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When I pictured that on a shirt, God wasn't on it.

Nicole and Me.

#1

"Oh, this is that movie."
"Oh. Cocoon?"
"No.... Touchdown ... earth ... people."
"Oh, Close Encounters of the Third Kind."

#2

"Michael Ian Black, he's a good Jew."
"Okay, so attractiveness is what qualifies a good Jew."
"No. I'm not attracted to Lewis Black."
"So there's one Jew you like but aren't attracted to. Name others."
"Um... Jesus."

Hugo Weaving is incredibly hot (a hard on for me!) in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (Adventures of). I'd like to have my way with him while he's wearing that green dress.

My face feels like someone replaced my skin with a greasy, bumpy membrane they spread on the bottom of someone's workboot and then removed after about fourteen hours on the job. Dry and gritty but wet in the wrong spots. Way too much texture.

People say that aquariums are soothing to look at, but I prefer to watch my cats try to figure out what the fuck is going down with the animated Santa Claus in the living room. Their tiptoed steps and cautiously extended necks for a better view, and all that cat tension and mistrust, makes me feel better. (Also when they do that thing where they spend 4 hours licking each other and then curl up on top of one another. That thing makes my ovaries scream bloody murder.)

My eight-year-old brother saw one of Emma Thompsons' boobs today, and both of Milla Jovovich's.

Thai Tom Kha soup is like eating schizophrenia.

I got electrocuted, and my sister got stabbed in the foot with a rusty nail. Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving, to me, is when I say I need to pour some Jack into my "Sparkling" red grape juice, and my 10-year-old sister offers to run and get the bottle out of the back of the closet for me without my father finding out. Thank you, Erica. I give thanks for you helping me liquor up during dinner.

I got an apology from my mother when the mashed potatoes made my sister scream with DELIGHT.

I just took a shower, pet my diseased kitten, and tried to sleep sitting up for awhile. THAAAAANKSGIVING.

1. Nanowrimo ends in what, four days? I'm only at 35k. Franny, you've the last portion, and it's not going to be done in time, and I will have failed you AGAIN.

2. Today I tore my Christmas list off the refrigerator and ripped it in pieces and threw it in the trash. I want nothing. I'm asking for NOTHING.

3. My life is sort of on a rerun right now, and the rerun is the period earlier this year where every day I thought about walking out into traffic, except instead of being hit by a car I'm just wishing I'd die in my sleep. Less and less effort on my part. By next year I expect I'll be hoping I'm just blinked out of existence by some twist of the time-space continuum. If that happens. Get back to me.

4. The kitten doesn't have leukemia or rabies. It's either ringworm or a reaction to Advantage. I'm waiting to contract her ringworm, since our contact level every day is at about 3902%, or develop my own hair-loss reaction to the Advantage, because she'd rub it all over me subversively when I wasn't paying attention.

5. The best part about tomorrow will be (BESIDES MY GODDAMNED POTATOES) the cranberry solid, and the part where it slides out of the can.

I'm making the potatoes tomorrow for Thanksgiving, and no one is happy about it. What the fuck. My mother said I'm trying to change /or ruin Thanksgiving tradition. Because tradition means that the red mashed potatoes I want to make aren't going to go with gravy as well as bland regular potatoes. I tell everyone last week that I want to make some motherfucking red mashed potatoes with the skins on, like I had at Nicole's house, and my mother agrees! And buys me the sack of potatoes! But now I'm a Thanksgiving terrorist. If they don't stop giving me shit, I will turn into the Thanksgiving suicide bomber, and see how they like it then.

Just let me make my potatoes and everyone can stop bitching, and the potatoes will be great, and everyone will be sorry for implying that all my sister wants in the world is mashed potatoes and gravy and I am denying her. Sam would let me make my fucking po-ta-toes! If Sam weren't a fucking fictional hobbit! My luck. My luck.

I hung around the mall for three hours while Nicole worked a shift this weekend, so bored and armed with my father's money which is really mine, I got my ears repierced, back the way I had them in high school. I had to explain about three times that I needed my second holes in both ears repierced, and that I wanted a third hole in the right ear that was not a cartilage piercing. That's the way I've always wanted and for a time had, until I stopped wearing earrings and they closed up. Two holes in the left and three in the right matches my left-to-right complex, too.

Naturally the gun got stuck on every hole, like it always does. "Hold on, the gun won't let go. Sorry about that." "That's okay, it happens every time." "Wait, it's doing it again. It won't ... let ... go ... damnit!" "..." "I'm sorry! It's doing it again! This is crazy!"

