Biscuit: Tasty Doesn't Get You A Date To The Prom

Above, you will see a representation of my desk here at work. At least, a representation of what sits atop said desk.

An hour or two ago, the lovely and talented HR Lady stopped by my desk. "Delivery," she says with a smile. And sure enough. My Boy. My wonderful, sweet, charming, adorable boy. Sent me a dozen red roses.

And because he has been reading this little diary, he even signed the card, "Boy."

This also explains several curious actions: He asked me for another business card last night. "My mom took the one I already had, in case she needs to get a hold of you, she said. So I need a new one." He also called Little Owl last night, after she'd gone to bed, to ask her a "question" of some sort -- and I only found out because Owl asked if I knew the reason, before he had a chance to call her today and explain that he had only been looking for my address.

And then I got to come out, to my whole office! Or at least to the guy who told the now very entertaining story here. The very conservative guy. Who asked, "Wow, who are THOSE from, ha ha ha?" And was answered, "Oh! They're from my boyfriend!"His reply: "Oh." And then he sat down. And then I saw half the office looking at me. It was freaking AWESOME.

It still amazes me -- after all the times I have come out to someone, I still get shaky and vaguely queasy immediately afterwards, every single time, followed by a brilliant surge of relief.

I just feel like I am rambling now. I keep looking my roses and losing my train of thought.

Almost nine p.m., and I am still at work. We are releasing the latest update of our software/website today, which necessitates a late night to ensure nothing goes wrong. God, I'm dedicated. Ha ha.

At least I have the lovely scent of some insanely gorgeous roses to keep me company!

Now then. I would like to thank those of you who offered suggestions for naming my tapeworm. I have decided that as they are all wonderful names, I shall use them all. To this end, I pictured my imaginary tapeworm dividing into several imaginary versions of itself. And so it came to pass. Now, I introduce you to my tapeworms:

Terrell Tapeworm. Terrell is a friendly sort; he enjoys touch football and wears shorts all year 'round.

Hostess Snowball. Hostess is a sweet, pudgy little girl who loves the color pink. Her little round face looks so cute, poking out of the hood of her puffy pink parka!

Miles. Miles is the cut-up of the group. Wacky, fun-loving, he often tells jokes and introduces himself as The Longest Tapeworm In The World.

Phil Meup. Phil has a bad comb-over and a large collection of novelty whoopie cushions. Whenever he meets younger tapeworms he tries to pull a quarter from their ear, and then gives them a piece of hard licorice.

Anne Frank. Anne is young, quiet, and pretty. She fancies herself as rather literary. She would like her very own Diaryland account, but she doesn't think anyone would read it.

Christy Brown. Anne's twin brother. He has long curly brown hair, can sometimes be seen wearing a pinafore, and absolutely loves Agatha Christie.

Tapey McEaterworm. Tapey is the original worm that spawned the rest of "The Kids," above. He wears a purple bowler, a pink-polka-dotted bow tie, a lime-green vest, and orange pants.

Stay tuned for more adventures in Tapewormland, only here, on the fulminous entertainment network! (Do you have an idea for another tapeworm who could join this happy family? Let us know!)

Part One: In which I share a picture of the bed that I would very much like to own.

I have been having trouble merging my two conflicting desires -- one, to be sleek and minimalist and sexy, and two, to be posh and sumptuous and decadent. But look! Taydo to the rescue! We had a lovely conversation yesterday regarding the colors and types of fabrics that might be draped (oh-so-artfully) over and down the bars of the canopy. (Red velvet, like my curtains, plus an overlay of something sheer and gold. (Stop laughing at me.)) Voila! Sleek, sexy, decadent, and sumptuous, all at the same time.

Part Two: In which I shamelessly praise Taydo's mad skillz with the graphics. Once again to the rescue, he has created a look that is smooooth and sleeeek and royal and decadent all at once. I really am loving the revamped graphics. Yay Taydo!

Part Three: In which I relate a news article that I just read. Seems that our young Prince William of England wants to move to my fair city for a few years after he finishes university. This sounds like a simply stellar opportunity for a young Anglophilic royalty-worshipper to get in some SERIOUS stalking time. Of course he and I will meet and become fast friends. I will hang out in his sleek minimalist loft, and he will be posh and decadent. Oh, and also, I will get to meet the Queen.

