person to person (the Internet page was taking ages to load). And why suddenly such urgency when there was none for such a long time, when I tried and urged him? Anyway, it was afternoon, which translates into evening in Ohio (3h diff). I selected the next morning option, saving $6. In the morning he had problems. I am not sure what the complication was but it was resolved soon. Possibly the delay was due to my last name. The clerk typed it from my (clear!) hand-typed original, and he had inserted extra "Y" between "S" and "Z". Most of the time I spell my name, and then I aslk to check, that there are eleven letters (in each of my names). Here he was rewriting it. I didn't know about it and I didn't have a chance to ask him to count the letters.

I didn't write my friend how much I have sent. I asked him to write me the amount which he has received. He wrote me back the correct one--forty dollars (and the fee was "only" $9.99 but that was here unimportant, perhaps beyond his horizon). This feedback is the only sure thing which I know about him since we parted. All I have from him are his emails. He refused to connect me with his family or, so far, with anybody around him. I wanted to believe everything he writes but finally his last email, already after he accepted the money, makes no sense--he writes me that he just has spent over three hundred dollars on the textbooks for the college courses which he is about to start (and that he expects to spend additional two hundred). This time it is completely insane, it makes no sense (and he wrote something about some "refund checks" coming his way in September).

A few minutes ago I decided to look up his relatives on the Internet but his last name is too common (or I am not enough of a hacker). Oh, well, I wish I had more energy, cheerfulness, youth, money, luck, time, good connections, ... At least I have Lit blog

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Bluebell, that was a compelling little piece you wrote and it made me think a great deal about quality companionship and depth. I'm glad to see you in here; your voice is beautiful.

Senna, I really hope you have good luck with the friend, but I also hope you're able to disengage if it becomes necessary. It does sound like the sanity is sketchy there, and it's hard to help someone who can't allow themselves to be helped.

bj

 

[Anschul]

LOL. I spent nearly two hours being frustrated by Dell call-desk tech suppies. It seems as soon as my warranty expired, so did my desktop. This is not a low-powered, midget- memory beast either. It is one of the higher end home computing models that I can't get to accept a video driver. I reformatted my disk and partitioned and de-partitioned and lost a whole lotta writing and important email in the process.

So, I call them up to confirm that I'll be needing a motherboard or a new video card. The guy has me download a network driver to my laptop and then upload it to the desktop (stuck in 4 bit video mode with a lot of visual noise on the screen. Then he fucks around for an hour downloading sound drivers and printer drivers and all sorts of shit, basically treating me like a moron. He finally tries to get the video rolling and my screen blacks out at home. He can still see my desktop on his end, so yes, it's my computer, not the operator. We tried 3 times and all 3 times the result was the same as I'd told him about already.

About 8 months ago I'd had the same problem and the phone tech told me that if it reoccurred that it was my motherboard. Up to the point of yesterday I was quite prepared to purchase a replacement motherboard and video card from Dell. The supervisor on the other end told me that their contract with me had expired so they were unwilling to back date the first occurance of this problem to 2 weeks prior so that I'd be under warranty. Pricks.

I informed him that since he was toeing the company line so closely that I couldn't fault the service I'd recieved but that I'd be damned if another Dell product found its way into my life again.

Now I need a printer cartridge for, yep, my Dell photo printer/scanner. Piss me off.

In the long run, it'll be cheaper to get a new (HP!) printer/scanner.

 

[Anschul]

He got the best of his jobs in years or ever.

Times are funny. First days his family and friends were worried about him--possibly I am "Jack the Ripper" or something like this. Somehow I didn't hear anybody worried about him when he was on the street. Also, nobody worried about... me . After all, I didn't know him, he is a former football player, 6'4" tall, weighs way over two hundred pounds.

