A(n Im)modest Proposal

No thanks to Jonathan Swift, that meanie.

You all know it's Lent, right? That special time in the Christian calendar when you spend 40 days and nights praying and fasting.

They even made a movie about it.

Um.

So, what am I giving up for Lent?

Well, what not to give up is the more à propos question for me (and, yes, that is French, and, yes, I am using it correctly, 'cause I looked it up in the dictionary and everything).

I mean: hm, drinking? masturbation? self-flagellation? drinking? cussing? drinking? mastur-mastur-masturbation?

Then I came up with the purrrfect one. It's so good, everybody should take this one on:

I'm going to give up wearing clothes to work.

I mean, okay, all buildings are climate controlled, so all I have to do is book it to the bus, then metro, then bus to get to the nice, toasty-warm office building.

Okay, so the streaking laws are kinda strict in the Commonwealth of Virginia (and I suppose where you live, too), so I guess I can wear some clothes going to and from work (a trench coat, anyone? With a raspberry beret?), but after that, baybee, when I get to my office, they have a coat closet in the main area, see? and there's where Imma gonna take off my coat, and ... 'show and tell'?

'Know all, see all,' is how it is with me, baybee. Let's not keep secrets, shall we? If you had had any questions, all you now have to do is look, baybee!

Same with you.

Like, this resolves ALL sorts of issues people deal with every day.

And what kind of issues? STUPID issues! Like:

"Is she a ... natural blond?"

Well all you have to do now is look south and check.

"I wonder if she ... shaves ... her ... you know?"

Well, now you know.

And it ... 'it' meaning 'stupid questions' ... are not just limited to guys. Take our gender, the chick gender, for example.

I mean: what's our first nervous breakdown of the day?

You know what I'm talking about, girls.

Guys open the fridge, and hang by the door for a half-hour, wondering what to eat.

MEN!

But girls are worse, not by the fridge: by the closet.

You open up the closet, and blouses are stuffed in there so tightly they are cause the door to burst open, but what do you lament every morning:

WAIL! "I haven't a THING to wear!"

And now that's really the case if you take on my lenten abstinence.

"Check out that nekkid chick," is all you'll be hearing all day, every day.

Wonder if boyz be checking you out? Wonder no more.

But it goes so much deeper than that, right, girls?

They say: 'The clothes make the man'?

I say: Bullshit!

No: women are defined by what they are wearing, particular by what designer label the clothes are wearing that they are wearing.

*sigh* All this writing of the word 'wearing' is wearing me out.

"Oh, look, she carries it well when she wears outfits from Judy's"

"So, you buy off the rack ... from the salvation army? Or do you dumpster dive, you tramp?"

Of course, we girls don't say that ... out loud. But that look. That disparaging look.

And then we look in the mirror, after we look at a girl wearing a simple white blouse and a string of pearls, that she bought from Nieman Marcus ...

... and we say that, and much worse, to ourselves.

Empowering, being nekkid, there's now one less thing that we can degrade ourselves ... and others ... about.

"But, `phfina, I don't have that supermodel vogue bod!"

Heh! You're saying that to ME? I mean, I went to Tysons mall last weekend, and every single boob check I did (and I did more than 50, thank you for asking), I ended up failing.

No, strike that: one pre-pre-teen had smaller titties than me.

Big win. @_@

C'mon, girls! We're our own harshest critics and worst enemies!

Another empowering point. Everybody now can see you, see me, that is, exactly as we are, and exactly as we aren't. And, you'll be confronted at every second, to have to love yourself as you are, I mean: getting really honest with yourself.

So there's that: the self-love thing.

But then, you know, we girls are always wondering ...

... cause that's what we girls do ... all the time: wonder.

And the things we wonder, I swear!

"... does he like me?"

So hard to tell ... that is: with clothes on.

Now, it'll be hard, but not to tell, if he likes you.

And if you're still not sure, just rub up against him

You'll know, either way.

And, I think, I'm not talking from first hand experi...

... wait, actually, I am.

Whether a guy likes you or not, the little guy down there likes you.

My kitty likes getting pats.

He doesn't have a kitty: he has a snake. It LIKES getting rubs.

It really does, girls.

I know.

And so, you'll know if he likes you or not, just by, a little girlish simper and a quick package check. Failing that a body to full body rub will get you the answer you need.

OR! it will tell you if he has erectile dysfunction, which amounts to the same answer. Cause ... well, okay, holding a guy's hand at an art museum is one thing, but it's not the same thing, you know, for ... you know, what happens between the sheets, and if he's not putting babies in you, good, long, and hard, then ... well, he can be a guy friend, I suppose, or you can have ... scintillating intellectual conversations with him.