The walk from my door to the subway is a short three blocks. This morning, before I had gone even one of those blocks, I was already wishing I had left my jacket at home.

Nevertheless, I persevered. After another block, I looked down the length of 7th Avenue. "Funny," I thought to myself. "Why's it so...hazy down there?" A strange thick fog was obscuring anything more than a few blocks away. I tried rubbing my eyes, thinking that perhaps my contacts were a little fuzzy or there was some leftover sleepy obscuring my vision.

Nope. Still hazy.

Suddenly, it hit me. Heat. Haze.

What is the third "H" in the New Yorker triumvirate of summer weather? Heat. Haze. And Humidity. Humidity so thick, one cannot make a move without sheets of liquid pouring down one's forehead, collecting at the base of one's spine. The kind of heat and humidity where just sitting on the Klaus seems strenuous. Reflecting back from miles of glaring asphalt, being released from towers of concrete and brick. Gushing upwards from subway vents all over the city, wilting. Languorous. Thick. Slow.

After a lovely...two entire weeks? in Springtime, the New York Summer is almost upon us, people. Fear it.

Scene: Back Hallway, Ful's Office

Players: Ful, One Of The Todds.

OOTTs: Whoa, you drink your coffee BLACK? I don't know how you handle that!

F: Oh. Yeah, I always have.

OOTTs: Really?!?

F: Yeah. I think I got started drinking coffee in college, where I'd get a drink called the Night Terror at the campus coffeehouse. Four shots of straight espresso, I think.

OOTTs: (wide-eyed) Whoa! You mean, where it's just like a...a SHOT of coffee? I've HEARD of those! My roommate used to work at a restaurant in the city where they had those and he told me about them.

F: (dryly) Yeah. Those.

As Taydo puts it, "The Todds don't get out very often, do they?"

No, Taydo. It seems not.

Yesterday was the Sunday that most Sundays aspire to be: Waking up cuddly with a sleep-sweaty boy, ordering brunch, having a very pleasant mom/sister conversation, wandering up to the Met with some very giggly friends to look at gowns and swords and mummies and plush rococo things covered in gilt (Hey, if it ain't baroque...don't fix it), sauntering down the Upper East Side eating ice cream, and coming home to drink a lot of wine, eat a lot of cheese, watch movies, and then fade into a happy sleep.

As a special bonus, the whole day was shrouded in a marvelous fog, and I pretended to be in both London and San Francisco in turns.

Tonight is, once again, theoretically the initial meeting between myself, and my boy's mother. We have had meetings scheduled before, but all those unforeseen circumstances that nobody plans for popped up. Tonight very well may be the night. I am trying to stop being freakishly panicked. I decided that blue stripes was a mom-neutral color choice.

Think good thoughts for a mohawked boy in a blue striped shirt tonight.

Just so you know, I do not think it is possible for last night to have gone any better. I had a wonderful time, and his mom invited me to go swimming at their house this summer! I do love when I end up being nervous for absolutely no reason.

Today in the news, I discovered that not only has the $20 bill been re-colored, there are stamps and a five-pound-coin being issued covered with the picture of Prince William (I cannot even imagine how many jokes there are going to be made re: licking and those stamps), but DisneyWorld. DisneyWorld, people. They are having a SALE.

Seven nights. Unlimited passes to everything. $499. This summer. Holy Jumping Cow.

DisneyWorld was the site of my very first day of independence. I was 12, maybe 13 years old. It had been raining all morning, and having exhausted the fun possibilities of a Continental Breakfast, somehow I managed to talk my mom into letting me take the video camera and wander Epcot Center on my own.

I spent the day running past markers reading "It is a fifteen minute wait from THIS POINT," as everyone else had been scared inside by the rain. I even went on one ride three times in a row, in a span of about 10 minutes. I saw all the exhibits, I ran around the Countries of the World. I had my first meal in restaurant (The Rose and Crown) by myself: Scotch Eggs, a raspberry fool, and a Coke. I left my very nice and very indulgent waitress a 50% tip (on a ten-dollar check), which earned me a lecture from my mother on the virtues of not wasting money later that night. I ate French pastries. I saw Captain EO. Twice. And then I rode the monorail in circles for an hour, taking pictures out of the window. At the time, it was a great day; in retrospect, it was one of the primary defining moments of my life.

