Hi, folks. I figured I’d smash together some of my favorite things and show them to you so you can judge me. Enjoy.


I’m well into the second season (idiots stopped making the show after the third.)  If you don’t know what it’s about, it’s the story of a town that’s sprung up during the gold rush, and most of the action takes place in and around the main brothel. It’s raw and muddy, and  it’s pretty much the best thing I’ve watched in a few months. But it’s not helping me purge fuck, fucking, fucker, and motherfucker out of my vocabulary.  The pure amount of fuck mentioned (and “cunt” for that matter) would make for a substantial drinking game, although if you’re smart enough to like and enjoy this, you’re probably too smart to be playing drinking games.


If you’ve read a couple of my blogs from the last six months, you’ve gathered that I’m a runner (among other great things.) It’s something I left behind for my busy college years and cigarette smoking and horrible, long night shifts. Even though my body is far more prone to injury this decade, I’m finding all over again that there’s nothing like kicking your own ass.


It’s been completely redefined for me, and I’m proud of it. Closest thing to family I’ve ever had. It’s not a commodity or hobby, but I am appreciating the shit out of one of the closest and most hard earned ones I’ve ever had.


I’ve spent more hours naked than most people I know, and a thong is a close second to keeping my ass in that most favorite state. I’m a reformed granny-panty wearer, and since I became acquainted with t-backs and y-backs, I’ve never not enjoyed the half-assed coverage.


I’m on a strict budget, yet I can’t seem to forbid myself to enjoy this slightly overpriced chicken-everything vendor. Now if they stop making that spicy dressing that I pour on everything on their menu, they are going to have to fuck off. But until then, I’ll just often keep finding myself in their drive-thru on one of the six non-Jesus days they’re happy to serve me.


Loaded with more MSG than anything except for bullion cubes, these bags of orange crunchy triangles have lured me back for more binging after a couple-year break. I know that when I open the bag I will eat too many, and that the pleasure will outweigh the guilt every time. And that’s with knowing what MSG does to your brain. (An excito-toxin that causes rapid neuron fire until the cells burn themselves out from the frenzied impulses, leaving lesions on the brain that can be visually detected. Mmmm.)


I am usually the last person to adopt any sort of tool or resource or technology. (I still don’t know how to load or listen to an iPod.) But after being thrown into the deep end at work, and seeing everything this program can do, I’m sold on it. It’s versatile as hell. Today I was using it to design banner ads for one of our marketing campaigns, and I almost missed the eight hours that flew by because I was completely at peace with this tool. And I’ll tell ya, that’s usually not the case with any computer program.


I was born with a birthmark on my ass.* But what’s more, I was born with a vagina AND a moustache, which is borderline unfair. I enjoy the pleasure/pain of smooshing the plastic-and-wax sheet onto my upper lip, stretching my face to the side with one hand , (in probably one of the most grotesque expressions I can manage) and ripping this shadow of hair off for an immediate result. But preceding the rapid-removal moment, is the shameful and slow crafting of a moustache-shaped strip of this stuff, and it’s almost sad that no one lives with me to enjoy the humor. The whole thing is pretty much great.


There’s usually an excuse to wear them. I got ‘em in just about every color from red to olive green to grey. I’m constantly coming and going, and it’s great to have something to just slip on and off. I’ve even managed to get away with wearing them to my cubicle job this summer, and it pleases me.


They (whoever that is) say we mime the biological act of motherhood when we prepare, insert, incubate, and remove things from the oven. If that’s the case, then I can’t wait to get pregnant, because I’ve been baking a up a goddamned storm in my kitchen. I have either brownies, cupcakes, pies, or muffins going just about every week. It’s fun, and every time I don’t destroy something in flame (which always surprises me), I want to learn more.

This should pretty much be the material for my profile on one of those dating sites that scare me. Hairy, hungry, naked, cussing… and always at odds with the fact that I have a vagina. Nah, I’m screwed!

*arbitrary detail.