Um, ... yeah.

And, well, that gets right back to the guys. You know how they're always talking manly shit about their things, right? Well, now, that cuts out that bullshit at the watercooler. Permanently.

gf is NOT impressed with your non-tree-trunk little weenie speaking louder than your he-man chest-thumping.

I tell you what.

So, paradoxically, being nekkid at work will cut out a lot of the bullshit at work, so people can actually, SHOCKER! do work at work.

And then, well, there's always the janitor's closets, for when, guy, sees girl, likes girl, so (instinctually) indicates.

They hop into the closet, and then, get back to work, him leaking a bit, and so is she.

THINK of the population problems!

I mean, in Europe, there are now towns that are deserted. And 'How the west was won?' In the midwestern Unites States, they are closing down schools, and then, soon after, they close down the towns.

Problem solved in a few years.

AND, ... well, wearing all those clothes all the time, guys get repressed ... and go ape-shit nuts, and grab the secretary, bend her over the desk and fuck her up the ass.

Hard.

To avoid the paternity issues, don't you know.

Not that I would know that ... personally.

Well, now, there's no avoiding it ... you know, her ... you know, staring right at you, and she gets in a crowded elevator, and what do you know! his snake just so happens to slither right up into her happy place.

See all the problems my simple solution solves? It gets rid of all these stupid ambiguities, solves depopulation issues and keeps workers calm and content and productive at work.

Now, some of you girls (5%, right?) are saying to me: 'But `phfina, guys aren't my thing! A guy snakes me, I swear to God!'

Easily solved. Just carry scissors. He'll get the idea when he approaches and you open them in front of your hips. Snap them a few times for emphasis. Guys aren't subtle, but he'll get the hint. He will.

"But `phfina, that solves nothing for me. I mean, your straight girl can tell if a guy likes her, but with girls, it's harder."

No it isn't. Same method applies, too: rub up against her. You'll know if she likes you after your full-lip-lock-French-kiss. You'll know, 'cause you'll either get the pullback and the two tight slaps across the face, or you'll find yourself in a full-frontal nelson hold on the floor with her.

Or first the slaps, then the nelson. That's when, when you eventually take a break for air, to growl a 'feisty bitch' in her ear that you nibble and give her a love-smack on the heinie. Feisty girls like a little discipline, I've found.

Now, yes, girls are complex beasts, and have their own monsters to deal with, so she may struggle and slap and pinch you because she's struggling with her own acceptance of her up-until-now undiscovered sexual orientation.

So: help her. A few more kisses, and she'll be at peace with herself, and more than willing to learn about herself from somebody more experienced in these ways ... that is: you.

See?

Somebody give me the Nobel peace prize right now ...

Why? ... 'cause okay, these stupid ethnic issues.

Okay, so this Arab guy is killing Jews, and vice versa. Oh, well: I don't even have to look outside my own back yard with the Orange and Green Irish killing each other.

Well, weapons, when fired, get really hot.

You touch somebody's butt (now nekkid) with your rifle muzzle you've just fired, ... they'll let you know. That's one solution.

The other solution is, okay: hot babe on the other side of the DMZ. You gonna shoot at her, or, you gonna jump ranks and shoot in her.

Uh-huh. Thought so.

And then, her kids? They're yours, too. And you're not gonna be shelling building on the other side, 'cause your kids are in that building.

"Visualize world peace"?

It's easy if you try ... to see them all ... nekkid.

;)

"So," you say, after reading all that above, in your self-righteous affrontry, "`phfina, put up or shut up, biatch! I hear a lot of talk from you, but I bet you're not doing what you're sayin'! Strip it or gag it!"

I respond: "Quit writing my story ideas!"

(Or actually: please do write my stories! You write them better, anyway)

And then I actually retort: "Oh, yeah? Who said I haven't? You? You work where I do? Well, you can shove it, yourself, 'cause guess what I did!"

Uh-huh. I did.

This is what I did: ...

... no, I didn't get nekkid at the office, not at my desk, ... nor at my office ... technically ...

... because, technically, the bathroom ... well, it's shared for the whole floor, see? So it's not technically part of our office, see, and ...

"`phfina!" You cry, shocked now, "You didn't get really strip down to your all-together in your office bathroom."

Yep, I did.

Wanna peek?

YOU PERV! I KNEW you would wanna. You pervy perv!

So, ya know ... (God! I'm blushing so hard, thinking about what I did!) ...

So, I can't just write something demanding and pushy, like I always do, unless I'm more than just 'willing' to do it, too, but that I actually do DO it.

