I had a fabulous endoscopy today, and it was fabulous!

I have ULCERS!

Plural - ULCERS!

I'm not just some fucked up hypochondriac with phantom illnesses!

This is very good news.

Although I was expecting the sedatives to fuck me up for the entire day - I wanted to blog under the influence to see what gibberish spewed out of my subconscious. I sobered up so quickly I wanted to ask for some of my co-pay back.

There's a new man in my life who's been keeping me up all night for the last week and a half, but I still can't get enough. All I can think about is the moment the little voice in my head goes to bed so I can climb into mine and satisfy my urges with Dexter.


Stick your knife in me...I'm done.


There's so much to say about his massive perfection, but I don't have time...the next episode is queued up and I'm ready to go.

I wake up everyday with a song in my heart. The only thing that changes about that is which song. Also, throughout the day, other songs drift through, but I never lose the original song or the feelings I had, drifting into consciousness with those being the lyrics bringing me back to the world. (I've paid very close attention to the patterns, and there is none, and it's not because of the alarm clock - the song in my heart is rarely ever the wake-up song, and I have it set to classical since the Zeppelin incident.)

This morning's song: "Your Body Is A Wonderland" by John Mayer

The mid-morning song: "The Pie Song" from Waitress

The afternoon song: "Chapel of Love" in honor of my brother's nuptials which took place tonight at 7:30 (CONGRATULATIONS MR. AND MRS. TOKEN!)

The leaving-work song: "California" from famed bad TV show to tease my brownskin twin who's going back to the motherland this weekend. Yeah, I did it. I went O.C. on her ass.

The getting-into-my-car-and-fending-off-road-rage-and-sex-thoughts marathon of songs:
"Sexual Healing" Marvin Gaye; "American Woman" The Kravitz; "7 Nation Army" White Stripes

It was a very musical day. And yes, I actually sing these songs out loud to myself all day at work in a corporate setting. It sets me apart. In many, many ways.

Anyhussies, I Googled "music," and here are some of the images that popped up.

This week I learned that it is incredibly difficult to keep your mind off sex when the alarm clock wakes you up with D'yer Mak'r by Led Zeppelin. It starts in the hips and just lingers...

So, here's today's dissertation on men. GQ took a vote on the world's most handsome man or something ridiculous like that, and Robert Pattinson was so far in the lead I gave up watching the results. The thing is, how can you look at RPatz and truly call him a man?

Here are a few men:






Here are a few that look like men, but who may never actually grow up...







And these guys will always be boys:







This morning I walked past a table full of engineers to get milk for my raisin bran, and suddenly all the talk and motion stopped, and they watched me, their heads going back and forth - like a crowd watching a tennis match. I saw them out of my peripherals only because I had sensed the pause in activity. It was disturbing. My brownskin twin was waiting for me by the fruit bowls at the opposite side of the caf near the entrance and I said, "That WHOLE table was watching me." She started laughing because she'd seen them watching me from the moment we walked in the cafeteria - from far away, she said the ringleader lit up when he saw me and whispered to his friends and they all stared at me the whole time. I felt violated. Did any one of them have the bojangles or consideration to walk up to me and say, "Hi?" "How are you?" "Who are you?" "What's your story?"

Nothing. Just visual gang rape. Granted, I was wearing my favorite dress which is pretty damntastic. Still. It all backs up a little paragraph I just read about the objectification of females, which another author had used in his book and asked the question, does this theory from the 70's still hold up?

This is excerpted from Ways of Seeing by John Berger and excerpted by Brian Kitely in The 3 A.M. Epiphany.

Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at. This determines not only most relations between men and women but also the relation of women to themselves. The surveyor of woman in herself is male: the surveyed female. Thus she turns herself into an object - and most particularly an object of vision: a sight.

I'm not entirely sure what all of that means, but I feel pretty strongly that the objectification originates when the male starts looking at the female, so how are we at all responsible for turning ourselves into the object? Hmph. What I want to do is get through the day without falling down - so I can't be looking all around to see who's looking at me. I have to keep my sights on the floor, yo.

It has been only five days, yet I have a list of obsessions that have cropped up or reoccurred in those many moons.