I am afraid that this is unfortunately true. He asked for twenty. For instance, $4 buys a bus daily ticket. You can get here and there, and the bus is like a hotel room too. I went to Western Union, filled the form with my name (it overflew ), etc. Then the clerk did his job. I got a stapled, 3-sheet receipt (which included the form). "Is this all?"--the clerk confirmed that it was it, and folded the sheets, put in my back pocket, and left. My friend wanted me to do it over the Internet, a "minute" arrangement--"do you hear urgency in my voice? " he asked with a smile. But I trust more the peasant ways, person to person (the Internet page was taking ages to load). And why suddenly such urgency when there was none for such a long time, when I tried and urged him? Anyway, it was afternoon, which translates into evening in Ohio (3h diff). I selected the next morning option, saving $6. In the morning he had problems. I am not sure what the complication was but it was resolved soon. Possibly the delay was due to my last name. The clerk typed it from my (clear!) hand-typed original, and he had inserted extra "Y" between "S" and "Z". Most of the time I spell my name, and then I aslk to check, that there are eleven letters (in each of my names). Here he was rewriting it. I didn't know about it and I didn't have a chance to ask him to count the letters.

I didn't write my friend how much I have sent. I asked him to write me the amount which he has received. He wrote me back the correct one--forty dollars (and the fee was "only" $9.99 but that was here unimportant, perhaps beyond his horizon). This feedback is the only sure thing which I know about him since we parted. All I have from him are his emails. He refused to connect me with his family or, so far, with anybody around him. I wanted to believe everything he writes but finally his last email, already after he accepted the money, makes no sense--he writes me that he just has spent over three hundred dollars on the textbooks for the college courses which he is about to start (and that he expects to spend additional two hundred). This time it is completely insane, it makes no sense (and he wrote something about some "refund checks" coming his way in September).

A few minutes ago I decided to look up his relatives on the Internet but his last name is too common (or I am not enough of a hacker). Oh, well, I wish I had more energy, cheerfulness, youth, money, luck, time, good connections, ... At least I have Lit blog

And friendship and empathy here!!

 

[Homburg]

Champ, not sure what sort of Dell you've got, but it might be worth looking into these guys. It will cost a bit of coin, but you might be able to save your machine.

 

[champagne1982]

Champ, not sure what sort of Dell you've got, but it might be worth looking into these guys. It will cost a bit of coin, but you might be able to save your machine.

It's a desktop, Dimension 9100. The Dell guys suggested a local tech shop but I know a few nerdly types who could build me any system I wanted with off the shelf motherboard and video card. That way no shipping out req'd 3/4's of the way across the continent, I'm at 54 degrees N latitude and 110 degrees W longitude whereas NC is.. well, it's not.

Thanks for thinkin of me though. I've still got my lap top. I just wish I had the computing power of my desktop available to me still.

 

[Homburg]

It's a desktop, Dimension 9100. The Dell guys suggested a local tech shop but I know a few nerdly types who could build me any system I wanted with off the shelf motherboard and video card. That way no shipping out req'd 3/4's of the way across the continent, I'm at 54 degrees N latitude and 110 degrees W longitude whereas NC is.. well, it's not.

Thanks for thinkin of me though. I've still got my lap top. I just wish I had the computing power of my desktop available to me still.

Sorry, I've Dell laptops on the brain. MIS has had nothing but trouble with hers, and mine has really been a dog lately. In fact they just hot-swapped out a slightly newer model for me, an dI need to sit down and get my stuff transferred. So I just thought laptop.

It also helps that I almost never buy a boxed PC. Too many nerdy tech types I know will build a comp for me for the pure enjoyment factor of it.

 

[WickedEve]

"Your father and I love you more than we love our own lives. We just wanted you to know that."

"Um, okay."

"Your father and I were watching a movie last night. The woman married this awful man. He wanted her parents dead so she'd inherit their money. They killed those lovely parents. I told your father that could be you and Hugo, killing us! Your father and I love you."

"Um, oh, god..."

