Oh man.

"But where are the potato chips? .... I wouldn't want my exercise equipment to smash my potato chips."

"Are you listening to monkeys trying to have sex with each other?"
"No, Tom Waits."

For the past three years, when it gets to be summer or close-to, I can only write here when the background color is a deep olive green; if my website isn't green during the summer season, I sort of can't handle it at all. Why, God, why? you plead. I don't fucking know.

Some of my favorite words: devilry, weaponry, rocketry, tomfoolery, reckon, fixin', fierce and feral.

Right, so what if Pete Yorn and Rufus Wainwright hooked up and had a lovechild? A musical lovechild. I would die.

Stupid website.

I just met our cat (Tommy!) for the first time a few hours ago, and already we've taken a lazy nap together on the couch. This cat is more like a dog -- there's none of that too-good-for-you dignity, that kitty-cat aloofness. No, this one just plops down in your lap and throws its head over your arm. No shame.

My cat is pretty. And neutered! Don't make me go Bob Barker on you. Get your animals fixed, so that we don't have to take in any more homeless kitties with broken legs.

Name your future children Bejel. Sounds real pretty, don't it? You people like naming your kids all sorts of weird shit these days. No one names their kids Melissa anymore, no one. So I suggest Bejel.

Yeah, it means "endemic syphilis."

Hugs and puppies! I think I've been a little too hostile lately. Sunshine and rainbows! Pink dresses and ice cream with sprinkles! Sex with Owen Wilson!

You know we're a country with enough food to go around when we let our kids paint dried pasta and make jewelry out of it.

Last night in the middle of class, my professor and the students got so upset and tired discussing how dumb most Americans are re: The War On Terror that the very mention of "Freedom Fries" pushed us all over the edge into despair, and we collectively got up and left. Dr. Haskins asked the first one to make it to the bar down the street to get us a table. He said he needed to start drinking earlier today than usual.

I went home instead, though, having five dollars to my name and a sweaty crotch. Motherfucking hot out.

This is what I was thinking about over breakfast: the United States has claimed it has some sort of concern for the oppressed people living in Iraq under the dictatorship of Hussein, as if we give a shit about the humanity of others. This is no surprise and not what I'm pissed about. What makes me angry is when other countries who oppose the war claim they do so because they don't want to see "innocent lives taken," as if they gave a shit, too. Like hell they do! If they're so fucking concerned about the lives of Iraqi women and children, where's their humanitarian effort? Where's their work towards human rights? Don't fucking pretend you actually care about the oppressed, about mass genocide, about human rights violations. If we can't pretend to care without getting laughed at, you can't either.

Also, I'm tired of everyone else pretending they're not evil. America is way evil, but so are you. Don't fucking pretend you don't have sweatshops in Indonesia where starving women make your goddamned jeans.

I carry a torch for Brad Pitt, although it is not a sexual one. Mostly I just want to be his neighbor, Mr. Rogers-style. Because I don't think Brad Pitt is an asshole, and I would love it if he posted on my website. I want to hear Brad Pitt's opinion on Issues. I want to have a barbeque in Brad Pitt's backyard. I want Brad Pitt to come over and water my plants when I'm on vacation. I want Brad Pitt to be my best friend. I want to fuck shit up with him.

I'm starting to think that protests would be a good place to pick up men. Let me find a pro-choice picket line or something, and I'll be right back with a husband.

It's been a fucked-up day, news-wise. Someone died, and someone's trying to kill someone else, but hey! We got a kitty-cat.

I think my life is all one big joke. I think maybe if you're not Fran, or Margaret, or NicTrav, or Elijah Wood, or Jeff, I hate you. Everyone: STOP BEING A DICKHEAD.

Let me just say that the way we treat our elderly should make us retch with shame.

Fran is still gone, and I am still sad. The sun can quit shining. I give up.

Frances, sleeping at my feet, just pointed out that tomorrow is DAY FOUR of her Spectacular Spectacular Holiday. Which is crazy! Where has the time gone?

- Playing chess! Incorporating dirty LOTR.
- Baking cookies! Incorporating dirty LOTR.
- Playing Scrabble! Exclusively dirty LOTR.

Also some time was spent eating and wishing we hadn't.

We drew up an action adventure calendar to make sure we get in everything we want to do while Fran is in our country (an Action Adventure Calendar, with Wildcard Wednesday!), and tomorrow there's AMERICAN IDOL!

Best! Week! Of! My! Life!

Today has sucked ass! But there's a surprise at the end of it, and it's called FRAN.

Tired and hungry and My Special Monthly Friend showed up last night while I was killing a roach that dared to TAINT MY BED. This motherfucker would not die. I wanted a brick so bad! I could have killed him one shot, easy, with a brick. Fucking exoskeletons!

I have a list of fucked-up things I want to make in my head: the lyrics to every Pearl Jam song ever, (Yellow Ledbetter!), written on brown packaging paper, bound with metal eyelets and wire; a scrapbook full of envelopes and pockets, for every postcard and letter and trinket I've gotten in the name of mail love; a yellow and red bedroom, one yellow wall with Walt Whitman scribbled into a square in the center, and a red blazing one, high-gloss, completely untouched.

I want to start archiving my life and my possessions, like a cheap and poorly-executed rip-off of Mark Dion.

Beck is all sex, all the time! Watch that man dance.

I want a Beck Robot to be my friend. We'd sing songs and giggle.

Lots of Vs. lately. Lots of LOTR soundtrack. Cat Power, The Covers Record.

I feel bad telling really sweet and enthusiastic people urging me to come to their church that no matter how cool and awesome and laid-back it is, that's like asking a radical pro-lifer to visit the local abortion clinic and feel good and comfortable there. I'll take a pass this time, but feel free to invite me to other places, like maybe a high-quality deli, because if there's one thing I really truly believe in, it's sandwiches.

P.S. Three hour nap? YEEHAW.

If you have to buy your children cold peanut butter "slices" for their sandwiches, processed and shaped like cheese, conveniently located in your grocer's freezer (??), you should have your children taken away by social services.

This whole week has been like a suckerpunch. I want a do-over.

But my cell phone has a tip calculator! Letting a machine calculate fourth-grade math for me makes up for a lot.

I programmed my Pearl Jam ticket confirmation number into my contact list.

My cell phone is blue, not red, but still cuter than a cute thing. Her name is Allison. She will fuck your shit up.

There's a ringer called "In The Islands," this breezy tropical tune, and I am dork enough to want to use it bad. Except also dumb and not used to this new-fangled technology, and I suspect I'll need to get used to owning portable communication for a while before I'll be able to recognize the song when I get a call. I am too much a product of shrill ringtones that put the fear of Jesus in me. I think it's all I can handle right now.

She says "Arrrgh!" right now. I am nothing if not intensely creative.

Spilled Mountain Dew all over the bathroom rug. Dropped the cup on my toe first. That was Friday.

TODAY IT'S SATURDAY. NOTHING BAD CAN HAPPEN ON SATURDAY, EXCEPT ...

There's no pop in the house, and I've got three more hours before I'm unable to function due to crippling caffeine withdrawal.