Thursday, June 30, 2005

Blood is Thicker than Drivel

There's new blood at the Blood Blog! Three new juicy drops to be exact.
Warning: Those of you who like blood, but hate poetry, don't bother. There's no real blood at my other blog. Just a grotestque splatter of words and grey matter.

Don't touch anything, and be careful where you step.



Casual--My Ass, Friday

Tonight, corporate drones and other hive-types will go through their closets and drawers, laying out their Friday ensemble. Some will smooth over nice pairs of Levis and shake out crisp cotton/rayon polo shirts. Others will pick out one of a thousand pairs of khakis, pairing with them a Hawaiian shirt on a bad acid trip. Because tomorrow isn't just Friday. It's Casual Friday.

Casual Friday, at many companies, is the once a week reprieve from buttoned-down stiff'n'stuffy office attire. Hey, pal, leave your tie at home today. Be comfortable. I'll show you my loafers if you show me yours.

Wow. What a nice, selfless--not to mention progressive thing these bosses have done for their underlings. That's really pushing the envelope, thinking outside the box. I'm so lucky to work here. Maybe these hoopty-ha executives are people just like us. Maybe they'd rather wear Dockers and tennies just like me. I really think they understand that if I had to wear pantyhose just one more day, I'd just be asking for a yeast infection. My boss really gets me, because we have Casual Friday.

There are other ways that tight-ass corporate tight-asses bestow kind and merciful departures from the dress code, and other minor rules in their codes of conduct. Western Day, Hawaiian Day, Bring your Kid to Work Day, and the biggest rule buster of all: the company Christmas Party.

Come on, It's only one day of the week. What harm can come if the rules are a little more lax on Friday? By Monday, everyone will be back in suit and tie, crisp and professional, keeping their spotless noses to the grindstone. Why not mix Fridays up a little bit?

If these upper management types really want to show their employees that they can ease up on the 'thou shalt/thou shall nots of the employee handbook, if they really want to walk their 'devil may care' talk, allowing, encouraging everyone from the peons to the Peter-Principled to let it all hang out--here are some suggestions on meaninful alternatives to Casual Friday.

+Clothing Optional Friday
+Sexual Harassment Friday
+Embezzlement Friday
+Conflict of Interest Friday
+What Code of Conduct? Friday
+You Do this Shit Job for a Day Friday

Is there an email that might come back to haunt you? Some porn on your browser? A bad review in your employee file? A paper or electronic trail of anything you may not be proud of? Then suggest this to your morale committee:

+Conflagration Friday
+ Somebody Paid Good Money for the Sprinkler System and
Fire Extinguishers So Why Don't We Use 'Em? Friday

May I suggest the following occasions, which might go a long way in creating a work environment that is more open and caring:

+I'm Leaving Now Friday
+I'll Stay Longer if I Can Drink at My Desk Friday
+New Employee Hazing Friday
+Occult Arts Friday
+Gang Violence Friday

Friday is the day where everything goes--there's no such thing as being unethical and to hell with social taboos:

+My Religion is Better than Yours Friday
+Democrats vs. Republicans Friday
+Prove Mormonism is a Cult Friday
+Presidential Election Recount Friday
+Who's Had an Abortion? Friday
+ Meth Lab Dos & Don'ts Friday
+Go Ahead, Admit You're Gay Friday

And last but not least--
+Burn an Executive of your Choosing in Effigy Friday



Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Letter to a Disgruntled Client

You're incensed that you had to pay $60 for a $75 one-hour massage. "Your website said that you'd bill insurance. Why didn't you bill my insurance? Why haven't I been reimbursed for the sixty bucks?"

Sympathetic to your fiscal plight in the beginning, I reassured you that we'd find someway to stick your insurance company with the bill. But I've been mulling it over, and thanks to the persepective my seething crimson rage affords me, I'm not as sympathetic anymore.

One gets the impression that you paid good money for a service that citizens in more developed countries are entitled to free of charge. You act as if you'd been taken, stuck with the short end of the deal in some scurrilous, black market transaction. You're behaving as if our act of receiving the 60 dollars in exchange for providing you a massage, was in someway untoward.

You've ranted, and I've listened to your sob story. Now you listen to mine.

I haven't had health insurance for the last two years. I pay out of pocket for my medication, and for annual check-ups to refill those medications. I have to take them; it's not penny candy.

In October of 2003, doubled-over in agony, I went to the emergency room with what turned out to be kidney stones. That was the doctor's best guess, anyway, after ruling out infection and ectopic pregnancy. I couldn't afford an X-ray to see how many stones were camping out in my kidney, or if there were any at all. Because I didn't have insurance, there was no way I could afford any kind of surgery or soundwave therapy.

I arrived at the ER at midnight and left between 5 and 5:30 in the morning. My souvenir for having waited five hours for an inconclusive diagnosis and no treatment whatsoever was a paint strainer. "Drink lots of water and pee into this."

That's it. No Vicadin or Demerol or Lortab. I had to look up pain management advice on the internet.

For this, I paid $1,000. One thousand of my hard-earned dollars. That thou could have paid bills for 3 months. That's money I use for my prescriptions. That's money I buy groceries with, and gas, and stamps, and presents and cards for birthdays and Christmas. That's a thousand dollars that wouldn't be replaced. I didn't have a job. That's a lot of money to go out, knowing that it wouldn't be coming back in.

I'm not the kind of person who runs to emergency or the doctor's office at every little twinge. I don't like going to the doctor, and my experiences in emergency have left me with an association tainted with all manner of pain, torture and neglect. That I opted to to seek help that night, knowing that I'd be paying out of pocket for everything, might tell you something about how much pain I was in.

Excruciating doesn't even touch it. I've read that passing a kidney stone hurts worse than being burned. It's worse, some say, than being stabbed or shot. Other's say it's even worse than hard labor. In a nutshell, people who've passed a stone swear that it's the worst pain they've ever endured. And it is. I was in so much agony by the second day, after the ER visit, that if there were a gun in the house, I would have stuck it in my mouth. I'm not kidding. I'm not exaggerating. I would have shot myself in the leg first, just to see if the kidney stone really hurt worse. But had there been a gun available, I would not have hesitated to use it to self-medicate.

So, my dear disgruntled patron of the healing arts, don't piss and moan about having had to fork out a measly 60 bucks to have a licensed professional rub your naked body with fragrant oils in a womblike sanctuary-- a quiet, dimly lit room that meets Feng Shui code.