1. Taking my kitten to the vet tomorrow, because she's losing the fur on her neck in a kind of raw and wet way. It's gross and startling and I'm upset about it, and since yesterday the patch has doubled in size.

2. "Teamwork is a great thing." "Except when you're banging your wife!" Me & Nicole after wrapping birthday gifts together.

3. I make the toddler I take care of watch a lot of Cirque de Soleil and Independent Film Channel. He sat and watched all of Little Buddha last week, not moving at all, forgoing offers of snacks and play and a bubble bath.

I bought the grey legwarmers that I have been coveting, and the sensation of having warmer lower legs is addicting. When I take them off, I am unsatisfied.

Super hard tap class today, as opposed Not As Hard tap class tomorrow. If we have to do 298384457 pullbacks, I will scream and scream. Until it's my turn, and then I will concentrate very, very hard.

Let's have a Patrick Swayze Christmas this year ... or we'll tear your throat out and kick you in the ear.

Master Ninja Theme Song!

Those are the only lines I know from various MST3K ditties.

I know it's finally winter in Florida when I smile and my dry lip cracks open and bleeds.

Nanowrimo is a cold, unforgiving bitch. I'm about five, six thousand words behind. I'm sick of writing about myself. I might have to turn, in word count and topic desperation, to writing that MacGyver/Lord of the Rings fanfiction that came to me one day like a shot in the gut.

I clutched Wolves to my bosom in Wal-Mart last night, but my mother was unimpressed by my pleas and refused to buy it for me. "I'm not paying $25 for it!" she told me firmly. I opened the book, showed her a picture of Roland, and sort of chased her around the aisle with it. "Roland loves you! Roland demands you buy him! You have forgotten the face of your father!" She was unimpressed by my requests on behalf of the gunslinger, then she was still unimpressed by my threats to turn tricks for the cash needed.

So there's the new excuse. I'll be getting it for Christmas, I suppose. I have until then to get my emotional Dark Tower act together.

I haven't bought Wolves of the Calla yet. I've decided that the fact that I haven't finished rereading W&G is not the reason why. That's only my pretend reason why. I know perfectly well what the fuck happens in W&G, I don't need a goddamned refresher course, it's just been my excuse. Secretly I am SCARED of many things:

1. That I will walk into the bookstore and burst into tears when I see it on display.
2. That others will try to engage me in conversation concerning the series, which I do not do unless I have deemed you Suitable for such themes. I don't talk about the things I love with fucking losers!
3. That I don't have the time planned out to be a mess while I am reading it.
4. That by reading it I will bring myself that much closer to The End, and I cannot contemplate the end of ROTK without getting overly and sickeningly upset, much less the end of a series of books more important to me than the life of my first-born child.
5. That I will not, for whatever inexplicable, unpredictable and insane reason enjoy it as much as the first four; that I will feel disappointment and then the urge to cover up the disappointment like a cat covering its own feces, and pretend it's not there, until it hardens like a rock in the center of my chest and KILLS ME before the other books come out next year.

Oh pain, oh sorrow.

I had a relative named Boo, and he killed a doctor. Maybe because the doctor couldn't fix his sick wife, or maybe because the doctor was first on the list to die because he'd patched Boo's gun-shot leg and knew he'd helped start that coal mine riot that killed a bunch of folk. So either Boo was full of rage from grief, or trying to cover his own ass. Readers' choice. The life in prison part doesn't change.

I am kicking Milla Jovovich to the curb because my new Fantasy Girlfriend is Miranda Otto. So fucking hot! I want to pet her.

A post for the sake of posting. I could put content in here, but that would ruin it.

"And I was like, 'Get a fucking lampshade, bitch!'"

I ate Animal Crackers in the grocery store today! I never got to do that when I was a kid. But today I got myself a box and opened that sonofabitch up, and ate through the meat and dairy and produce aisles. Then I sent my empty box through to the cashier, along with tangerine juice and cake mix. The handicapable bagger picked up the box and mouthed "Oh my god" in what appeared to be real shock and horror when he discovered it was open and completely empty.

Man, everyone keeps on being mean to me and making me cry in the bathroom. By "everyone" I mean "my little brother and sister." And I can't exactly start shouting, "DON'T BE MEAN TO ME TODAY, I HAVE PMS AND WILL BURST INTO TEARS." So instead I shout things like, "SOMETIMES I WISH I WOULD DIE SO YOU'D BE SORRY."

PMS = the fourteen-year-old depressed angsty teenage monster I never was.

Stiff neck and strange head pains from peeling old border and reapplying new at bad posture angles? Or ENCEPHALITIS?