A year or two ago, during the bird flu scare, my mom and dad prepared their basement for survival: food, water, prayers. I was told that the children and I were expected to come live in the basement for six weeks, if the bird flu hit our area. Why couldn't we stay upstairs? Yeah, I love my parents, but... jeez.

My parents stress me out when it comes to Hugo. Maybe it's because I'm their only child. Maybe they worry too much about me. Maybe they think Hugo is the Devil. My mom doesn't like Hugo, for many reasons, according to her. My dad seems to get along with him. Sure, there are the comments, like, "What do you mean he doesn't have a Phillips screwdriver? Never heard of a man not having a Phillips." I try to explain to my dad that he has one -- at home, not my house!

Yesterday, Hugo made his biggest mistake. He straightened a crooked key that goes to the cellar door. I live in the house I grew up in and one block away is another house my dad owns -- the house he grew up in. My dad lives an hour away. His childhood home is the one with the crooked cellar door key -- the one Hugo hammered flat.

"You shouldn't have straightened it. Will it still work?" Hugo thinks I'm nutty.

"It's straight now. Of course it'll work."

Less than two hours later, my dad calls. "Where's the cellar key? I can't find it."

"Where it always is, Daddy."

"No. It's not here. Did you take my crooked key?"

"Oh, Hugo straightened it for you."

"What? Let me try it and see if still works!"

I tell Hugo that he... well, I tell him that I told him so.

 

[Safe_Bet]

"Your father and I love you more than we love our own lives. We just wanted you to know that."

"Um, okay."

"Your father and I were watching a movie last night. The woman married this awful man. He wanted her parents dead so she'd inherit their money. They killed those lovely parents. I told your father that could be you and Hugo, killing us! Your father and I love you."

"Um, oh, god..."

A year or two ago, during the bird flu scare, my mom and dad prepared their basement for survival: food, water, prayers. I was told that the children and I were expected to come live in the basement for six weeks, if the bird flu hit our area. Why couldn't we stay upstairs? Yeah, I love my parents, but... jeez.

My parents stress me out when it comes to Hugo. Maybe it's because I'm their only child. Maybe they worry too much about me. Maybe they think Hugo is the Devil. My mom doesn't like Hugo, for many reasons, according to her. My dad seems to get along with him. Sure, there are the comments, like, "What do you mean he doesn't have a Phillips screwdriver? Never heard of a man not having a Phillips." I try to explain to my dad that he has one -- at home, not my house!

Yesterday, Hugo made his biggest mistake. He straightened a crooked key that goes to the cellar door. I live in the house I grew up in and one block away is another house my dad owns -- the house he grew up in. My dad lives an hour away. His childhood home is the one with the crooked cellar door key -- the one Hugo hammered flat.

"You shouldn't have straightened it. Will it still work?" Hugo thinks I'm nutty.

"It's straight now. Of course it'll work."

Less than two hours later, my dad calls. "Where's the cellar key? I can't find it."

"Where it always is, Daddy."

"No. It's not here. Did you take my crooked key?"

"Oh, Hugo straightened it for you."

"What? Let me try it and see if still works!"

I tell Hugo that he... well, I tell him that I told him so.

Hun, sorry if this sounds creepy, but knowing your parents are as wacked as mine is reassuring some how.

I really related to the screwdriver and the cellar key. I can so see Amy hammering a key straight cuz "it's stupid to have a bent key" and me telling her that it's "suppose to be bent; its always been bent and my Dad likes it bent."

As to having a Phillips screwdriver = seriously! Amy's a butch lesbian. She has a full tool belt that goes EVERYWHERE with her - just in case (and yeah, I do her Christmas shopping a Home Depot).

What interests me is this question: Is there a relationship between "Wacked" parents and children who have "non-mainstream" sexual preferences? Is it that their "abnormal" behavior gives us 'permission' to experience ours? Is it rebellion and/or a desire to go to the polar opposite from them? Or, is there no relationship at all - "I'm a perv" and they are "wacked" - and it just happens to be that way?