I could go again. I could go to DisneyWorld, and ride all the rides I missed last time. I could go on waterslides and rollercoasters and go dancing on Pleasure Island. And when I got tired, I could go to my hotel, sit in the sun, and ask someone to bring me an alcohol-filled pineapple. And they would.

Hi there!

It's been a while. As such, there is a lot of territory to cover. Below you will find the first part of my recent story. Stay tuned for more, later today. Let's get started, shall we?

ITEM ONE: The Magazine Party.

Last Thursday, Little Owl invited me to the 25th Anniversary party for the magazine of which she is an assistant editor. I had spent Wednesday night worrying about what I was going to wear, because I had already worn my lime-green shirt to work that day, and I couldn't very well wear it to work again on Thursday. And the lime-green shirt is, of course, what I wanted to wear to the party.

I neatly solved this issue by calling in sick to work on Thursday.

Lime-green shirt, blue-velvet jacket, pink/orange/red/cream stripey tie, and my glass-coated A|X pants, and my cute rectangular glasses. Quite dashing, if I do say so myself. We helped ourselves to a rather large number of free martinis. We looked fabulous. We danced. In fact, I had the dubious pleasure of being sandwich-danced by two girls at the same time which was certainly a first for me. I was frightened, but managed to keep my cool. I got through the situation with aplomb...at least until one of my flailing dancing-hands accidentally touched a stranger's breast and I shrieked at all of the girl-ness surrounding me and ran off to find another martini.

That would have been the evening -- except for the VIP room. After Little Owl and her other friends had left, I walked back inside for a few minutes of solo adventuring in the realm of scary fashionistas. I was leaning against a column in the aforementioned VIP room, when a woman tapped me on the shoulder.

"Ooh. I love your tie! Who did it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your tie! Who's the designer?" she enthused at me.

"Oh! Actually, I bought this at Express. Not quite a designer, I suppose."

"Oh. Well...that's okay too," she murmured before turning away and talking to her presumably more name-brand friends.

Of course I had to call up the Owl and relate the story, and we decided that if ayone else asked after my tie, I was either going to say that it was a Mizrahi original, or it was vintage Christian Lecroix. Before I had even fully recovered from this episode, I am again tapped on the shoulder.

"Hi. Who are you?"

"Who am I? Well, my name's Chris."

"Oh. I'm Amber."

"Oh."

...momentary awkward pause in which I stare at Amber, hoping she will get to the point and ask me who did my tie...

"Why are you here?"

"A friend of mine works for the magazine."

"Oh, really?" Amber asked interestedly.

"Mhm. An assistant editor."

"Oh. Just an assistant? And you mean you're not a...a photographer, or anyone important?"

"Apparently not."

And then, without a word, Amber turned and walked away, presumably in search of more influential party guests.

Sure, I have been snubbed before. But being snubbed twice in such quick succession? I could NOT have been more pleased!

The way I see it, if I am being snubbed by people like that, I am clearly doing something very very right. I think I shall make it my mission in life to be snubbed by snobs.

ITEM TWO: Other Events Last Weekend.

Also included in my weekend was more Little Owl. Saturday I helped paint her apartment. The dining room is marigold, the hallway is mint chocolate chip, and the bedroom is a dark sky blue. We sang aloud to Alanis Morissette and invented impromptu lyrics that are more ironic than those in her original song. Sadly, I seem to have laid down an oil-filled plug-in air-freshener on her wooden table, and laboring under the misapprehension that said items use a prepackaged, closed plastic container of oil, was utterly unaware that this oil poured itself out onto her table and dissolved the varnish thereon. I continue to offer my most heartfelt apologies.

Sunday involved an absolutely charming brunch, also at the Owl's house. We got to show off our new paint job. It was lovely. Everyone oohed. And then we ate and talked and everyone was completely adorable.

That night, I fell asleep with my head on the Boy's shoulder, and he fell asleep with his head on my head. We were watching The House of Yes at the time. I am worried about what insidious effects that movie had on my subconscious as I slept.

