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8:04 p.m. : 2002-06-14 : Friday night I had an unveiling party/I was sick of saying sorry/Saturday came and had brunch with Shemales again/I was only having fun/Wasn�t hurting anyone/And we all enjoyed the weekend for a change

I just very well may be the lunatic you�re looking for today. Or if you�re looking for another lunatic, well, go look for him or her. Go NOW! Go to the Choppah, John!

Freddy Prinze Jr.�s face is soft and meatlike. (I am not taking the literary highroad with this entry. Who cares? It�s Friday).

What�s nice is that Brent�s friend Will is in town. He�s my friend too, really, but I met him through Brent. We�d really like him to move back here. He moved to Portland, Oregon awhile ago. I don�t blame him. After September 11th I was entertaining thoughts of moving out to the middle of nowhere, somewhere. Nowhere felt safe. I was like, �Can we go live with your family in Idaho?� But we decided to just stick it out and deal with it. I had dreams of mass-destruction, ploughed through the terror and the rest of the emotions and pain that would cause, came to terms with the possibility and the fear, woke up, stopped watching the news, and moved on. That�s pretty much how I deal with things that scare me. I dream of the worst case scenario and sample its effect on me, let it hit me and ultimately find peace in myself somewhere. Then I wake up and am not gripped by the fear anymore. I find as much information on things that flip me out as I can. One could say I obsess. I find it to be much more rewarding and effective than denial. When my mother was really sick, but there was a possibility she could recover, I dreamt of my father and I getting ready to go to her funeral. It was brutal but I had to explore that possibility in order to exist comfortably. My mom lived for quite awhile after I had that dream, and when she died it was awful but I wasn�t afraid anymore. I could let the grief come in. My dad, on the other hand, wasn�t ready for it. He was hoping for a miracle. We all were, but several of us were more internally realistic. Even so, I can�t listen to Ave Maria without crying (but Aunt Flo is visiting right now, so that could be it). And even though I don�t mind going to church with my dad when I�m in Jerz because it makes him happy, I�m always dreading that moment I�ll hear a song sung at her funeral. Sometimes it�s too much.

Anyway, let�s see� something fun. Did I tell you about the �Cock-Flavored Soup Mix�? Apparently it�s spicy but I don�t want to eat it because it would be a shame to dispose of the package. It�s one of those products that goes on the shelf of marvels along with my strange and wonderful Millet Jelly and other assorted Japanese snacks. Giant Pocky, Fran, Meltykiss, etc. Fran is definitely my favorite, as far as taste is concerned. The thickness and consistency of its chocolate coating is far superiour to that of the Pocky. Pocky will remain in my heart as an unrivaled hilarity, though, what with the kooky grammar of their marketing slogans and product descriptions: i.e. Men�s Pocky�For the intelligent connoisseur who enjoys the finer points in life. I even have a song that was going to be played by my, well, imaginary band the Moist Towelettes, called �Pocky Make Me Happy.� The main problem is, no one wants to be known as a Moist Towelette and no boys want to be known as anything with an �ette� suffix attached. Besides I don�t really have much time for music these days as my training as a trapeze artist takes up most of my time. That�s not true. I�m in sharpening, as Wil calls it, and have written several new songs, here and there. And I am currently building a New & Improved Shield Against Cosmic Leeches which I will unveil at a special warehouse party with trapeze artists and contortionists and naked ladies dancing in milk like this and hors d�oeuvres with wasabi and salmon and caviar and bright colored drinks and not a Cosmic Leech to be found. Except for the ones I lure in, feigning a fancy for outdated misogynic notions of male-female relations and an interest in whatever tattered book they have in the butt pocket of their worn cords, all for The Demonstration of the New & Improved Shield Against Cosmic Leeches. They�ll get theirs. Oh what fun. And there will be lots of shemales there too. Just for fun. And everyone will leave imbued with a new sense of�something�whatever is right for them.* Wow� sounds weird and I was just free-associating but it gives me idears. It sure could give a girl idears.

*I�m not a big fan of the ellipse but the hyphen on my keyboard works and doesn�t work indiscriminately.

See, I share my issues with you. We laughed, we cried. It was neither the best nor the worst of times. But times, nonetheless. That, my friends, is undeniable.

Off to take a shower, finally, after having precariously jury-rigged one of those metal poles with shelves that one puts in the corner of one�s shower. I bought it yesterday. The stupid spring in it got fucked up, and the instructions were totally asinine, to the point where once it�s constructed you have to go back and take it apart and do it all over so that the contents of the shelves will be reachable. So I screwed up the spring because the thing was too long, and I tried to make it work, breaking spring, making apparatus now too short (�eat me, drink me, Alice!�). So I shoved cardboard in there and it seems to be working, and all of my products (of which I have many) look all pretty and promising up there, all ready to give me a spa rainforest experience. What I haven�t bargained for, though, is the moisture from the shower somehow getting to the cardboard like the mob boss gets to the witness, causing the whole show to go under, leaving me bruised and battered, having been pelted by Nexxus and Origins products falling from the sky. Cruelty-free, my ass! So off to Dove soap that I also bought yesterday because it takes me back to childhood. Only back then I was pissed because the dermatologist said I could use nothing other than Dove soap on account of my eczema. What fun is Dove? Well, I�ll tell you�it �leaves skin feeling soft and smooth.� And to really remind myself of my schoolgirl days, you know I will be reciting the attributes written on the back of my favorite products, commercial-style. My mom walked in my room once while I was looking in the mirror going, �It makes your hair smooth and manageable.� She chuckled and I screamed, �I HATE you!� Ah, embarrassment, creeping up on me like a pig-faced little bully and giving me a nature wedgie.

Word of the Day for Friday June 14, 2002:

bete noire bet-NWAHR, noun:

Something or someone particularly detested or avoided; a bugbear.

Even more regrettable, as far as Dame Edna is concerned, is the presence of her old bete noire, the extravagantly disgusting Sir Les Patterson. --"The Dame's New Man," [1]Daily Telegraph, April 18, 1998

Never an exceptional student, Andrews somehow managed to navigate the academy's rigorous courses with satisfactory grades, though all forms of mathematics were agonizing to him, remaining what he called his "bete noire" throughout life. --Charles Gallenkamp, [2]Dragon Hunter: Roy Chapman Andrews and the Central Asiatic Expeditions

B�te noire is French for "black beast."

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All material on this site �2001 to the present copyrighted Ruby Fuss Inc. except where otherwise noted, quoted, or linked. Design �poo designs with colors and images by Ruby Fuss and other parties noted and linked (Scientist graphic by busy-milkman). To quote Sailor Jerry, "Steal [it] and we will sue you." Stir and enjoy!