P.S. My dad had heavy metal doors put on the storm cellar and keeps it stocked with food - just in case...

 

[WickedEve]

Yesterday, while Hugo and I were in the cellar, we heard a squeak of horror. Zombie bats? Ravenous rats? We froze and searched the walls and hidey-holes, eyed the air ducts.

"Where is it? What is it?"

Hugo moved forward, with me creeping behind him.

Squeak! Squeak!

"Don't move, Eve! It's watching us."

"How do you know it's watching?"

"It only squeaks when we move." A warning squeak? Is the squeaking it's defense? It? What is IT?

SQUEAK!

I run from the cellar and leave Hugo behind, like a slab of sacrificial meat! Take, Hugo! Take, Hugo!

Several minutes later:
Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak... comes closer and Hugo appears.

"Hey, honey!" He points at his feet. "It's my tennis shoes."

 

[WickedEve]

SB, we do have similarities!

 

[WickedEve]

So I got Hugo to stop drinking. Well, he did the stopping but with much, much encouragement from me. "Stop drinking or I'm leaving." Most of the time, I wasn't that harsh. I can see the change in him. I like it. I believe he will be successful.

Is there a problem? Sort of a little problem, I suppose. I don't really care for alcohol and never really drank (maybe once every three years) until I met Hugo. I prefer iced tea and diet soda most of the time. Always will. But Tuesday night I had this killer Margarita. Damn, I love anything with lime in it. God, it was good. And when we go to the Blue Martini in Atlantic City and we're chillin' at the ice bar, I just love my Mojito. And I can do Jägerbombs like nobody's business. And there's the vodka. Man, a few shots of that stuff really takes the edge off a good flogging. Sigh.

I told him I could care less about alcohol and that I had no desire for a drink. I never drink alone and I won't drink with him, not anymore. So I won't be indulging in any Margaritas or Mojitos. I really like the Mojitos they make at Ruby Tuesdays. I love the way the mint leaves float around when I stir them with the sugar cane sticks.

I've been brewing a lot of tea for us. We're drinking way too much coffee. We actually go coffee shopping, looking for bolder and bolder coffees. Oh, last winter, I got totally hooked on Baileys in my coffee. I'd KILL for one right now, you mother fuckers! Hugo will be fine and so will I.

 

[Safe_Bet]

Well, that was certainly fun! Nothing starts your day off like getting knocked up by your lesbian lover!

Talk about romantic! Whoo Hoo. Dinner and a movie don't have a chance compared to cold ass stirrups, getting a FREEZING speculum jambed in your twat and then getting pumped full of a syringe of jizz! Am I sounding a little sarcastic? I am, but I shouldn't be. If Amy really was a guy, and could make me preggers in the "conventional manner", I'd be dating "his" sister and we would never have gotten together. Well as the song goes, "Gay Sa-rah, Sa-rah"!

The only thing that made the whole process worthwhile, besides bring an extremely loved new baby into the world, was that as Am's pushed down on the plunger, she looked me in the eyes and mouthed, "I love you". Made my little heart go all pitter-pat.

I want this baby, but I am also happy that Amy got her heart's desire. She really considers herself my "husband". Must be a "guy" thing, but she has always wanted to be the one to make me preggers. Maybe its having a hand in the creation process. I don't know. She won't really talk that much about it other that getting all misty eyed. She was so pissed when they wouldn't let her do anything when the girls were conceived. Like she said, "It doesn't take a medical degree to push a plunger - half the lesbian born kids in the world were conceived in a gay guy's bedroom with a turkey baster" - yeah, she can be just a tiny bit sarcastic too!

Anyways, I'm just being a bitch, cuz now I've got to behave myself. For the next 9 months, no more Flying Love Monkey; no more "rough housing"; no more making Am's crazy so that she drags me into the bedroom and "does me."