ITEM THREE: Peaches Fucked My Pain Away.

Rewind a bit to Saturday night. Peaches. In concert. At the Bowery Ballroom.

Her opening act was a pair of tall, leggy, busty German women going by the name of Cobra Killer. They enjoyed many activities: waving flags about, crowd-surfing, pouring large bottles of wine on their heads and down their dresses, and shaking their heads so their long hair would splash wine on the audience. At one point, I declared them to be just like "A scary industrial German hug!" Also, when they commanded the crowd to "Line up in a queue!" they reminded me just how much I truly, viscerally enjoy the word "queue." Cue-You-Eee-You-Eee.

The audience was largely made up of girls in funny outfits, and gay couples. Including this funny little couple standing just in front of me and my boy. It was pretty patently obvious that they were putting on a show for us -- they kept making out and grinding all over each other, and occasionally "accidentally" bumping into us, or at least shooting the two of us some rather sultry glances. The boy and I agreed that they were essentially delivering an engraved invitation, and then proceeded to ignore them for the rest of the show. The best part about their performance? At the end of the show, they shook hands with each other, said "Nice to meet you!" and walked their separate ways.

Now, as for Peaches herself--she was fucking brilliant. Moving smoothly from sings I had not heard, such as "Shake Your Dick Shake Your Dick" to old favorites like "Lovertits," and sporting a big, bushy, curly mullet, I could not have been more excited.

Until, that is.

Until at one point in the show, when she just...disappears. She is still singing, but I cannot hear her. Someone else is on stage, dancing her big ol' boobs off. I decide that I had best take a bathroom break when Peaches is not on stage, so I start to quickly make my way to the back. It is at this point that I find out what happened to Peaches. She has been making her way around the audience, and as I push through a knot of audience members, suddenly find myself full-on, flat-out, face-to-face with her. She looks at me in my extra-low-rise extra-boot-cut jeans and tight camouflage t-shirt, and, while she continues to sing, mind you: she makes an "oooooh you're hot" face, and then runs her hand down my chest. I flash a wildly excited goofy grin, and step aside as she continues to dance. Peaches made a "You're hot" face at me. All is right with the world.

Of course, my cool Peaches story was completely trumped by the fact that metalheart's friend got pulled up on stage at the end of the show to sing some karaoke "Fuck the Pain Away" and got to grind on Peaches and sing to the crowd. But -- I will always have my moment. My moment when Peaches mouthed "oooh" at me.

ITEM FOUR: The Boy Chooses A Name.

Finally! The last chapter in my weekend saga. It continues to jump around in time, now heading back to Friday night.

I was supposed to go to a birthday party on Friday night, for a very cool girl in the neighborhood who also sports a mohawk. (She declares the two of us to be members of "Mohawk Nation.") I ended up, instead, having an absolutely stellar dinner with the Boy. Pappardelle with fennel and pine nuts and the most amazing duck you have ever tasted, an endive and beet salad, great wine, brilliant goat-cheese tart for dessert. Awfully filling as well, so as a result I was far too sleepy to attend a birthday party all the way back in Manhattan. After dinner, I muzzily made my way upstairs with the Boy, had some (I must admit this and apologize to the squeamish) utterly amazing, hot, long, sweaty, slow sex, and then we just curled up together under the covers. The remarkable thing about this last, is how completely calm I was. There was not a single thought running through my head other than the overarching abstract presence of my boy. I was totally content. I honestly do not think I have ever felt so...peaceful. It was a wonderful sensation, to lie there tangled up in someone else's arms, wrapped up in someone else's legs, and to know without a doubt in my head: "I am in love; he is in love."

Using the above as a lead-in, I should mention that the stunningly astute among you may have already noticed a new name atop the list of favorites on my profile. My boy -- my sweet, my wonderful boy -- decided to get a diary of his own. As such, I think I should refer to him by his self-chosen name:

Flexible.

(I assume this refers to his days as a gymnast, and is not a secret reference to his other, more...esoteric...skills.)