So, I went to the little girls room, outside our office, that sterile, cold, taupe-colored industrial place that they probably have the exact same designs for our prison systems (and no, I never want to verify that supposition, thank you) (although they do say the smex is plentiful there, but I don't wanna be the bitch to some mamma named 'Bertha,' with three murder convictions under her (copious) belt and a desire to act out her snuff fantasies on me, thank you)

(I say 'thank you' a lot, ... I'm polite like that. Particularly when I'm so hard embarrassed and want to talk about anything other than the topic at hand ... or in hand, that topic being me. *sigh* Back on topic)

... and picked the 4th stall in, and ...

stripped.

I took off my blouse, kicked off my black flats (that I keep stashed at the office, 'cause like hell am I gonna wear those during my commute and get the 'Oh, look at that poor girl who just fell flat on her face onto the rain-slicked concrete sprinting to catch her bus, the poor thing! Hey, girl, I hope those papers whipping away aren't all that important, are they? Are they your school homework?' and I'd die as I answer, 'No, only the original invoices and payroll I worked all night on, no biggie ...'), peeled off my (nude) stockings (slightly sweaty and girl stinky) (ewww). (and 'Nude' is a color, okay? JEEZ!)

The floor was cold and hard on my bare feet.

Then came the skirt. (Yes, I own skirts now, as I have to represent, so shut up). (no, it's not a micro nor a mini. Ankle-length and business drab grey: there is NO WAY I'm showing off my knobby knees, thanks)

Then all that was left were the bra and panties. Unhooked the bra, and peeled that off, and it felt wonderful, you know how it feels when elastic digs into you so long you don't notice it anymore, that is, until you relieve the pressure. That's what it felt like: a relief. But it was also weird and scary. If I were found out now, I'd be not only fired, but also arrested.

I didn't feel brave. I felt scared out of my mind, and my ears went into overdrive trying to listen for the sound of heels on the floor outside the bathroom.

Just one more article of clothing. I hooked my thumbs under the band of my panties, and, phffft, they were off, around my feet, and I kicked them onto my shoes.

Yup, I checked: I'm a natural brunette. No doubt about it.

Well, what are you supposed to do in the bathroom, girls?

I was a complete mess, on the inside, ready to puke from fright, but, you know, I did my business.

Nekkid.

And, while that was going on, as is recommended by the AMA or whoever prints those helpful informative waterproof placards you hang on your showerhead, I did a (very quick) breast exam.

No cancer. Well, no new lumps, anyway. I made sure.

I did have something that I'm absolutely positive that most girls in the world don't have there.

I'm not gifted with a c-cup, but I do have more nerve endings, and super-concentrated, right at the tip, too, but all around that general area. I know that for a fact. They were all super-stimulated, and I could feel the impulses emanating from every single one of them.

*whew* Um, did they turn up the temperature (from like 3 degrees above absolute zero in our bathrooms for some God-forsaken reason)? Or are my cheeks burning off from the sunburn I don't have?

I would love to report that, having done my business, and making sure I'm squeaky clean, that, in my newly liberated state, I went all the way, being in a heightened state of excitement.

I hope I don't have to explain the euphemistic implication of 'went all the way' to you. And if I do, then I'm going to slap an 18+ parental guard on my site, I swear!

But, no: I didn't.

What I did do is that I think I broke the world record in getting redressed, and, maybe, I put a dent in the next stall door, banging open my own stall door to get the hell out of the stall where absolutely nothing went on out of the usual and why do you ask, officer?

So, um, so much for the liberating experience of stripping down and showing all your all of what you're made of.

Woman power!

Yeah, right.

I wonder ...

'Cause that's what we girls do: we wonder, all the time, about ... 'stuff.'

I wonder if ... if everybody else was nekkid, would I be embarrassed for not being nekkid?

I wonder.

No, I don't.

'Cause, putting myself in that situation, you know that dream where you're back in college, and you come into class, wearing only panties, and if your dream is generous to you (which it never is. Dreams are such jerks!), a (totally sheer) camisole and you find it's the final exam that you totally didn't study for, and the very first question is this essay question where you have to rederive Euclid's 5th axioms using conic sections, or if essays are your bag, it's a multiple choice question where option A is three paragraphs long, but B and C are 5 paragraphs and D is 'none of the above' and E is 'All of the above' and you get sick to your stomach wonder if you pick E, because A, B, and C all sound reasonably right, does that mean you're also picking D, which is 'none of the above' and you don't want to point that out to the prof, because he's going to pissed at for you, again, asking those rebellious questions in class, and if you go up to his desk you know he's totally going to stare RIGHT THERE right through your see-through pink panties that are enscribed, embarrassingly, with the word 'HOT!' RIGHT THERE!