Anne Boleyn and the Tudors: I re-read The Other Boleyn Girl, and then had to watch Anne of the Thousand Days (in my opinion it doesn't hold up, especially with the newest research available, but then again, neither do some details from The Other Boleyn Girl) and then I had to request a book from the library called The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn. Still waiting on that request, but in the meantime I have Mary, Queen of Scots to watch. I tried to get Elizabeth with Cate Blanchett (pppreeettttyyyy) but they didn't have it at the library. Alas, alack, no Tudor Triple Feature for me.

Waitress: Great movie. Surprised me because the cover made it seem as though it would be your standard chick-flick rom-com, but it was a whole different movie than that. Plus pie. Lotsa pie. Plus a guy so desperate for a girl he spontaneously spouts really bad poetry (reminiscent of my so-called sex life). Plus Nathan Fillion, whom I love. I know I say that a lot, but for Nathan, I actually mean it. If I met him tomorrow I would let him marry me. Today I pledge to him my troth. And my very best blueberry cobbler.

Grad School: Started a personal statement, which is an act that puts me in the middle of a busy highway in the dead of night with the headlights so brightly shining in my face that my antlers quiver with fear. I love to write and I'm pretty good at it, but don't ask me to write about myself being a writer. Why? I DON'T KNOW. But it kind of goes like this: if you're going to write something that describes what a talented, skilled, powerful, multi-faceted writer you are, it better be effing good. Kind of goes side-by-side with my writing-poetry-for-a-poet theory. Lotsa pressure. Lots. And I really want it to work and have them beg me to come to their school and throw fellowships and assistantships at me so that they can claim me as their very own alumnus.

Comedy: Watched Spaced again, watched Role Models, watched a lot of outtakes and gag reels. Simon Pegg has to be dead to me as a romantic interest - he went and knocked up his wife and seems really happy about it, which kills my married-for-some-sort-of-work-permit-convenience theory. Sigh. There's always Nathan. Canadian. HAWT. I've also been scoping funnyordie.com because I'm looking for fun in all the fun places, and my life has changed. This series of videos (there are three chapters thus far) encapsulates all of my beliefs in good and evil.

Casual Sex Episode One: eHarmony from Andrea Savage

There is also a series called "Drunk History" which is pretty gorram hilarious - although you do have to withstand some vomiting, which I don't usually stand for. But the concept and its execution are so funny I keep going back for more.

I just want to say here that the little voice in my head was sick this weekend (AGAIN) so I had plenty of time for entertainment while she slept between bouts of gastrointestinal fireworks.

I had to share this article which resonates for me and the SSLP most profoundly - we, in recent years, had to debunk the idea that love was enough to overcome physical death... And I've had to gently but repeatedly and honestly tell the little voice in my head that not every person gets married, that not everyone you love loves you back and that not every male companion can be your Prince Charming. Marriage is nice and all, but Kurt and Goldie do all right. So does George Clooney, for that matter.

I just finished watching There Will Be Blood. I'm intent on that mission to catch up on my movie watching and I figure I'm still two years plus behind. I stall...how to describe my thoughts and feelings about this newest PTA endeavor: mammoth, as ever - his movies are a filmic definition of "SCOPE." I was just reading all the reviews to see if anything anyone could say about this film would put a finger on how I feel about it. In every review, no matter how glowing, the word "flawed" kept coming up. And yet the relentless four-star ratings. This film is proof that a work doesn't have to be perfect to be good. However, I'm not entirely convinced that this is a good movie.

I couldn't look away from it, even though it was so effing long it took me to sittings to finish it. But it was more like a train wreck than an, "Oh, I loved that movie and every scene had me entranced" experience. I can't tell you that I actually liked it. I'm not entirely sure I didn't like it either. Grrr. There is no doubt that Daniel Day-Lewis is, as ever, unchallenged as the best actor of our time. The only other who comes close, in my opinion, is Johnny Depp, in the ability to completely become a character.

Again I stall. The Daniel Plainview character states more than once, "I believe in plain speaking." Uh Huh. And you should always trust people who say "Trust me."

The score, composed by my new hero Jonny Greenwood, is maybe my best answer to this question of how do I likes it: not since The Exorcist has a film's music so constantly kept me on guard, off-balance, or tense for what was about to kick me in the face. It served more as sound effects than any conventional definition of music, and reminded me constantly that I should question every word and every motive and every emotion in every scene.

If you like that sort of story - enjoy this film. If you don't like it, but you want to experience fine filmmaking or masterful acting - study this film. If neither of these pleases you - skip this film. It's too brutal to withstand otherwise and it feels sometimes like yours is the blood the title calls for.

