Written in a Way that Future Employers Can't Fire Me Should They Find This

I believe that for artistic and educational purposes, pornographic materials hold some merit. Okay, a lot of merit.

After the concurrent events of finding myself single and taking myself off of birth control (Hello libido! Nice to see you again. Where've you been for the past three months?}, I've had the opportunity to review more pornographic materials recently.

Because I pay (most) of my bills by editing others' writing, the grammarian in me could not overlook the following syntax oddities on sites where people post their favorite pornographic materials for others to review--people like me who enjoy the academics of it (the scholastic nature is mostly biological, but there is some anthropological value, as well).

Now, where's my red pen?:

"GIRL Lesbians!" Really? No way! Because the avalanche of boy lesbians was getting way overdone.

"slutty fat ass bitch girlfriend fucks my best friend" Aside from a dire need of commas and hyphens, the bigger concern here is "Dude, whhhhhhhhhyyy would you post this? Your fat, bitchy, slutty girlfriend cheats on you with your best friend, and your first thought is 'Hey guys, let me record this!' It don't look good for you, padre.

"fucking my MILK hard" Got MILF, bonehead?

"Huge Baabies" I guess with one hand on your wang and astigmatism, it'd be easy to mix up the "o" and "a" key. That's really not going to help his search engine optimization, though.

"2 hot girls in a 60" Even during sexual congress, a head for figures is an attractive quality.

I don't know--maybe not being able to overlook spelling and grammar mistakes on something as base as a porn site is illustrative of my whole problem.

My astrologer pointed out that everything has to get filtered through my head first. Said another way, I have a hard time just feeling things; I must interpret them and relate them and qualify them and explain them.

What causes the most problems is that I must somehow get 'rid' of these feelings, because they overwhelm me. When I feel balanced, I can expel the overflow of emotions with song-writing and journaling and poetry and even cooking. When I am not so balanced, Dr. Jim Beam is my therapist.

It's so exhausting.

"I'm sad," for me becomes, "I'm sad because the lady at the grocery store clearly is injuring her child's self-esteem when she calls him an 'idiot' and I feel helpless because I'm bound by the strictures of etiquette, which dictate that it's not appropriate for me to intervene, even though I KNOW that boy will likely grow up to harm himself and possibly others in a myriad of ways, thus ensuring that my tax dollars and emotional energy will be spent trying to 'fix' him, when all it really takes is a kind word of acknowledgement and validation. I bet his Mom is a Virgo with a Sagittarius rising who had issues with her grandfather--if she'd just try some self healing with a rose quartz and daily affirmations. I don't think I could ever have kids; I'd be so worried of messing them up. Geez, I hope I don't die alone. ... Gawd, I need a drink."

Phew.

So, I'm practicing just feeling. "I'm sad ... well, how about that."

That's harder than it sounds, my pretties. It's my nature to fix things. Further, growing up in my house, you did not survive very long with your heart on your sleeve. Feelings and dissidence were not rewarded, but being happy, agreeable and productive were.

In later years, my family has become very touchy-feely, for which I am thankful, but old habits die hard.

Speaking of: "Blonde sucking my hard duck" Aflac. AFLAC!

In the Comments section, tell me what you think your problem is. C'mon--it's a sharing circle.

It's Basically a Wine Party

I learned quite a few things from my recent trip to Ohio:

• Ripping the heads off of fresh shrimp made me feel very powerful. (thanks Janee!)
  
  
• It's not polite after a night of balls-to-the-wall drinking to call someone else's cell phone and say, "Who is this? Where am I?" (Thanks Very Gay Mark!)
  
  
• Kirstin's got some "fuckin' tits, girl. Good God!" (Thanks again Very Gay Mark!)
  
  
• It's probably not a good idea to befriend a slightly crazy, homeless girl. (Thanks Corina Corina!)
  
  
• BBQ Corn Nuts are no longer available in Breezewood, PA. (Screw you, Petro All American Plaza.)

A very fulfilling trip, on the whole. Pictures to follow.

In the meantime, Lorelai and I are going to mass on Saturday night. Mass. As in church. On a Saturday night. I'm not sure what it says about me, but I'm actually very excited about it.

In other news ... actually, there is no other news. My bad.

In the Comments section, tell me what you're doing this Saturday night.

Change of Scenery

Since I'm always posting over here these days (insert sarcasm), I needed a change.

As usual, Burt Reynold's Mustache offered some much-needed relief. Come say hi.