The true of the matter is that I won't even try. I miscarried twice before the twins were born and I can't ever go through that again. I cried for six months straight each time. Fucking body of mine just rejected them after a few months. No reason, no cause, just one day they were gone. Think what you want about reproductive rights, but those were my two babies that died. So, for the next nine months I'm just going to sit and gestate like a beached whale. I really, really, really hate those bitches that are still playing tennis a 8 1/2 months though!

Add in the fact that when I catch a case of the "fat uglies," I'm insecure enough for four people and at any moment am capable of morphing into Queen Needy the Uber Bitch! I will do my very best to keep that shit out of the forum, but stand by for some REALLY angry poems! Hey, a girl needs to vent somehow!

WTF am I doing? I'm writing a flipping book. If you read this far, you are as stupid as I am. Get a fucking life, will ya!

 

[WickedEve]

Dinner and a movie don't have a chance compared to cold ass stirrups, getting a FREEZING speculum jambed in your twat and then getting pumped full of a syringe of jizz!

Sounds more fun than dinner and a movie... well, kind of...

 

[Homburg]

A few days before the 36th time my birth date rolled around I find myself staring in the mirror. It is an unusual occupation for me, as mirrors exist in my world largely to assist in shaving my own head. But this time I stopped and looked. Maybe it was because I was about to roll the odometer by another digit, or maybe I just had seen but hadn't really looked in too long.

Anyway, my beard is a special thing. My hair, my original hair before all this aging nonsense, was a dark chocolaty brown. Unremarkable, but the colour was solid. The beard, however, was an explosion of colour, a proclamation of tonsorial individuality. Black, dark brown, light brown, red-brown, red, red-blond, and blond were all there, co-existing in a scratchy mess vaguely inhabiting my chin and face. It was no big deal, as the stuff on the chin was all I cared about, and it was predominantly brown enough to look related to the stuff on my dome.

Cue the entrance of age, and exuent the head hair. Not all of it, no, it just thinned. Not really a big deal, but eventually it got thin enough that it was more annoyance than shade, so out came the razor. The goatee? It carried on, proud, and, well, not think, but thick enough. Yay for Japanese and beardless celt ancestors preventing me from having worthwhile chin scruff.

Age decided to wander and visit my beard eventually. The stuff on the sides started to go grey here and there, but the chin? Never! In glorious defiance of all things normal, my chin fur began to get progressively more... blond. I know, do what? Blonde? I thought the same thing, but nothing my facial pelt does is normal, so why start with age-related colour changes?

Never thick, however, the change to blonde and my natural skin tone meant that large blonde areas would simply dissappear against my face. Not really a problem until the colour change found my moustache. And here begins the problem. The blonde began at the tips of the upper-lip forestation and crept inward. And a few days before my 36th, I noticed that my moustache had gone colourless blonde all except for the very dark bit right below my nose.

Yes, from a distance I had the Hitler moustache.

This offended me. It had to go. I went out and bought some men's beard colouring thing, and began to mix it. That's when that voice popped up in the back of my head. This voice is the one that questions motivations, and reminds me that I'm not allowed to bullshit myself. So Carol Kane pops into my head, "Liar! LIAR!" and tells me that I'm not dying my beard because I look like I've Hitler's nasal hair on my face. No, Carol is convinced that I'm doing it because I look old, and dying my face-fuzz will make me look younger.

Fuck.

I'm not doing this out of vanity, am I? I've got nothing to be vain about! "Humperdink!" she says, "Humperdink, Humperdink, Humperdink!". The bitch. I am forced not only to confront my age, my pigmentation challenges, but now the looming and stealthy spectre of vanity? Entirely. Too. Much.

The fact that it turns out to be too dark, and thus weird looking really makes the whole episode that much more painful, and I still feel old walking onto a college campus to visit my girlfriend.

Fuck you, Carol. I know it's true love, and no one is bluffing. And I'll colour my beard anything I want to. But I wouldn't mind an MLT, so do be a dear.