In honor of Flexible's new name, I would like to announce that he has, at long last, agreed to go on vacation with me to Disney World! July 4th to July 9th, sun, sand, rides, waterslides, dancing, and alcoholic pineapples. To say that I am so excited at the prospect of spending a week footloose and fancy-free with him, that I have hardly been able to think all day -- well, that would just be a drastic understatement.

My feet feel weird.

It is probably because I am wearing shoes today. Shoes. Not boots. Not ten-hole Docs or ten-hole Gripfast or something that I wear my thin black dress socks with. Not the boots that I have worn almost every single day for over two years. That is right -- shoes. Shoes with white socks.

I think it might be the white socks that are really throwing me off. They just might be muffling my feet. Besides which, my jeans are fresh out of the wash, right? So they have yet to loosen up enough to sling low on my hips, and the boot-cut cuff is still a little stiff and does not fall right either. I feel like I am wearing high-water pants, with black shoes, and white socks. I am not enjoying this.

I will, however, persevere. Once my jeans chill the fuck out and RELAX a little bit (they are always SO TENSE), everything will be fine.

I honestly do not know what kind of socks to wear with these shoes. They are these very cute black-with-a-white-swoopy-stripe Puma soccer shoes. Except without that fold-over tongue of which Puma shoe-designers seem so fond. I mean, these seem like the kind of shoe with which white cotton athletic socks would be entirely appropriate, and yet, as the day goes on, I find this to be less and less the case. I remain hopeful that I can figure out just what kind of socks will work best.

And also, I bought a pair of ten-hole boots. Ha.

The following comes to you courtesy of an actual AIM conversation earlier this afternoon, between myself and my friend Wang. Any similarity between people mentioned below and real-life people is fully intentional.

Warning: The conversation also talks about things like sex, so if you do not want to read about it, go 'way.

Wang: So I feel like a terrible person.

Ful: Why?

Wang: Because I'm about to convince my girlfriend that the "birthday blowjob" is a part of american history.

Ful: Oh good christ.

Wang: And that any american boyfriend she's had before just didn't mention it.

Ful: THAT is funny.

Ful: You know what I think is REALLY REALLY REALLY funny?

Wang: Disneyland?

Ful: DisneyWORLD, and no.

Wang: oh. Right.

Wang: Sorry.

Ful: The part that is tremendously funny to ME,

Ful: is the fact that you are coming up with some ploy to get a blowjob.

Wang: I don't have to.

Wang: I mean. This isn't any kind of ploy for sex. It's just a ploy to continue the idea.

Ful: mmmm hm.

Wang: If I can convince her, then all her friends...

Wang: "Hey, you know what I heard. In this country it's polite to give/receive oral sex for birthdays."

Wang: etc, etc.

Ful: HAHAHA

Wang: Not like that, you sicko.

Ful: I know.

Ful: I just tend to think it is funny in general, when straight guys are all, "My girlfriend won't go down on me, how can I get my girlfriend to go down on me, all I want out of my life is a blowjob."

Ful: I am not saying that is what YOU are doing,

Ful: as I can see that you're operating solely out of a desire to help your Fellow Man when he is dating one of your girlfriend's friends.

Wang: Ah.

Wang: Okay.

Wang: Exactly. Soon the urban legend will spread.

Wang: It's legs.

Ful: I don't think I've EVER had an "encounter" that didn't involve...well. You know.

Wang: Spread legs?

Wang: Urban Legends?

Ful: No, not spread legs.

Ful: Some blow job.

Wang: You've never had a birthday not include a BJ?

Ful: I've had several birthdays without blowjobs,

Wang: So what, "encounter?" exactly are we talking about.

Ful: but I've never slept with anyone maybe EVER, where a blowjob did not factor in to the proceedings.

Wang: So everybody you've slept with, you've given or received head from?

Ful: Pretty much, yeah.

Wang: Well.

Wang: That's interesting.

Wang: So.....

Wang: On a personal level.

Wang: What else could I want for my birthday?

Ful: Um

Ful: are you actually asking me what sexual favors you might ask your girlfriend to perform for you?

Wang: No. I'm asking you for gift ideas.

Ful: Oh.

Ful: An extra iPod so you can give one to me?

Wang: That's two. If Little Owl says the same thing. I'm going to shoot you all.

Ful: You know that if it happened,

Ful: you would SO give it to me instead of Owl.

