See, it's three a.m. and I'm still up because I had all that gay fanfiction to catch up on.

- "You really are a gay man trapped in a woman's body." Am I? Discuss. (Hint: the answer is YES, YES I AM.)

Re: August 9th on LOTR Day Calendar

me: My graduation commencement falls on orcs breeding uruk-hai. GREAT.
fran: Oh man! That's perfect, if you think about it.
fran: The first thing you do after officially graduating can be to KILL.

The kind of morning where you play Smashing Pumpkins' Stand Inside Your Love on repeat for an hour, right?

Day Calendar is Frodo. He does not look happy, but he is also insufferably hot.

Some stuff going on, some news, some things I want to say. Unfortunately right now I cannot think of most of it. Here is one bit, though: I AM LEAVING THE STATE FOR A WEEK. Not impressed? Imagine being effectively isolated in a five-hundred-mile radius (and not even!) for fourteen years.

Unable to cope with the utter despair of sitting awake in my first class, my mind has turned to tormenting me. Every day I sit there and struggle to focus on grammar while the only thing I can think of is dirty nasty smut. Helping verbs, oh no, I spend twenty minutes wondering if an elf's ears are sexually arousing, then twenty more thinking of fucking on the lawn during the heat of the day, getting filthy with grass and dirt and soaked in someone else's sweat. It is distracting and disturbing when surrounded by classmates. When I snap out of it I look around in paranoia. Mind-readers! I bet they're getting a laugh! It's torture. I can't stop.

I'm going to stop pointing out LOTR Day Calendar coincidences (notice I did not drown you with the MANY MATCHING EVENTS of Boromir Day), because yesterday was The One Ring on Sauron's Finger Day, which is just like double evil all over, and it was shit-tastic. Except for the part where I bought Jewel's new album and want to come in my pants every time I play it, but hey, even Sam and Frodo enjoy that brace of coneys in the middle of danger and despair.

I made my First Ever Victoria's Secret Purchase this evening, during the chaos of their first sale day. Normally I loathe entering the store, because nothing says superficial depression like racks of beautiful and painful underwear you cannot afford and cannot wear because your breasts are too goddamned mismatched.

But I pawed through dozens of bras on clearance and found a front-clasp closure with underwire! And then I spent fifteen minutes waiting for a dressing room! And lo and behold, front-clasp closure combined with underwire is like independent rear suspension for tits. It does not make the runt of my twins magically swell to fill normally unused material, but it lets each boob do its own thing without me trying to differently rig each of my bra straps in an attempt to equalize what Cannot Be Equalized.

I paid $15.99 for that fucking bra, and it's bright blue, rendering it useless with all of my (somewhat plentiful) white shirts and tanks. Of course it couldn't be $9.99 like ALL THE OTHER BRAS, no, no, but it fits both breasts at once and that is something I might be willing to slaughter babies for. In this imperfect world.

Now I own two bras at one time.

At dinner the other night I ordered calamari, because for some fucked-up reason, I am all about eating squid. Just the thought gets me all excited. I think some people can eat fried calamari because the breading obscures what the squid actually looks like, but I'm the opposite: the more squid-like it appears, the happier I am. I see little tentacles sticking out and I laugh and laugh and laugh! O the Joy! I chew those suckers up.

I like frog's legs too, and have no problem cleaning shrimp or gutting a fish, but the idea of eating lamb or veal just turns my stomach. alsdkfalsj. Lamb! How could you! And veal, that's just fucking cruel. alsflasflskjkls.

I have very strong and complex opinions concerning Trading Spaces and everyone on it. Where's a speech debate when you need one? I will convince you that Vern is God and Hildy is Lucifer, but that's the easy part. Anyone could do that, I suspect. Perhaps I can convince you that Vern and Ty should be gay lovers?

Boromir Day was fulfilled about three times over. Ringwraith Weekend was off to a great and true start yesterday morning.

I got driven to class while 50 Cent and Bonecrusher blared and shook my body.

Holy mother of God, I love the Buick.