 

[Sara Crewe]

I think you're fine unless toasters start randomly hitting you in face.

 

[loststar]

depends on the movie

 

[Safe_Bet]

Dinner and a movie don't have a chance compared to cold ass stirrups, getting a FREEZING speculum jambed in your twat and then getting pumped full of a syringe of jizz!

Sounds more fun than dinner and a movie... well, kind of...

depends on the movie

Okay, I give! I always thought that I was a depraved individual.

Now I must acknowledge and bow down to depravity at a level of which I can only dream .

 

[Homburg]

I think you're fine unless toasters start randomly hitting you in face.

Oookay, now I'm nervous.

*looks around*

(I'm actually really fond of Carol Kane's work and would be bloody unlikely to say that to her in person.)

 

[Sara Crewe]

Oookay, now I'm nervous.

*looks around*

(I'm actually really fond of Carol Kane's work and would be bloody unlikely to say that to her in person.)

I love her. She is uber funny. The scene with the toaster sealed it for me.


I want it to be okay for me to whap people with toasters.

 

[Tzara]

A few days before the 36th time my birth date rolled around I find myself staring in the mirror...

Oh, good! I get to play The Wise Older One for a change.

That post, Mr. H., was hilarious, for several reasons wholly unrelated to you. I've been watching my hair color fade from a robust near black to a kind of weaselly Almost White (there are, if I look closely, some few dark follicle holdouts, but I fear their scattered outposts are being overrun by the Troops of Colorless Age). We will not speak of how the troops seem to have slimmed, regardless of their allegiance to Dark or White.

I admit I am disturbed by those television commercials where Walt Frazier and Keith Hernandez (I barely remember these guys myself! Should I discount their message?) tell me that I never will get laid again unless I wipe some shoe polish-like coloring agent through my thinning locks. Am I Cordovan or Ram Umber? Should I try to match the color of my dress loafers, as if my hair was like a tie or even cufflinks?

Oh, I am poet and so must write poem:

My hair is gray
And will not Stay,
Unhappy colored,
Anyway.​

Maybe I should just curl up in a corner someplace.

Sadly. Sadly.

 

[WickedEve]

This morning I woke up around 1:30 to go pee. I'm usually a 2 a.m. pee person. I stumbled over my schnoodle dog and, a moment later, I was back in my room. Lights were flashing everywhere. It was like a disco ball. I pulled the blinds up and saw two cop cars in front my house. "Oh, god! Someone finally reported Hugo and me!"

Yeah, that's what I thought. Turns out they were across the street -- some traffic stop. But I was paranoid and for good reason. This past weekend, Hugo could be seen running naked through my yard way after midnight -- and with a riding crop in his hand. Of course, there I was scurrying behind him, trying to hang onto the chains, and glowing like a pale white naked firefly in the moonlight. And we do this often. Oh, the outdoor stuff we do while naked in the dark.

I really thought the little, pink troll (with wrinkles and dreads) across the street had reported us. She's nocturnal and peers out her laundry room window, watching me and my house and my cat. She called last year and asked, "Do you still want your cat?" I told her that I wanted my cat. Then she said, "He talks to me." I'm waiting for her next call, "Do you still want your man?"

Hugo thought it was Lucy, too. Or maybe the Virgin Barb. She seems to keep track of my comings and goings. My mom calls her, if she can't get me on the phone. Then my mom calls me later. "Barb said she saw you and the kids leave at 4:35 and come back an hour later with groceries and both kids screaming." Barb's a 63-year-old virgin who constantly rakes her yard.

The only other one who would call the police would be Miss Polly. She has a beehive hairdo and she's scary polite. She thinks Hugo is a "fine looking man." But no, she lives a block away. Wait! It must be Goldtooth across the alley. She's the one who says I'm "dating heavily." Well, she's praying heavily. We both have our crosses to... um, she has hers to bear and I have mine to bare.