And if he's not staring there, it's because he's already got you bent over his desk, with the ruler raised for the 11+ spank on the pain scale.

And that's when you wake up?

Why did I just write all that?

Oh, yeah: So, in Ma Femme est une Actrice, Gallic guy walks onto the movie set and everybody else is nekkid and he's the only one who's clothed. I mean EVERYBODY! The boom boy, the cue girl, and of course, the principles, in bed, ...

One of whom is his wife.

And the security guard confronts him: "Eh, mate, waddaya want?!"

Nekkid.

That's when our dude faints.

That is EXACTLY what I'd do.

I'd walk into the office and Jackie (my new hot azn chick boss) (cause Janet moved to Texas to be with her GRANDKIDS!!!!) would greet me from her desk, nekkid, and I'd ...

And about then is when I'd wonder why did everything go dark and why is everybody standing around me, asking me if I'm okay? ... nekkid?

That's when I'd really freak, and run, probably not screaming, cause I wouldn't want to draw attention to myself, see? and run outside, seeing everybody else nekkid.

And faint again, hitting my head on the hard, smooth, cool marble floor.

Hmmm, feels like Rosalie.

But that's another story.

Um ... happy Lent everybody! 'Cause remember what this all is for, or: "I'm strippin' for Jesus!"

Um ... WHAT'S BEHIND YOU?

(`phfina streaks off)

Comfort(ably numb)

Hello?
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me
Is there anyone at home?

Come on, now
I hear you're feeling down
Well I can ease your pain
Get you on your feet again

Relax
I'll need some information first
Just the basic facts
Can you show me where it hurts?

There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship's smoke on the horizon
You are the only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying

When I was a child I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons
Now I've got that feeling once again
I can't explain you would not understand
This is not how I am

I have become comfortably numb

Roger Waters, Pink Floyd, "Comfortably Numb"

— `phfina diatribe:

I am, truly, dead.

Today ... was February 14th, now it's the Ides of February, and I find myself wishing my name was Julian or Julia and I was a special mayonnaise salad, and it was a month later so my big hulking buddy could do me a favor.

You'll get that later. Or you won't. Not only do kids these days don't read, they also don't make associations of what they haven't read to their lives.

One of the many reasons why were are all swimming in this cesspool.

GOD! I'm old to be saying: "In my day ..." and "kids these days ..." ... what a year does to you!

Did you know today was St. Valentine's Day?

I didn't.

How could I not?

My nieces gave me a card with a poem the older one wrote:

Roses are Red
Violets blue
Honey is sweet
& so are u.

Isn't that sweet?

But it didn't register, even the heart shape it was cut out into and the hearts inscribed in red pencil on it. I said: "Oh, how nice!" and that was that.

At work, in a predominately female profession with three super hot azn chicks, were flowers give and displayed? Oh, yes! Was there much cooing and preening going on today about all that? Oh, yes! Did I notice a whit of it?

No. I went through my day today in a fog. I got home, I don't know how, I could've been mass murder serial raped for all I know on the way home, because I went right to bed and pulled the covers over my head and went right to sleep.

I haven't slept in the past two days. Wonder why.

Last week was the story of the leper. How they were to be cast outside the camp and how they had to wear a bell and proclaim: "Unclean, unclean!" And the priest, Fr. P., told the story about St. Damien journal as he tended to the lepers, and how he knew he had caught the disease when he spilled hot water over his feet from his tea kettle ...

... and he saw it happen, but felt nothing.

And Fr. P. went on to explain how that is what sin is, you commit a sin, you feel pain or guilt the first time, but then the next, it's less, then less, then less, ...

then nothing.

I felt nothing today. Things happened around me, but I wasn't aware of any of it. I wasn't aware I was breathing, or that I had a heartbeat.

Do you know when I realized it?

A friend.

A friend told me Saga was thinking of me, and today, and how she forgot about today being St. Valentine's day, and how I so generously forgave her that.

This year, there was no St. Valentine's day. There was no generosity on my part, and nothing I could forgive.

But this mutual acquaintance told me Saga has things to say to me, and that's when my dead heart quickened.

Oh, what cruelty! Why am I given a heart that must beat on? Where everything I do hurts somebody, and if I choose the path of no-doing, I hurt everybody?

And that's when I realized I was dead today, when I felt my heart beating at the mention of Saga, and things she has to tell me.

You have to be alive, to realize you are dead. Another cruelty.

Of course, when somebody says, 'I have things to say to you,' that means something. For them. And for you.

You know what that mean. It means they say their cathartic things, and then they are forever free. Released of the burden of these things, these horrible things they've been holding onto, about you ... about me, that is, and they will say these horrible things, aimed right at that dead, cold, still beating heart, and then released from their burdens they skip off, happily, into the sunset.