Ful: You KNOW you would.

Wang: Except that shiv has dibs. She offered cash.

Ful: I SO GET IT!!!

Ful: Wang!!!

Ful: You KNOW that I should get it.

Ful: She doesn't even own a Mac.

Wang: Right. You should. But she offered money. What could you possibly offer me?

Ful: !!!!!!!!!!!!

Ful: Wang!!!!

Ful: That's just...it's just NOT RIGHT.

Ful: Have a little LOYALTY, man.

Wang: What?

Ful: LOYALTY to ME. And my MacExpo-going ways!!

Wang: You would expect me to just give it to you.

Wang: Mac loyalty goes a long way, true.

Wang: But...

Ful: BUT NOTHIN'.

Wang: At least offer me a trade.

Wang: Like.. a pony.

Ful: I have no pony.

Ful: "I hanker for a hunka, a bite a piece a chunka, I hanker for a hunka...CHEEEEEeeeese."

Ful: I will sing you songs.

Ful: And I will bring you a keychain that says "WANG" on it from DisneyWorld.

Wang: Sigh...

Ful: Or a hat.

Ful: If you'd rather have a hat.

Wang: Shiv just offered me anal sex.**

Wang: Beat that!

Ful: She DID NOT.

Wang: She so did.

Ful: Besides, she'd have to use a strap-on. I have the natural equipment.

Wang: Excuse me? What part of my personality suggested that I would be a bottom?

Ful: Well, you didn't specify, now did you?

Ful: And what does "personality" have to do with being a bottom?

Wang: nothing really.

Ful: (laugh)

Wang: I was making a bottom joke.

Ful: Besides. That way, not only could I GIVE you a pony...

Ful: I could MAKE you a pony.

Ful: MY pony.


** Please note: Shiv claims that she has never offered anal sex to Wang; she has merely made the observation that he has never asked her for it nicely.

He mentioned it, so I had better explain the "REALLY FUNNY" story involving an Axe.

First off, last night was the series finale of Buffy. I will not go into plot analysis here, except to observe that HOLY COW, evil is really going to have its work cut out for it from now on. And also I should mention that Shiv would so be a Slayer and I would have to be a sidekick, except the really COOL kind of sidekick with swirling coats.

So. To the funny story.

After everybody went home post-Buffy-party, Flexible (or maybe I should just call him Flex? or Ible? or maybe just Lex? Gyah.) and I were getting smoochy. Almost immediately, I stop and tell him, "Wow. You...you smell GREAT today."

He just smiled.

I continue: "No, I mean...you smell REALLY GREAT. Like, you smell FANTASTIC." I then proceeded to smush my nose up against his chest so as to better inhale the wonderful scent of this remarkably pleasantly-fragranced boy. "(SNIFFFFFFFFF) MMMMmmmmm!!" I said exuberantly. "MMMMMMMMM."

He smiled again. And said, "Um. Yeah. It's that Axe deodorant," at which point I stopped trying to inhale him whole, stared, looking like I had been poleaxed (no pun intended...well, small pun intended I suppose), and burst into hysterical laughter for completely unintentionally acting out a commercial.


POST-SCRIPT: I just started actually looking through the above website for Axe Deodorant Body Spray. For the love of sweet merciful god, go to it right now. Especially the AXE AMS (Automated Matching System). I am CRYING from laughing here.

I am trying something new around here.

Well. Not new, precisely. I flirted with the idea very very briefly, some months ago, and for some reason it never stuck. I think the time has come now.

Time for a Fulminous Guestbook.

The "Missives" link to the left, which so very recently pointed to my Notes page, now leads to my guestbook. Yes, Taydo, I know that my guestbook is not very pretty. I shall rectify that situation very soon.

Until then, please try and suffer through the bland look as best you all can. I do love receiving notes and emails and the like, so please use my guestbook as often as humanly possible.

In news closely related to yesterday's news, I bought my very own can of Axe Deodorant Body Spray last night. I stood in Duane Reade for fifteen minutes, trying to select the flavor that I liked best. After one of two sniffs, though, the alcohol content of these sprays rendered my nose inoperative, so I had to keep walking away and breathing clean air, walking back, and trying to smell another one. It was not terribly effective, and had the unintended side-effect of making me look like a complete moron. In the end, I closed my eyes and grabbed a can at random, and ended up choosing "Kilo." Its "Oriental, Ambery, Woody" smell is definitely acceptable.