I should define "good stuff." Because what was good wasn't just THAT stuff (which was AWESOME).

It was the intimacy and easy rapport, the talking, the laughing, the just laying around watching golf and drinking beer. That's why it is hard for me to let go of it - it was all around just what I like. And I guess it's been many many many years since the last time I experienced something that pleased me just right.

But I have made a vow on my girly bits to move on, and I don't make promises lightly.

So I'm working on it, I'm working on it.

A couple of my peeps kindly pointed out to me this recent trend: the men whom I have invited to mosey on past all my defenses find themselves needing to...think...about things.

When I pointed out to the SSLP what they pointed out, she started laughing and decided that I'm an Oracle, and my p-town has mystical properties that imbibe men with enlightenment once they achieve penetration. And then they need to adjust to this new concept of thinking with a whole different part of their body.

I used to think I wanted to be with someone smart, but now - that's it! Why do we need to think about this? No more thinking - I need action. I need pheremones and chemistry and sweat and instinct and growling and caveman fun.

Besides, I think enough for three people. I don't need any more of that.

At this, my SSLP gently asserted how bored out of my effing mind I would be with someone I didn't connect to on an intellectual level as well as physical, and I knew she was right. But still. I don't think it should be this hard - I'm pretty easy to handle most of the time: sleep with me, laugh with me, eat my food, be as nice as possible (I know everyone has bad days) and remember my birthday. But mostly, if you want me, don't hesitate. These are the basics.

I have been fixated on the subjects of men and sex for some time now, and I'm trying to figure out why - I think it might be that a few months back I got a healthy dose of the GOOD stuff, not just the mediocre stuff, and it's hard for me to get that jones out of my system after being reminded what I had forgotten could be so outstanding. I apologize. If this is boring, read EW. I will be over this soon. I swear it on my magical vagina.

True to my latest promise to myself to accept any opportunity that I can to get out of the house, I went to a party at my friend's house on Friday night. This particular friend is a teacher who throws FUNTASTIC end-of-the-school-year parties, and this particular party was no exception. I had a great time, but it has almost ruined me for dating, since my affection for dating is already teetering on the precipice and narrowly missing falling off the cliffs and shattering on the rocks of the ocean floor and being eaten by hungry sharks.

That being said, here is as much as is needed to know to sympathize rather than say, "Awww, it's not that bad, you just have to get yourself out there." Oh, no. I was out there:

1.) A 60-ish year old man (retired football coach from my high school) sat next to me on the couch and asked me after an entirely non-sexual exchange, "So - are you trimmed, shaved or au natural?"

2.) A 40-ish year old man who was so full of bullshit he squeaked (but very nice, really) kept asking me all kinds of questions about what I wanted from life, and when I answered quite honestly, would tell me, "No, tell me the truth, tell me how you REALLY feel." (Which royally pisses me off, it's a passive-aggressive control technique that DOES NOT work on me and makes me want to punch people in the testes.) THEN he asked me if I wanted him to write me a poem (he just loved hearing himself talk) so I politely said, "Sure..." And was consequently subjected to sophomoric imagery and a rhyme scheme that the little voice in my head would have turned on its head.

The thing is, if you're gonna write a poem for a poet who has also studied classic poetry from before the Renaissance to the contemporaries, it better be good. And if it isn't good, it better be sincere. I'm not trying to be snarky, that's just truth. It's like trying to impress a whore in her own bed. Not only that, he looked too much like a gay hairstylist to excite my female attentions.

So, for the rest of the evening I hung out with all the HOT ASS married men - half of which were NOT wearing their rings, but my host was kind enough to walk by and signify for me so they couldn't take advantage.

I don't know if this is necessary to say, but men have been demoted from dogs to hyenas. Dogs have too many manners to be grouped with this kind of behavior. They were throwing down more bad lines than a cheap cokehead. I felt like the SSLP and I were living in a Rod Stewart song circa 1977-1979.

Which leads me to David Carradine - if only we could all go out like ROCK STARS. He went out getting off, and that is AWESOME. (Yes, the schoolmarm inside me also cringes at his family being subjected to a public show of his perversions, but still - he's KUNG FU. He's KILL BILL - you know he ain't gonna go out like a suckah.)

David Carradine, you 72-year-old prevo, here's my tribute!
Auto-erotic asphyxiation now, auto-erotic asphyxiation FOREVER.