Don't be such a bellyaching, whining asshole. I hope you have to pass a stone someday. Then you'll realize what exactly your generous insurance policy is for. When you're vomiting and writhing and begging for help at the triage station, you'll actually get it. Instead of the e-collar I was sent home with to keep me from biting, you'll get a definitive diagnosis, a treatment plan, a referral to a renal specialist and a prescription for industrial strength pain killers, so that you won't have to self medicate with whatever combination of Tylenol and Nyquil you can manage to swallow and keep down.

You madam, are an ungrateful bitch. And now everyone that reads this knows about your small life and inflated expectations.



Has it Been 125,000 Years Yet?*

Don't tell me you want to know the gender of your unborn baby so you can decorate the nursery appropriately. The baby won't give a fuck what color the walls or blankets are. Don't tell me it's for ease in picking a name. If you're under 45, you'll end up saddling your kid with some awful, insipid moniker like RainForest, or PumaScat. Believe me, no amount of research or information about the gender of your baby will keep you from inflicting the contrivance of a "unique name" on your child and the world.

And please, don't tell me you're taking the test so that you can bond with your baby as soon as possible. What's keeping you from bonding with it now?

You want to know if it's a boy. That's what parents always ask, either at the moment of birth or during a sonogram. "Is it a boy?" they inquire with hopeful, upward inflection. You parents, bragging about your great stores of unconditional love and masterful approach to child rearing are hypocrites. You've already stipulated that the child you will love must be your genetic, biological offspring. And that the child should be male.

Parents speak of their male children--born or unborn--in terms of all the things they can do. "It it's a boy, then he can play ball with his father. Or he can go fishing. Or he can be president. Or he can do this and that and the other..." They never talk about the more likely outcome of their precious sons becoming wife-beaters and rapists, bullies and terrorists, or at the very least, oafish louts who will not clean themselves.

...Or a girl, always spoken with a dejected, downward inflection, as if saying it too loudly might make it happen. "If it's a girl, I'll love her anyway." Or, "At least she's healthy." Have you heard that? The announcement of a female's arrival in this world is usually with a concilliatory tone, a "better luck next time" kind of sentiment can be heard in the news.

And what does one do with a daughter now that she's here, here being a country where female infanticide is frowned upon? Well, you dress her up. That's how parents console themselves. The non-male creature in their home becomes a human tie-rack. "Oh, I can put ribbons and bows and frills and makeup on her. And when she's older, a bridle and a bit and a harness."

But these gender tests are for family balancing, you'll tell me. And they're used in many cases when families already have boys and want a girl, you'll argue.

Bullshit. The mom may want a girl. After squeezing a bunch of sons and heirs and proper human beings out of her racked and worn body, she figures she's earned a girl. Someone like her, to objectify and help with the dishes and clean up after the boys. That is the only way a girl comes into this world wanted. Not because of all the things she could be, or accomplish, but because she'll smile and help and look pretty in frills and flounce. There's already a boy to carry on the family name--let mom have her girl, her pet.

I was a pet. I was named like a pet. My younger brother was named after my father and my mother's father: Joseph Martin. I got a name that "just went well with St. Onge" my mom told me. Cindy Sue. Do you know how many people tell me, after meeting me the first time, "I had a dog named Cindy!"

No, it's not short for Cynthia. I had always wished it was. But it's just Cindy. A name with no expectations, no history, nothing to live up to. Our toy poodle's name was Suzette. I used to think I received my middle name from her, and when I was little, that was fine, because I loved Suzie. As I grew older, I became jealous that the poodle acutally had a full name, but I had the diminuitive pet form, of Cynthia and Suzette.

I know what parents think of daughters. Don't tell me you can't possibly wrap your little manchild in a pink blanket, and that's why you need to find out-- if it's a boy!

Or a girl.

*Please see this post to find out what's wrong with the Y chromosome!

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Is There Such a Thing as
a Half-Assed Perfectionist?

Today wasn't such a good day. I had a meltdown in front of my boss. The trigger wasn't a monumental crisis. Just one more little stress, one more tiny failure, the white noise in my head turned up just one decibel, and suddenly, out of nowhere--tears.

It's been important to me from the day I started to shine brilliantly in this position, lowly though it is. Even though I've failed at the one thing I've always thought I do well, the one thing that comes naturally to me, it was imperative that I proved to my bosses that even if I was the second-runner up for the position, I was the one who deserved it all along. I wanted to show them that I was actually the more qualified candidate. At the very least, I just didn't want them to regret hiring me at all because I suck.


I suck.

I've lost count of the number of scheduling mishaps I've engineered. Yes, I really count them. I keep separate counts for scheduling fiascos and billing catasrophies. And yet another list for how many times I freeze during the day because I don't know the answer to someone's question. According to the scoreboard, the visiting team isn't just losing, they're having their asses handed to them.

I try. I really, really do. I don't think I've had to work so hard at anything in my life. It's just an office job, and it's not like the patients are putting their health in my hands. Each component of the job isn't terribly difficult in and of itself, but having to perform all of them at once is impossible.

And yet I like the gig. This is a vast improvement over every other job I've ever held. It occupies my mind and I get to be around goodhearted people who share my values. But I've been away from the working world for two years, and as I explained to someone the other day, it's like reintroducing a feral child back into civilization. My metaphorical hair is overgrown and matted, and if I can't get my point across with grunting, hissing and foot-stomping, we won't be having a conversation. I am that far gone, and finding that it's a long way back.

However, my sense of smell has grown very acute. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Maybe I should relax my expectations. I have two days off to recoup, and to summon all the gratitude I can find for even having a job I perform crappily.

So what if I'm a failed writer, and a shitty receptionist and appear to have perfectly normal physiology--from a distance.

I'm still smarter than President Bush.


What did that girl put in my coffee?

I order the same thing every morning at Starbucks. A tall, mint mocha. It's stimulating and soothing at the same time, just like the commercial says. But today's cup of java is not soothing. I'm sweaty and jittery and I swear to god she put crack in my espresso. I'm tweaking hard. Zooming. My eyes are darting, hands shaking. I'm afraid I may look as freaked as I feel. Great, now I'm paranoid. This isn't good. My symptoms clash with the babbling- brook-aromatherapized atmosphere of my clinic. Someone's going to notice. What the hell is in this coffee?

She better not have charged me for it, whatever it is. And if she did, she's giving it to me for free next time.

Saturday, June 25, 2005

President, or Poster-Child
for the 'Severely Disabled'?