My dream about the zombie army trying to kill me was NOT COOL, but the part where I killed a few with porkbuns was. That's what happens when you try to mutilate me in a Chinese buffet, you undead bastards.

The comedy of the unconventional weapons detracts from the very real despair and desperation. It wasn't so funny at the time.

I think I know a couple of modern-day prophets. How about you?

Listen: on Wednesday my LOTR desk calendar image was the One Ring, and we ended up with a gigantic five-inch wood spider hiding in the motherfucking toilet. Flushing proved futile. "It's the John McClane of spiders! HE JUST WON'T DIE!" Nicole says. We finally got a suggestion to throw toilet paper on top of him to weigh the bastard down, and he was finally destroyed. Unless you live in Australia, I do not trust that you have experienced a spider this motherfucking monstrous. (Other locales can apply for recognition.)

On Thursday the image was Gimli, and WONDERFUL things happened all day. My sister got a ridiculous and amazing clean bill of health from the bone surgeon, the new sandwich at Applebee's was the best thing I have ever eaten, an old dear friend dropped in as a surprise, Nicole's brother came up to spend the night and I got to take a ride in the Buick.

Today is Boromir. IT COULD GO EITHER WAY.

This is my new religion.

It's Clinique Bonus Time. My heart is weak; I have already succumbed. It's like syphilis of the wallet.

I ate a dinner of pierogies and watched Reservoir Dogs tonight after cleaning my room and sitting on a needle. I needed something comforting and familiar. Tim Roth bleeding out, Michael Madsen and his oddly soothing Mr. Blonde. Exposition of "Like A Virgin."

So they finally let the mentally disabled woman who was raped have an abortion to end her pregnancy, which was, among other issues, life-threatening.

According to the Baptist preacher in the film we saw today, Three's Company is the work of the devil, who is using network television to corrupt the marriages of saved souls. (And only saved souls, that's all the devil cares about, because everyone who is not saved will "destroy their marriages on their own.")

There was some nonsense about creationism being much more plausible than evolution, and at that point, I had to start twitching. It was too insulting. Believe what you want about evolutionary theory -- hell, keep on getting it totally wrong, keep believing that it says we come from apes when it DOESN'T -- but don't turn around and act like I'm the crazy fucker with the insane ideas, when I let you run amok with your own crap without saying a word. Mutual respect, eh?

I am not looking for a conversation about religion.

One of my grandmothers is a twin, so what if I have them someday? I've been thinking of names for a pair. Pain & Suffering is in the lead.

Today was all about a truly sickening heat & humidity combo and ALSO blatant oppression of women by asshole white males. I mean, you see something completely sexist and appalling happen and you can go on with your day, being used to it, of course, but when it's shithead after shithead in scene after scene, it's hard to stagger on.

It's too much for one day. Men cutting ahead in lines. Men taking up all the sidewalk space. Men jokingly harassing a woman in line with an armful of tampon boxes, who is trying to ignore his stories about "those things all over the house" and "I would never buy them for my wife but now I will."

Men and their fucking insured Viagra and our non-covered birth control. And now, as I've learned, fucking fundamentalist Protestants supporting colonial ideas about women being inherently evil.

If you would just run me through on your blade instead IT WOULD BE EASIER than this slow and painful death by frustration.

I am never watching the real-life Law & Order spin-off Crime & Punishment ever, EVER again. Maybe it's okay when it's not a gruesome murder case full of sobbing mothers and abused kids and nearly-killed daughters, but there is no sense of detachment allowed when everyone's crying and everyone is real. I can't wait for a hot Bobby to come strolling into the next scene.

I hope you took my meaning about what wasn't getting scratched by the cat in that last entry, because I'm tired of referring to my own labia.

The cat alternates between periods of fucking lunacy and absolute stillness. And the part today where he cut his paw, leaving a gory mess of red drops and blood smears all over the tile floor of the foyer, which I didn't see (no glasses on!) until after I had sleepily shooed away the Jehovah's Witnesses. I wonder if they noticed.