And then you, me, I mean, are left behind, with that burden, forever knowing what you were to the person who was and is everything to you.

Saga, say your things to me, be released from these burdens, and then be free, skipping off into the sunset, happy and content.

Me, I'm fine. In fact, ...

I'm comfortably numb.

I don't feel my cheeks, my tongue is thick and useless, and my arms are two stone weights I can barely move. All I am is a funeral waiting for the actual date to make it official.

'Date.' Heh.

Happy St. Valentine's day.

Today's First reading

Job [`phfina] spoke, saying:
Is not man's life on earth a drudgery?
Are not his days those of hirelings?
He is a slave who longs for the shade,
a hireling who waits for his wages.
So I have been assigned months of misery,
and troubled nights have been allotted to me.
If in bed I say, "When shall I arise?"
then the night drags on;
I am filled with restlessness until the dawn.
My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle;
they come to an end without hope.
Remember that my life is like the wind;
I shall not see happiness again.

Job 7:1-4, 6-7

— `phfina's analysis

I've been praying a lot these days, and I've been reading from the book of Ecclesiastes, `cause, you know: it fits.

Saga asked me: 'What do you want me to do?'

Because why? Because I said, don't do things for me or because of me, don't be afraid of me: write to me, or don't write to me, as you want to. And I said: 'Listen to your heart.'

Big mistake.

Her heart told her that I will move on with my life.

Well, no duh.

That's what it is, isn't it, to be alive: you're in movement. Only in death do you stop moving completely. So, Saga — wise, insightful Saga — listened to her heart, and saw me, and said, 'she'll move on.'

It wasn't the response I was hoping for. It wasn't the response I wanted.

But it was a real, heartfelt response from her.

So, now: the question is on me. What will I do?

I know what I want to do. And I know the fairy tale movie thing to do: 'And `phfina somehow righted every wrong, swept the fair maiden Saga off her feet, and rode off into the sunset where they lived happily ever after.'

But then there's the `phfina alternative. Find somebody, find anybody willing, shoot up, with shots, and shots, put her hands around my neck, and beg her to strangle me as she fucks me to death.

Go out with a Big-O bang, totally numb, whimpering into the darkness of death.

And then there's the Saga response: life goes on, and so will you.

I think. I think her response is the saddest, because there's no remorse in it. I mean, there is, and reading her words, I can feel her heart break in every word, as I feel mine, breaking with hers. But, so what? You mope, and you cry, and you then get up, take a shower, and go to work, and go to school, and life goes on, and so what.

Why?

Why, Saga?

Why did you tell me you love me? Me: weak, little, frail me? Knowing my psychoses? Knowing, in advance, what this break up was coming? And why? Because girl after girl you've left, because 'it's not right,' this forbidden love, 'it's not right.'

Did you want to be able to look back and say, 'And this one, this one was my lover for a time'? And: 'she wrote me things, such sweet things, such naughty things, that I will always treasure'?

No, you didn't say that. You took a risk, and dared, and hoped, and filled me with such hope, and life, Saga, life for more than a year where all I had had was emptiness and despair, and a sure knowledge the only way out was out, and it wasn't how, it was just a matter of when.

And then you came into my life.

But with all those girls before, when you left, and left, and left them when your conscience gnawed away at your soul that what you were doing was wrong.

Did you think, when you blurted out, in anger, that you loved me: 'This will be different'?

Doomed from the start.

There is no 'different.'

Here's why. 'Different' is 'well, she'll be different than the other girls' or 'I'll feel differently' or 'the situation will be different.'

'To be different' is 'to compare' and 'to compare' always has as its basis the thing you want to be different from.

So, what's always in front of you, for 'different', the thing you want to be 'different' from. The 'failure' and with that in front of you ...

Doomed from the start.

One thing never changes in 'it'll be different.'

You.

You look for a different relationship, a different girl, a different job, a different major, ...

but you're always there. And so what happens? Just like the last job, you get those prying curious people who annoy the hell out of you, just like the last girl 'God, I hated that when Sophie did that, would you just say what you mean and stop hemming and hawing like stupid little girl who can't make up her mind?'

They are all the same, because ...

Because you are there, and you haven't changed, and you make them into the exact same circumstance you just ran away from because you couldn't stand anymore the situation you created, and everybody was your puppets, pulled by your string.

You know this, Saga! You commented on it yourself when, in Bells are Ringing, poor Sam ate the bitter words of her own regrets about heartbreak in relationship after relationship, and here she is now with Chris, looking for something 'better' something 'different' when Sam is still the same old panther Sam, hunting down sweet, tender Chris girls, knowing they will, each and every one of them, break her heart.