In fact, Flexible came over last night after I had gone to bed. I had taken the sneaky precaution of applying my new purchase before crawling under the sheets -- "under the arms, across the chest, the neck, all the hot spots" -- according to its directions. I was very careful to heed the warning that Axe Deodorant Body Spray is not for "intimate use," which I can only assume means "Please do not spray this upon your very tender nether bits, watch them burn off, and then sue us so that you might purchase a new prosthetic penis."

Anyhow, when he arrived, I was already asleep. I listened muzzily to him washing his clothes for work, puttering around, and finally getting into bed with me. This is when Axe Kilo worked its magic. Apparently he was unable to sleep. Apparently he was so unable to sleep with my Kilo-smelling self in such close proximity, that the boy woke me up at four in the morning to get some love.

Afterwards, I informed him of my purchase, we both laughed again, and I was satisfied -- the second half of a two-part commercial had been completed. Ahhh, closure.

I am feeling far too stressed out and panicky for NO GOOD REASON to write an actual entry at the moment. I will let you know that the 'hawk is no more. I had been wearing a hat all day on Saturday, and then when I went out Saturday night, the prospect of coaxing all that matted-down hat-hawk hair into still points was too much for me. I buzzed it off. I am currently contemplating bleaching it tonight, which I think would make me look very Eminem.

I just realized that my throat feels a little constricted and sore when I try and swallow my lunch. I hope that I am sick, because it will explain why I have been feeling so absurdly oversensitive the past few days.

Also, I had a dream a few nights ago that Flexible ran off with his invented-by-my-brain childhood friend, Olga and told me that he always knew that the two of them would end up together. Then the three of us were stuck in a room and I had to watch and listen to them having sex for hours. I woke up feeling horrible, splashed some water on my face, went back to sleep, and then had a dream that I was telling StyleGirl about the first dream. How very meta of my subconscious.

I will follow the story of the dream up by mentioning that I do not actually fear him running off with anyone, childhood friend or otherwise. I think it was a reaction to the novel sensation of actually having something to lose for once.

Some days just are not worth being awake for.

It started when I thought I would be a thrifty young Ful, and bring in a bunch of change to one of those charming CoinStar machines to count and turn into actual, spendable paper money. The weight of the seventy-seven dollars and two cents in coins that I carried in my satchel all morning did something very unpleasant to my back, and I cannot quite sit up straight.

Then I realized that the strange constricty feeling in my throat might in fact be strep. I looked in the bathroom mirror at work, and sure enough. I spy with my little eye, something...white and spotty on the very back of my tongue! Couple that with the tension headaches across the back of my neck and my shoulders. my generally achey demeanor, and the memories of having strep seven to ten times a year for several years running before they finally lopped my bastard tonsils out when I was nineteen, and B-I-N-G-O. Strep.

I left work and went to the hospital (many apologies for my cryptic goodbye, Taydo, but I was a man on a mission, and also I had forgotten that I had not told you about my suspicions of strep yet because usually any time there is the slightest bit of news, interesting, humorous, or otherwise while I am at work, you are one of the very first to hear) where I sat for over two hours waiting for a throat culture.

Actually, after I went through the triage nurse and the registration nurse, I sat watching Dragonball Z (it was either that or Ricky Lake doing lie detector tests) until they called me into E.R. Two, the room where they do commonplace things like throat cultures.

Instead, I hear my name being paged, with the instructions to please report immediately to E.R. One, repeat, please report immediately to the Trauma E.R.

TRAUMA E.R. I get to the door which has several very large NO ADMITTANCE signs posted on it. I hover for a few seconds, uncertain of what to do, and then a man in a suit pops his head out and beckons for me to follow him. Then he and another man in a suit flank me, and escort me down a long hallway to a room clearly labeled "TRAUMA CENTER," which if I remember my T.V. hospital shows correctly, is where they crack open people's ribs. I am instructed to sit on a bed by myself in this room, and the doctor will be with me immediately.