George W. Bush is a a complex man. His persona is multi-faceted and his roles are myriad. He is the fulfillment of biblical prophecy to the Armageddon-obsessed nihilists. He is the steward of godly values to the religious wrong. To the working poor and middlish-class, he is the spoiled, playboy son of a powerful family. He is the pot of gold for corporate America, especially oil companies. He is Satan incarnate to Islamic fundamentalists. To many, he is just a simple-celled organism.

Good or bad, puppet or kid in a candy store full of weapons and Generals, George W. Bush is astounding. He is an outright miracle, for two reasons. First, this man moves among Christian zealots and creationists, courting their support and allying himself with their beliefs, even though it's plain to see that he is, in fact, the missing link. He doesn't hide the fact that he has a monkey face, or monkey thoughts. He doesn't talk about it, but he doesn't deny it either.

Right there--in front of evolution-denouncing preachers--he stands or sits, shaking hands, pretending to listen, nodding his organ-grinder-rhesus monkey head unabashedly. Darwin isn't turning in his grave. He is clawing frantically out of it, so that with a mouldered and mossy bone, he can point to George and growl, "See!"

The second wonderous quality of our president is something that has confounded the world's finest, brightest medical minds. Researchers, neurologists, the CDC and the AMA--they observe Bush giving speeches, enjoying vacation, holding press conferences--and they are absolutely mystified.

How, they want to know. How on earth is it possible for someone to have no detectible brain activity for so long, and not have gone into massive organ failure?

Friday, June 24, 2005

Mmm, This Poem Sure Tastes Good

Once again, because I haven't planned ahead, and cant stay up late enough or get up early enough, I'm at work without access to my poetry files. Thus, I'm canibalizing a poem from my Blood Blog.
This week's poem is fairly recent--written within the last four months. Stop me if you've heard this one before.



The Ministry of Touch

Something survived the ravening.
A found bit of tenderness, overlooked

by scavengers, unmarred by
years of plunder.

I’d like you to have it.
Let me press it into

your palm, your lips, into
the well of your throat.

Take it; you’ll owe me nothing.
It is a gift, this touch. There will

be no conditions, no bartering,
no marking in a ledger. Enjoy

this treasure, let it soften
over your skin. Yield to its

warmth; there is safety here.
And here, your ecstasy is welcome

and a treasure unto itself. Behold
this small scrap of affection, a forgotten

morsel of caring: it is still supple
and certain to increase in the heart

of one who generously receives.
How extraordinary; how rare indeed

that any of us should be
so utterly cherished.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Jesus Returns

...For One Night Only!

Jesus used parables to illustrate spiritual concepts to the crowds he spoke to. He communicated in plain language, making his message as accessible as he was to the people of Galilee.

I watched Chris Rock's routine on HBO a while ago, and was impressed at how he drove home socio-political messages using humor as a device. His audience--as varied as Jesus's may have been a couple of millenia ago--may not read Newsweek except at the dentist's office or have ever picked up a copy of Mother Jones. Rock's audience probably included people who must deal day to day with family and community concerns; in comparison the world at large isn't a pressing matter.

Rock filtered the big picture for his audience in a way that not only made it funny, but relevant to them. He was educating and entertaining at the same time.

What if Jesus had disarmed the skeptics with one-liners? Dr. Michael Abrams writes in his book, "Evolution Angel" that Jesus was in fact quite funny, and would have people doubled over in hysterics at his comedic escapades.

So what if Jesus the Messiah, was actually Yeshua the Stand-up-Comic? Travelling from this village to the next town, his reputation preceding him by word of mouth, crowds would gather in ever increasing numbers to see the humble carpenter send up Caesar and the High Priest, parody stuffy Mosaic law and complain about the smell of camels. Can't you envision him doing just that? I can. His routine may have started like this:

How's everybody doing today? What a great lookin' crowd you are. I appreciate your being here on such short notice. You may or may not know that I have a price on my head. The Office of the High Priest keeps an eye on me. The groupies, I don't mind. But I draw the line at pretentious old men hiding in wells and water jugs. Freaks me out just a little bit, you know?

It's scary being a wanted man in this era. But I'll be honest: Being an outlaw does have it's perks, 'cuz the ladies they do like a bad boy. And to hear the reactionary Saducees and their Roman masters tell it... I am the badest boy to kick up dust on these roads in a long time.

God it's hot! Whoo! Jesus disrobes to his loin/dhoti cloth, which is held up with rainbow suspenders. It's an interesting look with the old-timey Birkenstocks.

He'd be a comic/magician combo, reading minds, guessing your weight, and lifting your jewelry, quipping that he learned that from Judas. He'd be interrupted by the occassional message from his heavenly father, passing the message on to a member of the audience, "Is there a Simon in the audience?" A bunch of hands go up. "I'm going to have to narrow this down, uh, I'm looking for the Simon with leprosy." All hands down. "Ha ha, just kidding. I'm looking for Simon of Samaria." One hand goes up, "That's me!"

"Uh, yeah, Simon, I just got word from God above, and you'll be going to hell. Sorry for the bad news, bro'. If you'll see Peter on the way out, he'll give you your money back."

He'd continue: "You know what's really great about being the son of God? When I say 'Damn you!' it actually means something. Isn't that a trip?" (Pointing to someone in the front) "Damn you! Ha ha! Just kidding, just kidding."

His promoters would have a heyday with marquis and press releases:

Jesus Kills--
Sold out at Harrahs!

Jesus--Sold Out
By Ticketmaster--this time.

Absolute blasphunny!
Stand in the front row at your own risk!

Jesus Saves--
His best material for Vegas!

And he'd plug future appearances: " I hope you enjoyed yourself today. I'll be appearing at(pointing) that rock--the big one by the old well, about a mile down the road, tomorrow. Then I'll be back here next Friday. But don't tell anyone. (He looks at Judas.) Okaaay?" He'd leave his audience with these words:

"You know what else is pretty cool about being me? When I say 'God bless', it actually means something."

"God bless."

Everyone has to have a gimmick.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Trying to Fit In

Among the general population, I am, relatively speaking, not indulgent. As writers go, my lifestyle is austere--I don't smoke or do drugs, or drink excessively, or take lovers. But at work, I am the sugar-eating black sheep. I am the toxic yeast creature, also known as the Dairy Slut, sitting at the front desk with a mocha-moustache.

I knew the environment I would be in when I started working here. It's a naturopath clinic. I kept up appearances the first week by drinking green tea instead of bee-linining it to Starbucks, which is right across the street, and visible from my window. I had salad and soup for lunch. No meat, light on the carbs. I looked like a very good girl. But I cannot be expected to work or function at even a baseline level without caffeine and sugar.