'Different' doesn't work.

'Better' ... isn't.

'Change' never happens.

The only thing that works?

You.

You have to become new. Not different. Not 'not like I used to be,' but ...

New.

You have to become a person you love, admire, respect, and are happy with when you see her in the mirror.

Then what's different?

Absolutely nothing.

People are still people. It's still cold and grey outside.

But you.

You are new. And the cold and grey are ... a delight. The cold makes you feel alive, and joyful.

And people? What they do is funny, now, or sweet, or silly.

And that girl.

That girl, so intense, with her penetrating blue eyes and straight black hair and no fashion sense whatsoever, but there's something about her that ...

I've got to get that girl into my bed, because her words have already captured my heart, and I've got to fuck her brains out until she's beyond exhausted, so she no longer thinks and thinks and thinks herself into her sadness, and hold her through the night, cuddling with her, kissing her hair and she moans in her nightmares, ...

and love her.

Right or wrong?

I don't know.

You don't either. You know now, because nearly everything you do is wrong, you being you.

But when you are a new you.

Then what is right? What is wrong?

What is wrong, for me now, is living in bleakness, and agony, and is it wrong to love and to be loved?

Yes, it is wrong to love, and to be loved.

Because to love and to be loved ends up in sadness, and heartbreak, and Saga says she can't love me, it's wrong.

I can't ask her to love me. To ask her to do this would make her sad and conflicted, and if I asked her to do this for my happiness, I'm saying my happiness is more important than her life.

What do I want to do?

I want to ask her to throw aside her scruples, and to love me, and fuck her compunctions. I NEED LOVE HERE!

But what about her? Wasn't it agonizing, this period of reflection, and then this conclusion that she just so loved to be brave enough to tell me? And do I honor her, her insights, her wisdom, by saying: "Fuck that, and fuck me, right now, cause I need to be held, goddamnit, and I need you to tell me what you have told me time and again, because without you I'M NOTHING!"

What do I do? Oh, God, what do I do?

Well, right now: I'm doing the taxes. And I'm stuck, cause writing down those numbers, so clinically, and seeing all that money going out, and seeing so much less coming in.

I'm stuck.

I write down those numbers, and I measure my worth.

Is there such a thing as a 'negative yardstick'?

In this post-Ayn Rand world, our worth is in what we produce or what we consume ('mooch'). And the producers? Live the high live with soirees and fetes and hobnobbing with other producers.

And the moochers...

Soylent green.

It's starting to happen. It's been happening in the 3rd world, it's happening in the Old World. It's happening here.

And how we eat people is to force the wife into prostitution or the daughter or to become a boy so 'he' can work in the ... um, sneaker factory or farming in WoW or work in the sulfur mines or ...

Or work for the producers as fuck-me-up-the-ass-boss secretaries.

It's in Ayn Rand's novel, but it's not fiction, not anymore.

So that's what I'm doing.

And Saga is right.

I will move on.

Hell, there's already a line forming, and if there weren't all I'd have to do is go to the meat market, whichever one works, Whole Foods or a gay bar, or hell, the super bowl's tonight, and I'm Irish, a pub will do very well, and 'whistle' by batting my eyelashes and get bent over the produce counter by one of the producers.

Producers don't waste time with dinner on the first 'date' anymore. It's a waste of time and money for a good old hard fuck that is there for the taking, whether she wanted it or not, and obviously she did.

Back to taxes. I have the hard task of writing numbers in column A (income) and column B (deductible expenses) and coming up with a number in column C (taxable income) even though B is greater than A.

Not so hard to do: just be honest. I'm not a zero; no: 'zero' is too high for me.

I'm a loser.

A panther from a pvssy's view

Hm, how do I write a post that I didn't write?

So, you want to know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?

Besides ask her? (And if she says, 'no' that means: no. It doesn't mean: slip a date-r4pe drug into her drink).

For me: I'm easy (and I'll write that post, too, my dears), all you have to do is to listen, to tell me what I've said, and then to say you understand.

That's how I write this post.