Of course, it took the doctor more than a few minutes to show up (long enough for me to read the labels on all the boxes and drawers and CRASH CARTS sitting near me) and in the meanwhile, I wondered why I had been rushed into an apparent quarantine zone. Was something in my blood pressure or temperature reading really all that troubling? Maybe the triage nurse had been coached in the early warning signs of some horrible disease and I did not actually have strep, but SARS or something, and it was going to be horribly ironic that I had pooh-poohed everyone for worrying about something like SARS that they would never actually catch and then I go and catch it and have to be hooked up in quarantine and all of my friends would have to come in and get tested for it and we would fill up a whole ward of the hospital, us and our SARS, and our not being able to breathe, and oh my god this is getting creepier by the minute and what am I going to

Oh. Right. Here is the nice doctor with the throat culture. E.R. Two was just very busy and E.R. One did not have many traumas today. And then he told me that I have strep. Yeah.

To top everything off, when I left the hospital a rapidly-closing swinging door hit me in the face and broke my tooth. I am so not even kidding. The bottom inside corner of my right front tooth. Broke off. No more tooth corner.

Wrenched back, strep, and broken tooth.

On the plus side, I decided to go ahead with the hair bleach. It is, in fact, very very very...bleached. I have yet to apply toner, and StyleGirl already sang the "My Name Is..." song at me. It was really hot.

My neighbor gave me condoms today.

He lives across the hall from me, and we regularly refer to him as, alternately, the Wacky Neighbor, and the Dorm R.A. I've known him for several years and was the guy to recommend his current apartment to him. (He is regretting taking the apartment at the moment, as his ceiling has a disturbing propensity to fall in on him at inopportune moments, but that is a different story.)

He gave me condoms. This is one of his functions as a Dorm R.A., apparently. He popped in this afternoon while I was recuperating on my Klaus.

"I've gotta show you these. They're...they're NEW CONDOMS. How often, really, is there a revolutionary design in the CONDOM, man?"

It is called the "Inspiral." Judging from the pictures on the box, half of it looks like a regular condom, but then the tip end has this whole weird puffed-out part in a kind of spiral, that is supposedly based on the shape of a nautilus shell. Apparently, each condom comes with "Spring Action!" which in my opinion makes them sound like an old action figure. The little packets for each condom are HUGE, too. They kind of creep me out.

There was no real point to this story. I am not endorsing these things like I did the Axe Deodorant Body Spray or anything. (Yet.)

Everyone else did this positively ages ago, but whenever I tried, their server would not let me.

Therefore, without further ado, I give you the results of my Dante's Inferno Test:

Yep. I am so going to hell.

Side note: A few years ago, back in Denver, I worked in an antiquarian bookshop that specialized in finding rare and out-of-print books for people across the country. My area was the East Coast, and one day a woman called in looking for a special present for someone.

"Antiquarian Booksearch and Bookshop, this is Ful, can I help you?"

"Hi, yeah. I'm looking for an old copy, something leatherbound, or something? For a present? Of this book?"

"Sure. What's the title?"

"It's called 'Dante's Inferno,' but I don't know the author."

"...The author. Of Dante's Inferno."

"Right, I don't know."

"Hmm. Right. I think you'll find that, um...Alighieri...wrote Dante's Inferno, ma'am."

Personally, I am to this day intensely proud that a) I did not laugh (out loud), and b) I came up with a face-saving reply so quickly. Surely that should remove a few of those black marks on my hell-bound soul, right?

You are fun, freewheeling and fast-paced. You don't only
spot the latest trends; you set them. A free spirit, you're
not afraid to wander out to Coney Island with your friends
for a bit of surrealistic fun.

Which New York City subway line are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Can I just say, "Oh Hell Yeah." 'Cause I'm Riiiiidin' on the F Traaaaain, don't know when I'll be back again...

I should think that this article speaks for itself.

Nakupenda, William! (Yes. That is Swahili for "I Love You." If I could have figured out how to say "I love you and your whole lovely absurd royal family and you should invite me to tea with your grandmother but your dad does not have to come because I find him a little creepy and maybe I'll even bring your grandma a present of a nice new hat," I would have.)

Oooh, he's so sporty.