I've been Elvis the last two years, for crying out loud. I've had to take sleeping pills to get to sleep, then in the morning, chug down a double espresso to clear away the diphenhydramine fog. The green tea bit wasn't going to last forever.

I started bringing back a grande mint mocha on my break, but now it's just a tall. Everyone at the clinic is pretty understanding. I'm not the only coffee drinker there. But I'm the only one who drinks coffee there-- in plain sight of patients who've been given dietary restrictions by their naturopaths. So I sip on the sly, hiding my cup under the counter.

Someone was talking about carbs the other day. I piped up and admitted that I loved doughnuts. Between the look she gave me and the metallic silence--you would have thought I had said, " I fucking love fucking goddamn motherfucking cuntalicious doughnuts. Fucking love them."

Doughnut is a bad word here among the wheatless-dairyless-sugarless monks. Now, I've been a vegatarian, and have abstained from sugar and dairy. But since I have no vices, I'm allowing my hedonistic affair with food. I will not deprive myself. Sometimes the only good thing about life on Earth is the food. The food is fantastic, and probably why we keep coming back. All the butter and sugar and salt and garlic and frosting and lemon-filled-this and chocolate-moussed that. I won't deny myself any of it.

So if anyone asks-- and it's likely to come up at work--why I poison my temple-of-a body with all that delicious toxic kaka, I'll just tell them that I'm trying to watch the number of life-giving-nutrients I put into my mouth. That I'm gradually cutting down on whole, vitamin-rich foods. Because--it's not a quick fix--but I think this approach will be the safest and surest way to trim all those excess years off my life.



Tuesday, June 21, 2005


Hello. This post will serve no other purpose than to distract you from realizing that I'm saying nothing. No punchline will be forthcoming. I'm not particularly irritated by anything at the moment, as my mind is glossy with mundane matters. Like clock watching, and phone dreading.

I just want you know that I have haven't forgotten about you. I'm not ignoring you. I just don't have time to entertain you at the moment. But that could change.

You're still reading this, aren't you? Why? Did you know there's an abundance of porn on the internet? You're wasting your time reading this when you could be having a cheap thrill. Or a reasonably priced thrill, anyway.

Oh my god, I'm four paragraphs into this post and you're still there. Are you following me? Now I feel self-conscious. Stop looking at me. Go on now, turn around, click away from here. I just want to be left to my thoughts. Ok, thought.

I'm going to stop.......NOW.



Ha ha! I'm still typing! Will I never stop toying with you? If only you had the power to turn away. But you don't, and I will take advantage of that. I could say something funny or profound or get through one single sentence grammatically sound. Or I may just go on and on like this, and you'll keep reading, looking for that punchline.

Sorry, kids. Not today.



Sunday, June 19, 2005

"Oh My Papa...

...to me he was so wonderful."

My dad loved this Eddie Arnold song. His own father--when he was around, was a shitty excuse for a man. But somehow, in spite of having a horrendous role model, mine turned out to be an exemplary and principled father, and the golden standard by which I measure all men. In the immense shadow of my dad, all other men fall short.

Dad wasn't perfect, but I was aware, even at a young age, that this was a human being in progress. A confirmed and practicing Catholic, he was never dogmatic about my religious instruction. He never professed to know it all, he was always seeking, learning, discovering, and it was ok that my brother and I were there to witness it.

Dad grew up during the depression in Abbington, Massachusetts. When his father abandoned the family, Dad was just five-years-old. He, his two younger sisters and brother were sent to orphanages, and then to live with families who had the means to take on destitute children.

I grew up listening to stories of hunger, beatings, isolation, and the uncertainty of being forever separated from family and not knowing where the next home would be and what cruelty or kindness the next family would exhibit.

My father dropped out of school when he was 16, and joined the CCCs to support his siblings and mother. He gave up an education to keep the family from being separated yet again. In spite of his lack of a formal education, Dad had a voracious appetite for books and a sharp mind. He took advantage of some of the courses offered by the government while he was in the Navy, and he kept a journal durning World War II, which reveals a surprisingly articulate writer and a gifted communicator.

Had my father lived long enough, he may have told me that he had always wanted to be a writer too. We might have had discussions about books-- literature and poetry, and about true crime and biographies. And certainly we'd have spirited conversations about religious books and ideas.

I didn't get to know my dad as an adult, like I did my mother. We get two sets of parents, I think. The guardians of our childhoods and the friends of our grown years. I have to piece together my dad as a friend from my memories, scrapbooks and old soundless, home movies, and stories I've heard from my mother and his family.

I think I'd discover--were Dad here to compare notes-- how very much like him I've grown to be. That I harbor just a fleck of his optimism in my being, and all of his love for animals and militant sense of justice--it's there too.

I think he'd be really pleased. And even if I turned out differently, I know--without a moment's doubt--that he'd embrace me with every particle of his boundless and unconditional love. It never mattered how well or how poorly I behaved or performed as a child--I never doubted Dad's love. He loved me just because I existed and he told me so, every day of my life until he died.

It's OK to wonder about everything else.

Happy Father's Day.


Saturday, June 18, 2005

Aw, Shucks

Thank you, Aunt B, for mentioning my post about vaginal teeth in your post about Blog Aesthetics at Tiny Cat Pants. You've sent a good number of folks over to my neck of the woods, and I'm grateful to have new blood here at WLPF.

For visitors old and new, I've added a tagboard over yonder toward the bottom of the sidebar. Use it as a guestbook, or a bathroom wall, picnic table, wet cement--anywhere you might carve or scribble a short note for posterity. You can use it to visit with each other, or to tell me what an asshole I am, or to just practice your typing. It's not costing me anything, so I don't care.

So, my dear guests, please mingle at your leisure in the sidebar. There will be cake and coffee in the parlor later, and anonymous sex in the Jacuzzi (that Jesus built, by the way) for those spending the night.

Party on dudes,


Friday, June 17, 2005

Mediocrity: Someone Should
Write a Poem About It.

OK, I did, about 8 or 10 years ago. The poem is old, but half-assedness never goes out of style.




My bullet-proof heart
is securely in place,
so I march out the door
with today’s allotted courage.
Just like a soldier
mindful of cadence,
I step to the dol-drum
of my daily duty.
Then five o’clock comes
and all casualties—counted,
I return home once more
and wait for a medal.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

There's a Reason Why
the Grass is Greener There

It's only been three weeks since I've gone back to work, and it's not a bad gig, as reception jobs go. I get free facials and massages, free acupuncture and chiropractic, and they give me a paycheck regularly. But I'm reverting to the 'grass-is-always-greener' daydream of escaping to a different job. It's always the same job I dream about. It's the job I feel I was meant to do but have never followed through with the two-years of schooling. It's the only job that I might possibly pick over being a Rock star.