You own CDs, goddamnit, not CD's! What the fuck! You fuckers. You're out there and I HATE YOU.

I want some grey legwarmers and a whole lot of striped kneesocks. I want a pair of those stockings with the line running down the back. My Grandma told me that when those stockings were popular, she and my great-aunts couldn't afford them and so they used eyeliner down their legs to create the illusion.

My Grandma: 1940s David Copperfield.

Me: Stuck in the 1980s.

The weather is suddenly cool. There have been too many hot, sweaty days in November this year. Global warming can blow me! And also, it can quit it already. Oh, right. Our fault.

Despite the cat spit, I've been slaving away over this Nanowrimo bullshit (when I decided to sign up in October, it was more like "Nanowrimo MAGIC!" Now it's bullshit, and may further be demoted to "motherfucking bullshit" by the end of the month). I've been trying my hardest to do a pullback in tap, and can't, and it's making my vision go red. I have been doing some crying in the bathroom in the dark, because it just isn't a real stay at home until I do. I have been scooping an awful lot of cat poop. And painting. And vacuuming.

I should lie. I'm sure other people lie on their websites. Mine can be a half-truth, half-fictive blend between the vacuuming and crying and say the celebrity fucking and the cocaine lines.

WTF.

The kitten just woke up, sat beside me, shook her head and splattered NO LESS THAN eight Huge Drops of Saliva on my laptop screen.

"What the fuck, Sadie, what the fuck."

I love you, Margaret.

With my hardcore lust thing for a) warriors b) Greek mythology and c) The Bloom, not to mention my desire to be Brad Pitt's best friend, how the fucking fuck am I going to sit and watch Troy next year? How? When I'm crippled by incessant coming?

Is that too vulgar to posit? Whatfuckever.

The Cars = GENIUS.

Fight me on this and see where it gets you! On your ass, that's where!

Ooooo eeee ooooo, eeee ooooo, eeee ooooooooooooooo!

I hate it when people I can't stand don't realize I despise them with every fiber of my being, because everything about them is wrong in contrast to all the things I consider right and good. If that person replies to this entry affirming my statement, totally clueless, I'm going to take it as a sign, and I'm going to straight-up tell them they Suck Ass. Because suffering that kind of irony would make me swallow my own tongue.

I was watching Johnny Be Good last night, and wanted nothing more than for Anthony Michael Hall to father me some children. I don't even like Anthony Michael Hall! But he was playing with his sister and teasing his mother! And then he tells Uma Thurman when she asks what he's going to do with her now that she's homeless that first he'll love her and then he'll marry her and that'll take up about sixty years!

And then something inside of me burst apart and started tingling, and my eggs started chanting his name in unison.

In the paper today was an article about local stores covering up the fronts of magazines they deemed too racy or sexual. That doesn't bother me. I don't want to see an airbrushed nude celebrity any more than I want my little sister to see one. If you want to look, push the barrier down and get your fill. My problem was with something one of the male managers said, along the lines of "Redbook used to teach you how to put on makeup; now they teach you how to have a better orgasm."

It bothers me, but I need a smarter feminist to point out why. Something about how I think women being able to talk about and improve their sexual experience is a good thing? So the progression from mascara to sexual satisfaction is fair and right? But I can see his point? I don't know.

Glorfindel the betta is still alive. He thought my brother's goldfish was the Balrog, though -- silly Glorfindel! -- and tried to slay it when I put them together to give them company. All literature points to bettas being compatible with other fish! I'm not retarded! But Glory is.

Up to 7,000 words on my Nanowrimo email project. 5,000 general consumption and 2,000 sad bastard words for Margaret thus far. That's the last time I type in the dark listening to Hem and Nick Cave.

This time, the shouting match with my father was about abortion, but it started out concerning the Pledge of Allegiance. Topics ranged wildly after that, from immigration to welfare, and this time I was shouting, "I can't believe you fall for that propaganda bullshit!" Because apparently bullshit is my favorite word in an argument. Also, I can get away with it! Something like ass-fuckery, not so much.

Who's Hottt Lately? Here's Who:

Maggie Gyllenhaal, smoking a cigar on Dinner for Five.

Man, I guess that's it.

No, wait! Nevermind.

I watched The Transporter tonight. I sat there completely turned on and off at the same time. I have to both get over my lust of warriors -- violence is not sexy! violence is not sexy! -- and my seeming inability to enjoy a movie when it makes no sense.

Wasted potential! It's today's theme.

Dancer in the Dark is coming on Thursday at 9 P.M. Don't let me forget!

Smattering