In the Comments section, tell me what you could use right now.

Corn and Stretch Pants Are Going to Save Me

I was at the grocery store and saw a "Sale: Discontinued" sign next to a bunch of dried beans, and it made me very, very sad.

"People don't want to take the time to cook dried beans anymore," I thought to myself. "We're such spoiled society that if it weren't for baked beans, I bet they'd probably just 'discontinue' beans all together."

And then I realized how ridiculous that was. I might be a little depressed.

So, I'm taking a trip to Ohio to see my loved ones this weekend. It's also time for my dear Janee to harvest her shrimp. In landlocked Ohio.

Ten hours in the car, a 12-pack of beers with the gang and plucking on my six string, should get me right as rain ...

Or more miserable and homesick than I already am.

Either way, I'll get to eat some BBQ Corn Nuts bought specially from my favorite truck stop in Breezewood, PA, and don't nothing cure the soul like eating deep-fried corn kernels with artificial barbecue flavoring whilst on the open road.

I'm trying to get my act together, my pretties. And I've been doing so much soul searching and praying and meditating and journaling and walking and drinking that I was CERTAIN that my path would be revealed.

But, it has not been. For the first time in my 27 years, I don't have a big picture. I do not have a plan. I'm wide open.

Janee's Mom said something once that really stuck with me: "Sometimes, you can be so open-minded that stuff falls out of your head."

Yeah.

I need a focus. Lately it's been perfecting the muzak for my babycakeses' Glynnie and Hot Sauce Flo Dad's wedding ceremony, but that's coming up in early October.

After the celebration, I haven't a clue what's going to propel me forward. Unfortunately, I find myself single again (sorry to all of you who've had to endure my ramblings during that scene). I'm also without any real place to call "home" and many of my friends are trickling out of D.C. Megan Jane's been gone for two whole months now.

I'm revisiting old plans and aspirations in the hopes that something will click.

Looking back at one of the times in my life when I recall being really happy and carefree, a lot of folks knew me as "Beans," because I looked like a beanpole.

Perhaps it's just a coincidence, but I also wore a lot of stirrup stretch pants during that period.

So, I'm not taking my chances on messing up the happiness formula. Henceforth, I'd like for you all to call me Beans and don't hate when you see my rocking the stirrup pants and long T-shirt munching on some BBQ Corn Nuts.

It's been a tough couple of weeks.

In the Comments section, tell me about the time when you were happiest. Bonus points if it involved beans, Corn Nuts or stirrup pants.

Psychic Connection and 'Chubbies'

So, my life's been kind of turned upside down lately. It's gotten so screwball that I actually called a psychic last night.

Yes. I'm not kidding. Reverend Keith. He said, "Yeah, even your spirit guides are giving me a 'What the fuck?' sort of vibe."

"I know," I said.

There's not much else to say. It's been a tumultuous couple of days. For the $70 I spent for 20 minutes with Reverend Keith, I got some illumination and peace of mind. And fashion tips. He said I should wear more red.

Apparently, what I'm wearing has been on the mind of another guy, too. I looked at an apartment recently that I adored and could even afford. Sort of. The landlord seemed like a nice enough fellow. I wrote him an e-mail to let him know I was interested in the place but needed to look at a few more options.

Here's what I got back in reply:

"Frankly I consider you a desirable tenant. Especially if you dress everyday as you did to see the apartment ! I still can’t get the picture of your sumptuous décolletage out of my mind ! I was fighting off a chubby the whole time I was trying to walk around and show you the apartments. When you fist came in, I was pleased to meet you, but it was even more exciting to see that you were even more excited to meet me ! I’ll tell you what is prudent; me fighting off the urge to ravage your bod then and there, as your erect nipples were poking thru your top enticing and inviting. Just in case you were wondering, your breasts and nipples look fantastic, but you probably already knew that. Thank you for displaying them. How could you be a pain with a look like that ? (If this is more info then you needed to know, or offense taken to, that is not intended, I apologize. I figure anyone who dresses like that can handle the “feedback” It is intended as a compliment.)"

'Scuse me while I hork a little bit.

(By the way, I was wearing a tank top and a jacket, my pretties. What the fuck?)

Note to all of you landlords out there: Complimenting a woman's nipples does not entice her to move into your place. Now, if he'd have written an ode to my ass ...

Lost, kids. Just plain lost and disheartened.

In the comments section, tell me if you've ever called a physic and/or recieved a dirty letter for a landlord -- current, potential or former.