I have secret yearnings to be a mortician.

I've asked Mt. Hood Community College to send me the information and registration packet twice over the last 20 years. The first time I balked, not at the thought of immersing myself in death to the tune of a couple thousand dollars, but I didn't want to take PE. It was just too soon after high school.

The second time, well--I don't know why I let it go. Probably money. I don't want debt, and I couldn't afford the tuition at the time, so after much fondling of the course description and envisioning myself surrounded by huge cannulae and bottles of formaldehyde, I continued living my dreary, but practical life in corporate America.

My mother was disgusted when I told her I was considering working in the funeral services field. "What is this sick fascination you have with death?" she asked.
I wondered if she might foot the tuition, so I considered my answer carefully.

"Mom, it's not so bad if you think of it along the lines of what a butcher does at the grocery. It's just handling meat in various stages of putrefication. And beautifying it with mortician-grade concealer."

I didn't mention anything about stitching the mouth closed. Mainly because I couldn't do it without a smile in my voice.

Just three weeks into the new job, and I get all pie-eyed and wistful every time I drive by a mortuary. Many of them are old homes, and most of them are furnished like homes. This appeals to my agoraphobic nature. If I could live and work in the same place, it would be one less place I'd have to psyche myself into walking out my door for.

All of the morticians I've talked to really like their jobs. It's quiet, it's sacred, it's medatative, and goes a long way in healing their own griefs, and fears about death.

The downside, I suppose, is always having to justify how rewarding your job is to strangers, without sounding too enthused to the point of appearing necrophilic.

I don't care what people would think about me. Let 'em cringe and make fake barfing noises. I'd be a happy undertaker who would finally stop dreaming of a better job.

And my makeup would be supplied in bulk.



Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Put Down the Keys and
Step Away from the Vehicle

Sure we all have freewill, but the idiots in Portland who've hornswaggled a driver's license from the State can't seem to operate their vehicles unless I'm yelling instructions to them. So that they can better hear the instructions, I'm must be mere inches away from their bumpers.

It amazes me how people revere the written word but not the written number. One might think that a three-foot sign with big black numbers would be a clear directive to drive at least 55 mph. And as slowly as these morons amble by each sign on the freeway, there could be no doubt in their minds as to the number posted. There are only two digits to keep straight. There's no math involved. All one must do is to match the numbers on the speedometer to the numbers on the big sign. Can you tell which numbers in your car look like the ones on the sign? That's where the needle needs to be, or preferrably, a little to the right.

Apparently, the Banfield--or I-84, is where people get the best cell phone reception, because that's where they all head when they need to make a call. During the middle of the day, the little bit of traffic manages to bottleneck because some idiot can't dial and drive at the same time. So the brake lights come on. Again and again and again. Pull the fuck over asshole.

What on earth is so important that you need to be on your phone at this minute? "Well, there is so much to do, and I just don't have enough time. I can't be everywhere at once."

You could if you took your foot off the brake, you stupid yuppie asswipe.

I hate driving. OK, I don't actually hate driving, I hate everybody else driving at the same time, on the same roads as I. I have road rage the minute I get in my car, still parked in the driveway--because I know the city's arterials and highways are infested with housewives in minivans who 'slow down for kids' sake' and granola-headed do-gooders who can't keep their eyes on the road because they're busy 'visualizing whirrled peas' and old people wearing hats that have had the blinker on since 1994.

What is it about the "Slower Traffic Keep Right" that you don't understand? Oh, you don't understand English, I see. Well that makes perfect sense. If I run your boxy little Toyota-- with the menagere of stuffed animals piled against your back window--off the road, will your English improve by the time the cops get there?

Instead of uniform traffic laws, there ought to be rules for shitty drivers, and privileges for the rest of us. Ramming into some gum-chomping, clueless tart while she's gluing on false eyelashes should be legal. If I have to drive behind someone who's going 40 in a 55 mph zone, then I shouldn't get a ticket for going 50 in a 35 mph zone. If I get pulled over, the ticket should be forgiven on the basis of driving the retroactive speed limit. As long as it averages out in the end--let me drive fast somewhere.

Of course, there's only so much vengence I can inflict from my bright green, VW Bug. The worst thing being that if I piss someone off, I don't blend into traffic very well. If I were ever the subject of a high-speed chase, what you'd see from the news chopper is a runaway Skittle weaving in and out of traffic.

And why are fines higher in school zones? That's just asking for trouble. If I'm going to pay $400 for speeding through a 20 mph zone, I'm damn well going to run over a kid or two to get my money's worth. The problem with the little fuckers nowadays, is that thanks to video games, their reflexes are sharp and their vision is really good. But it's a numbers game--I'm bound to get a few of them, as long as I keep trying.

My birthday is coming up soon, and I only want two things: A Hummer and diplomatic immunity.

Beep beep beep.


Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Now, Where was I?

It's slow today. Slooooow. So I'm getting to ask questions about all the things I don't understand, I'm catching up on filing, and my poor, fried little brain is cooling off.

Before you know it, I'll be back to hating the world at large again. I'll try to get worked up at lunch about infuriating social issues and people who are taking up space in on this planet, yet are not contributing to my personal well-being or everlasting happiness.

Catch ya later.


Monday, June 13, 2005

Hey Zach, Wanna Trade Places?

I hate Mondays. They set a bad tone for the week. I think that Mondays should be an easing back into work, instead of running around picking up one project then putting it right down for another, in a useless attack of the frantic dithers.

Multitasking. I'm supposed to be multitasking. It's a buzz word included in resume skill sets and interview questions as if it were an actual ability like typing 70 wpm or speaking fluent French. Multi-tasking isn't a skill. It's a limbic response to crisis. It doesn't mean that you're actually accomplishing anything. It means you can fuck up several things at one time.

I start work 15 minutes early and leave 15 minutes late every day. I usually skip my last break because my focus isn't anywhere near a clock. And still, I don't get anything done. I must have started 50 projects today. I finished nothing. I multi-tasked my ever-lovin' ass off. And what do I have to show for my efforts? More piles of unfinished paperwork. More cryptic notes on postage-stamp post-its. More stuff I'll eventually have to burn if I'm ever to find a job after this one.

The phone is ringing just now. It's my home phone, but it rouses the same panic and dread that the phone at work does. Another interruption.