So, I got this PM. And I got permission to post it here. Here it is:

-.-.-.-

"Hey, it is I pussyninja.
I was skimming through a long list of pms after a few months of disappearing, wallowing in my own fucking darkness, and I noticed you pm'd me back. Thats a treat. So as I said, im skimming through these pm's and it just amazes how so many people on here "pretend" like they know you, like they care but turn around and say,"hey, sorry to hear about so and so, when are you going to update?"
Shakes head. The masses, these sick, selfish individuals who refer to themselves as human beings have no regard towards others whatsoever. Its a slap in the face when you think your getting encouraging pms, words, but instead you get threats, pleas, and utter bs.
I think the funniest thing ive read so far is,"Hey, so sorry to hear that you broke up with your girl, but if your still alive, can you update?"
If you're still alive can you update. In other words, if I havent blown my fucking head off, can you please humor me with an update.
No, I cant. Why? Because im not alive, im dead.
Its not their fault though, that their selfish and ignorant towards the things around them. Like the world, like my fucking time and schedule is suppose to coincide with theirs. I'll update when I fucking feel like it. I'll update when im happy. When my every waking thought is not of her, the selfish fucking bitch that made me fall in love. Made me think she cared and then ripped my heart out. Made me this, a waste of fucking space.
But its not her fault though. No, its human nature. Its human nature to be selfish, self-absorbed. Its human nature, more so for us, for women, to lure naive little lambs in to their world, make me, I mean them, think you care, cause really, why would they think otherwise after a year of I loves you, I miss yous and a bunch of other bullshit? Why would they think otherwise when after you decide you're done playing games, after you change your "in a relationship" status to "single"? Why the fuck would they think otherwise when that same status goes from "Single" to "in a relationship" not even a month later? No, no, why on earth would I think otherwise?
Fucking bitch.
Ive come to the conclusion that our gender, females, are so much more selfish then men. We take what we want with a touch, a whisper, a lie, with whatever need be, and when we're done, when we've got what we wanted we leave. We abandon without remorse. I dont know, maybe im wrong? Maybe im just mad cause im hurting? Who cares? I dont, and im pretty sure you dont either. I dont even know why im venting to you, you probably have more important things to do. I dont. Nope, I have all the time in the world to just sit in my lonely fucking corner, breathe in the darkness until I can practically taste the hollow shell/brains on in my mouth. My hand is practically reaching for the invisible gun right now, but ya know? I couldnt pull the trigger. Why? Because im pussy, because I care too much. I care too much about who and what id leave behind.
You know what my mom said to me the other day? She said "what happen to the happy girl I knew? The one you used to be.."
That girl is dead. Thats whats happens when you a years worth of love, happiness, 10 page fucking love letters and countless expensive gifts to someone, only to have it spit back in your face. You wanna know whats much worse than wiping lies off your face? The memories.
"Whats happiness to you?" She asked, and like an idiot I said her. I said what was in my heart, cause I was love stricken fool.. so in love with a idea of love. I suppose its always like that you first time around though, but I wished now that I had said," Happiness to me would be erasing you from my mind. Its be going back in time, not stumbling upon your shitty story and not pming you every fucking day."
Thats happiness to me. A world of happiness.
Its probably for the best anyway, or least that what she said. That she couldnt be honest with her parents and neither could I. And maybe so, but why start another relationship with another girl if thats the fact. Why "pretend" with that girl, when you know you're just gonna do the same thing?

Sigh.

I used to like to pretend. Pretend that i was happy behind a big smile. Pretend that everything was okay, by laughing, by telling jokes and writing mediocre stories for "fun." Pretend that I was normal, that I didnt notice how fair the female species was, but like so many other things in life, theres comes a time when you have to stop pretending, when you gotta wake up.
Am I ready to wake up? I dont know. All I know is suffering, pain, misery, sorrow. And im tired. You ever been depressed for no apparent reason? I suffer from that sometimes, way before any of this, and more so now. But I'll endure it like I always do. Smile and laugh through it all.
But enough of my dreary ass life. How are you doing? How are things with the one chick? I forgot her name, but the one that stole you from me lol, that hurt. The laughing out loud I mean. I do hope you're doing way better than me. I hope you're alive, well, and happy. I could use some happiness. Maybe you could reflect some of your on to me? Well despite this awkward, somewhat therapeutic rant, I must say I feel a little better lol. So sorry to take up your time. Guess I'll go tend to the greedy masses and update."

-.-.-.-

What do you think?

You know what? I don't care what you think.

What I think is this: I wish I was half a pussyninja. I wish I had half her insight, half her heart, half her burning passion, half her bold (and bald) (and ribald) honesty. I wish.