You must know, that I'm learning things like appointment scheduling, insurance billing, Quickbooks accounting, without notes. I just show up three days a week and whatever I remember how to do gets done properly that day. Or that hour. I haven't been able to master simple, basic things like the phone system, because there are a zillion things that needed to be done last week. I have to learn the practitioners' schedules and scheduling preferences--who wants a half-hour between appointments and who just needs 15 minutes. I have to know which practitioners are covered by which insurance plans and all this crap about in and out of network.

And then the phone rings.
And now a patient needs to be checked out and given a receipt. Or is it an invoice this time?
The phone is ringing again. I can't hear them because the door is open to a busy street, and Enya's synthesised drivel is blaring over the sound system.
It seems we're out of labels, or printed envelopes, or business cards for someone or some other such crap that really doesn't need to be done at this moment, but my boss would like me to drop everything for anyway.

The phone rings yet again, just as one of the practitioners yells "Maestro!" which means that the music has timed out, and I have to get on the computer next to mine to download another two hours of shitty New Age 'sounds'.

And this--believe it or not, is a good day.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

It's Very Camp. But Not in a Good Way.

What if one morning, something in the water, or electrically charged air, caused a whole lot of people in this country to wake up? And in this glorious awakening, they realize that Christianity isn't an idealogy, but an epidemic psychosis?

What if the narcissism, paranoia, delusional thinking, and auditory hallucinations--all classic hallmarks of the Biblically afflicted-- finally alarmed enough people into action? You'll tell me, "Cindy, not all Christians are bad. There are fundamentalists in each religion who give the whole bunch a bad rep."

And you'd be right. But I'm not concerned about suicide bombers and the Taliban at this particular moment. I've got a beef with just about everybody on this planet. I can't address them all in one blog, dear. So let me complete my thought about the group that seems to affect policy more and more in my homeland.

So, everybody wakes up one sunny Monday or Tuesday, and it finally occurs to them that all the mothers in this country who murder their children are Bible-thumping-home-schooling-smock-wearing-husband-worshiping-pro-life house fraus.

The message these whack jobs are sending to the world?

"I don't believe in killing unborn babies. I'd rather wait until they're old enough to scream and fight. I want to see the terror in their eyes. You miss all that if you abort 'em."

But it's ok, because there's a biblical precedent in Abraham's near-sacrifice of his son Isaac, after hearing what he believes is God's voice instructing him to retroactively abort Sarah's only child.

If you can condemn your own children, everyone else is fair game. The famous and oft redacted quote by Pastor Niemoller, which begins "First they came for the communists, and I said nothing," begs the question, who are 'they'?

Maybe it's the ruling elite. The government, the aristocracy, the power mongers. Mavbe it's someone who rules the ruling elite. Who came for Europe's pagans? Who came for Spain's Muslims? Who came for the Africans? Who came for the Aztecs? Who came for the witches? The epileptics?The left-handed? The deformed?

One group came for all of them. The Christians. And in Bartlett, Tennessee, they've come for 16- year-old Zach.

Zach came out as a homosexual to his parents recently, and they want him cured. In some rural areas of this country, it is still 1953. In some satellite-delayed mentalities, being gay is still a personality deficit that can be reconditioned into a pre-1970 socially acceptable norm.

In short order, after administering a thorough emotional beating, Zach's parents have sent their son to Love In Action Re-education camp. Or LIAR, for short. It's not Outward Bound. It's not theraputic horse riding. It's an anti-thought prison and a part of the homophobic and misogynistic pogrom instituted by the religious-wrong Amerinazis.

It is at LIAR, that Zach will learn to identify with his true heterosexual self, the real Zach, the Zach that God will love unconditionally, as long as he continues to identify as straight.

They've come for Zach. Hopefully he will leave camp stronger, gayer, and more authentically Zach. If you link to his blog, you'll notice in his profile that he's open-minded, accepting, just a 16-year-old doing things teenagers do--music is his god, he says. Before he came out to his parents, he could love a lot of things, and believe he was just as deserving of being loved back.

Why is he such a threat?

He hasn't done anything wrong. He hasn't committed a crime, he hasn't sprayed a cafeteria with bullets or tortured the family dog or lost his homework. He's just gay.

What if people woke up tomorrow and decided that it's the Christians who need to be re-educated? Imagine what would happen if the mentality of 'enough is enough; stop this madness now!' reached critical mass. Imagine a society where all the Zachs and Matthew Shepards could live and thrive and contribute their gifts--undiminished, unthreatened, unjudged.

"But the Bible says..." The Bible says a lot of shit. Did you know that to be a priest in ancient Judea, a man had to pass a penis inspection? If his pecker or nuts were flawed in any way, he'd be disqualified. How gay is that?

"So, yeah, if you want to be a priest, I'm going to have to examine your Johnson. Real close-like. Just following orders, man."

Yeah, right.

I've said this before, and I'll say it again, the redactors omitted the rest of Leviticus 18:22, which says, in effect, that a man shall not lie with another man as he would a woman, because it's an abomination.
The omitted part?

"Kneeling is much easier."

Friday, June 10, 2005

C'est Vendredi, Tout Le Monde!

Don't you dare click that "Next Blog" button.

Mistress Grizelda, Lodemai of the Crows, orders you to read this week's poem. Read it! Read it--I said. How dare you defy me. You know what happens when you disobey Mistress Grizelda...don't make me hit you. Why, why do you insist on rousing all this cruelty in me? You like it...Yes! YOU LIKE IT! You sick, sick little doggies. That's what you are. You want Mistress to rub your bad, wet little noses in it, don't you?
The world is a big and random place. But your punishment is always certain. And that's why you come back to the Mistress, isn't it? There is comfort in the correction. Now sit. Stay. Read. Suffer.


Mistress Grizelda

The Worry Noise

Digging for stillness
half mad from the itching;
if the noise would just stop
I could breathe and think clearly.

Reminders of failure sound
off in their turn. Choruses
of doubt drown prayer
after prayer.

There’s not enough money
you’re putting on weight
you’re invisible, yet conspicuous
in a world much too big for you.

It’s quiet
except for a paranoid drone
of incessant worry; a chronic
alarm, coating my mouth

with a nickel tang, it
scours my ears from
thought to thought.

Second-guessing myself
to sleep, I dream a life—
a soundless world, before
morning clamors with jarring
light, drumming me back
to this thick place.

I cover my ears and
bury my face, but fail
to still the dissonant
song that drives this dance—
the greed for life and impossible
protocol of cool perfection.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Where There are Lips...

...there are teeth. Usually.

Now, thanks to someone who stole my idea, women in South Africa will get teeth where they most need them--in their hoohoos.

In South Africa, one out of two women is raped every day. Rape is so common in that region, that many women and girls are raped by more than one man during their lifetimes. Fitted with the new avenging dentures, victim advocates and the manufacturers hope to literally take a bite out of crime.

The device, which is worn like a tampon, will leave microscopic hooks in the offender's penis upon withdrawl, which can then only be removed (the hooks, not the peepee) while the rapist is under anaesthesia, by a doctor. This way, perpetrators will be apprehended and brought to justice.

Microscopic? Ha! They stole my idea, but they didn't get it exactly right.

My chops won't resemble a tampon. Why does everything people want to shove up my girl-hole have to be like a tampon, which is really a cardboard and cotton replica of a penis, a phallic voodoo doll that Guatamalan children might glue seeds and matchsticks to, then sell to tourists along the roadside. If I'm going to put teeth in my punani, they're going to be real fucking teeth. And not prosthetic square, Chicklet human teeth, but something a ferocious carnivore might use to crush bones and tear sinew.

My prototype would be spring-loaded like a bear trap, so that when tripped, it will clamp down on the unsuspecting member with stainless steel interlocking tines. Some models may have serrated tines, and I'm thinking of calling it a Grrl Grill.

Naturally, there will be those women who would use the Grill to literally trap a man. A man who should know something's up when he asks, "What's that shearing, metal against metal noise coming from under the table?" and she answers, "Kegels."

A man who, only seconds after he is certain he's gotten lucky, gets real unlucky, finding himself in a dimension where all the meanings of vice intersect.

He's yelping like a maimed dog, and she's got her man right where she wants him.

"Honey, the screaming only makes it worse. The good news, is that we're now in a committed relationship, and that searing pain means it's working. If you want out of it, you'll have to chew your own dick off. And I'll thank you to do it in such a way that does not hurt my feelings."

I'm also considering a zester blade for scraping instead of clamping, and I'm very interested in taking the pencil sharpener to a new, sick level.

Vagina dentata. May every wild thing of this earth bare fierce teeth.

Monday, June 06, 2005

Today's Post Theme: Lame and Lamer

I am so friggin' tired I can't think straight. I can't even think crooked or asymetrical. My synapses have become like the people who are responsible for the mountains of paperwork at the office. They just don't give a shit.

"Breathing, cellular something something, circulation whatever. I guess it's all good. I'll just wait until something catastrophic happens and by that time I might have the energy to care again."

That is what my synapses and electrical dealies would say if a) they had the energy to communicate in complete sentences, and b) if they actually had the ability to talk at all.

In case you're wondering, yes my brain was the template that most cell phone and laptop batteries were modeled on. It weighs about 8 pounds but you can only use it for about an hour.

I'm going to bed.

Night night.


Was Being Destitute Really So Bad?

I don't have just one in box. I have piles of neglected paperwork decomposing all over the front desk. Stuff that someone long ago filed variously under "I can't be bothered just now" and "I ain't doin' it."

So this is how I'll earn my medium-sized bucks. Giving each and every one of these forms and invoices and receipts and whatever a proper and fitting burial. Eventually. I hope.

This is what happens when one arrives at a new position. Dealing with the baggage. Luckily, the phones aren't busy, and the appointments are spaced apart quite a length. So it's busy, yet not busy. I spend 8 hours a day, three days a week in a kind of work-momentum-middle way.

Ok, how whipped am I, so focused on my work? And it's not even my work, it's somebody else's mess, that I'm charged with. Only two weeks into the new job, and my spirit is broken. No, this can't be. Be gone diligent, ass-kissing demon thrall! The power of Christ compels you!

This is so boring. Maybe I'll post again tonight when my brain belongs once again to me, and not my employer.

At least there is a point to differentiating the days of the week now.

Thank you. Please drive through.


Sunday, June 05, 2005

It's for, You Know-- When You Have
that 'Not So Sane' Feeling.

Spent three hours at the equivalent of a new age revival last night, listening to the long version of Dr. Eric Pearl's lecture I had attended a couple of days earlier. An audience of about 150-200 came to listen and witness the healer demonstrate his technique.

I wanted a piece of the action. My hand went up every time he asked for a volunteer to lay on the massage table. Each time I wasn't chosen, my fantasy of what it would be like to be culled from the crowd of Rimpoche-this and Ananda-that intensified. Do I really want to subject myself to whatever he's doing in front of 200 people? Mmmaybe...

Here's how the scenario began to play out in my head.

"You-- with the mascara awnings--up here. Now."
I'd run up so as not to waste any of the Diva Doctor's precious time. Then I'd be sweaty and out of breath.

"Alright, Susie or Chrissy or whatever your name is, take your shoes off and hop up on the table."

My shoes? The shoes I've worn all day? My feet caskets? Are you asking me to exhume what's left of my feet in front of all these people? How about I leave them on.

"Ok Dr. Pearl. Anything you say."

So I get up on the table, sock-footed, sweaty, but just glad to be there. I adjust my body on the table to get comfortable, cracking my neck in the process. Dr. Pearl says something but I can't hear because of all the bones cracking. I think he's asked me something, but couldn't make out what he said. This is what the audience hears:

"What on earth was that crunching noise?"


"Oh, I've got a yeast infection."

And it just goes downhill from there.

He tells me to let his voice fall into the background. And it does. I drift off, oblivious to his hands fanning and waving over my head and shoulders. He invites the audience up to the stage to observe my twitching eyes and rapid breathing.

"Chrissy may not be aware of all the things her body is doing. But you can see them. We'll ask her what she feels in just a minute.

I can't understand everything he says, but his lisp gets my attention, and I start picturing David Sedaris up on the stage with me. Oh no, stop thinking about Sedaris--focusfocusfocusfocus--breeeathe.

And there's that damn lisp again! How am I supposed to lie still if you're David Sedaris, Dr. Pearl? Don't you know that if I hear his voice in my head, I hear him reading his essays, and the reason I cannot read any of his books in public, doctor, is that I tend to explode in mortifying hysterics. I can't help it. Focusfocusfocusfocus--exhale.

Oh dear--here come passages and phrases that no matter how many times I read them or discover them trapesing through my brain--make me laugh out loud and look like a crazy person.

Whateverishly darts across my mind.

"You'll notice her mouth quivering a bit now. I'm going to step back and see if the intensity is affected."

Oh no, supressupresssupresssupress--

"SNOW NEGROES! Bwahahahahah! Snooow Negroes--Ahhahahahaha!"

Oh gawd, I can't believe I said "snow negroes" in front of 200 people.

"I'm sorry. I just thought of something...funny. Sorry" I'd try to reposition & compose myself.
"OK. We're done Chrissy."

Wha-? But-- I'm still... itchy.

So I get all the way back to my seat, but have forgotten my shoes on the stage.

Oh whatever. ishly. Ha ha. Hahahahaha! HAHAHAHAHAHA! Whateverishly--WHATEVERISHLY! AhhhhHAHAHAHA!


Mmmaybe not.

Friday, June 03, 2005

Ecstatic Cling

Hi All.

I'm at work, and don't have access to my poetry files so I'm posting a guest poem today.
Ghazals are one of my favorite forms of poetry, and in particular, Hafiz makes me smile, laugh, and cry.

It was hard to pick one, so here are two short ghazals by Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky.



I Knew We Would Be Friends

As soon as you opened your mouth
And I heard your soft

I knew we would be

The first time, dear pilgrim, I heard
You laugh,

I knew it would not take me long
To turn you back into

Old Sweet Beggar

Path to God
Made me such an old sweet beggar.

I was starving until one night
My love tricked God Himself
To fall into my bowl.

Now Hafiz is infinitely rich,
But all I ever want to do

Is keep emptying out
My emerald-filled

This tear-stained

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Lesbians, Lightworkers, and
other Makeup Fearing Women

A little mascara won't kill you. It may keep you tethered to your ego in an oppresive way, but for crying out loud, you're an albino.

I lost myself in a crowd of New Agesters last night, listening to renowned energy healer Dr. Eric Pearl at New Renaissance book store.

Packed into a shoebox of a room with our knees to our chins and the smarter ones coordinating our breathing so as not to offend or be offended, we listened as Dr. Pearl explained his background as a chiropracter in Los Angeles before strange and wondrous healing abilities were visited upon him, and eventually through his patients.

His demonstrations were impressive. His delivery was worth the price of admission alone. This man tells the best jokes. He has a kind of David Sedaris air--a nasaly lisp and slightly ethnic features. I wouldn't have cared if none of the demonstrations worked; I honestly kept forgetting that he wasn't Sedaris.

In between my feelings of adoration for Dr. Pearl, were my normal, everyday, bitchy, catty judgements of everybody else in the room. The guy behind me who kept burping. The woman in front of me who kept scratching her head, making me itchy in turn. It seemed like the entire tofu-eating, incense-burning, kaftan-draped, disciple-of-somebody community had crammed their patchouli reeking selves into the lecture.

I was one of two women wearing makeup. And I was probably the only meat-eater, hopelessly devoted to my ego and all things material.

Before the first demonstration, Dr. Pearl asked everyone who wanted to be a candidate for the demo to raise their hands. "I'm going to scan the room, because I'm looking for something in particular, so keep your hands up for a minute," he instructed.

I thought, and others may have assumed, that he was tuning in to a certain auric vibration, or that he was looking for a particular ailment or blockage to use for the example. He picked a darked haired, pumpkin-hatted woman from one of the front rows.

He waved his hands over her as she lay on the massage table. We were instructed to file up to the table to observe, looking for a physical register which indicated that she was responding to the particular energy Pearl exudes or channels or whatever. He didn't tell us what the register was, we were to notice it ourselves, but some of his teaching aids clued us in, whispering "eye-flutter" in our ears on the way up or the way back.

Her eyes were indeed fluttering. The right one faster than the left, as a matter of fact. From the foot of the table, one could see that her eyes were partially opened.

She sat up after the demo, recounted her experience, then Pearl revealed what he was looking for when prospective participants raised their hands.


He was scanning the room looking--not for someone with a golden aura, or a sparkling etherial double, or incurable cancer or leprosy. He was looking for someone with big, dark, spider lashes that would render the tiny flutters visible to observers.

I smiled a naughty smile. I laughed a mocking laugh at the natural 'beauties' as their spineless, drum-circle life partners must surely call them. I'll bet they show up at tomorrow's lecture with freakin' huge drag queen lashes--all glittered up and hussied out.

Hey Cover Girl, Maybelline--if you're paying attention, there's a new market for a lash enhancing product called Masc-aura.

(humble devotee of the revered and ancient discipline of Ka-ching.)

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Boyfriends are for Women
who Can't Keep Their Cats Happy

I've been married once and I hated every minute of it. That was 12 years ago, and I've only been on a handful of dates since. My friends encourage me to get out and meet people. But I don't like people. It's hard enough hanging out with friends who have learned to tolerate my antisocial behavior--everything from disinterested silence and pretending they're not there, to outright abuse and derision. I don't want to have to break someone new in.

I think there are bets among my friends and acquaintences on my sexuality. "A woman who doesn't want to date, ever? She has to be gay. I heard she changed a flat tire once. All by herself."

Those who are couple-minded are appalled at my self-reliance. They're mystified by my repulsion to men, an aversion which didn't surface until I had been married for a year and a half. If I'm going to be responsible for the care and well-being of someone, it's going to be for a creature I can stand having on my furniture. It's going to be for a lifeform that adheres to some kind--any kind of hygenic standard, and won't shed as much in the shower.

I'd rather share my domecile with a cat than a man. If I'm going to take on the responsibility for another living thing, I'd prefer it be for something for whom I'd only have to dig a small hole in the backyard.

Go ahead. Make your 'crazy cat lady' jokes. I don't care. When you're done laughing, you'll say, "But why don't you just be a lesbian?" Well wouldn't that make my life so much simpler, getting to answer 'YES!' everytime someone asks me if I'm gay. I'd fit nicely into a societal cubby hole so that everyone else could avoid headaches and sleepless nights over my inability to be compartmentalized. Really, my life would be much easier if I could be either lesbian or straight. The truth is, I'm socially misanthropic, and chemically, just not crazy about my choice of genitals.

I don't care for either of them. I don't understand what the attraction is, really. Let's see, do I wan't to be up close and personal with a veiny, mottled, mutant worm, or... the Charnel House?

Next time the creator sets about to designing a new species of humanoids, I hope It takes more than just one day to 'see that it is good'.

Work up a prototype. Use drawings, consult with plastic surgeons, artists, and other aesthetes. Once you have a model, workshop it. Round up a focus group. And for God's sake, SMELL it. Do NOT set the creature down and allow it to replicate until there is adequate feedback. Give me better choices next time so that bratty little kids won't throw rocks at my house because of the pet cemetary in my backyard. And the one in the living room. And the freezer.

For the record, I only have one cat now. But I can get more.

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