And I'm grateful I have the eyes to see these admirable traits in her. I'm grateful I'm alive now, so I could read this. I'm grateful I have the courage to respond to her (in a very `phfinaescque way), and get her analysis of me, which follows:

-.-.-.-

You are beyond naughty phfina, lol. Smh, I totally smack myself reading this a did a bit of laughing, though it hurt, myself. In a good way of course.
Was it good for me? Lmao, I wasnt aware that we were acting upon our undisclosed desires. But from what I gather, you made it good enough for the both of us. Lol, smh.
Glad I could make someone erm...happy for the time being. Especially after actually reading your profile.
You are, well, a very deep individual. Is what I will say since there arent really words that can describe you, your thoughts and personality. And I like you like that, the way you are. Your honest. You speak from the heart and dontgive a shit what people think.
Thats hot, lol.
[edited]
And okay, dont take this the wrong way, but I kinda laugh when I read the part about the stairs. I know, I know, im an ass. Its true, asks my friends. I laugh at shit like that. I feel so bad too. So after I got all my giggles out,
I wonder to myself, "Is she okay?"
Smh, im an ass. But you are okay right? Nothing broken? I stubbed my toe a few days ago and it hurt like a bitch, so I can only imagine what something like that feels like.
Smh, still, im an ass for laughing.
Do forgive me.
so, one random thought. A couple just came into my job a a little whiles ago. Ya know, the typical young and in love, gotta hold hands and cheese like theres no tomorrow?
Yeah, that bad. It was like a slap to the face. I wanted to throw up, regurgitate and throw up again.
Pathetic, I know.
Then I thought to myself,"Why am I raining on their happiness? Its not their fault that their idiot. That they have no clue as to what they got themselves into."
And then I sighed. And prayed that it wouldnt be like this forever, that I wouldnt be all anti and "I hate love".
Anywho, can you post my little rant?
Sure, phfina. You can have anything you want from me. And take that however you want sweetness, EXCEPT, for in a sarcastic or mean way. I would never be mean to you;)
Did I mention that im tired? Cause I am, im tired as shit and insomnia, smh, insomnia is a bitch
-.-.-.-

Did you get that she wrote her first PM to me before she read my posts where we both said the exact same things, me saying them in my way, she, in hers?

Reading her words, I'm filled with ... hope.

Hope.

I mean, okay, I'm hot? (Damn straight! (Or 'gaie' as the case may be))

And I 'don't give a fuck what people think'? Actually, I do give a fuck. I care, very deeply, about you and about what you think.

I also take fucks.

Happily, in fact, as it's been, oh ... um, well, never mind.

But not that ... (I'm hot?)

But that, what, she is living in her stew, yes? Yes. But what does she do? Rain on some happy couple's parade?

No. She looks beyond herself, by looking into herself and seeing who she's being, and then she chooses to let other people have their happiness.

Oh, ... my God!

Do you know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?

You know: your world is all you, and your suffering and your pleasures. I know it too: I hear it all day, every day from everybody I meet. How very interesting, your concerns about you and your mistreatment. Must be, the way you go on about them to yourself and to every poor schmuck forced into hearing range of you.

But rise above, and see other people. Really see them, and then reach out, reach out of yourself, and ...

And, suddenly, your world isn't only more than twice as big as it was, with whole new vistas to explore, and the sun has finally come out and you feel its heat and its warmth by the glow suffusing your face, ...

Yes, all that happens, too.

But.

But you've just, by dropping that woe-is-me cold and cloudy demeanor, and replacing it with actual joy, self-discovery, ... actually living, right here, right now, ... you've just illuminated at least one other person's life, and maybe you've changed the course of history, because what can that one other, or several other, or many other, person(s) do?

Oh, and she wrestled in school, so she's got a hard body, so she has that going for her, too.

'LOL' smh and :p

p.s. smh, gerund: look it up in urban dictionary.
p.p.s. I like the 'svck my hair' definition, not the one everybody else 'like'd. I'm a very visual person, so I ... visualized what that would be ... you know ... like.
p.p.p.s. oh, and if she thinks she can wrestle the `phfina down, then I'll just have to aikido her ass into submission; I've dealt with plenty of bigger, stronger girls who thought they could easily have a turn on top of weak, frail, little, toppy `phfina. School was in session for them, and prof. `phfina learned them real good. I tell you what. After all, I fvcked nearly the entire girls' rugby team in school (not at the same time, mind you, but ...), and they were ... you know, mean, tough girls on the field, and total putty in my (very naughty) hands. I can just as easily rename this post as '`phfina verses pvss-in-boots ninja' but that would be a one-liner: '"I win; no surprise. Questions? No questions, just see the 'I win' part."

That's just an FYI for ya, Ms. thinks-she's-all-that-Ninja.

Oh, and she did correct the 'regurgitate' comment, which was very sweet and shy of her.

I LIKE sweet and shy girls.

Mm-hm.

Um, where was I? Oh, yeah, but I was like, 'honey, you can spit (regurgitate) but with you, 'smh' 'cause my hands wrapped around your head are pushing it right. in. there, ... all you are gonna do is swallow, babes.'

I think maybe that's when her bulging eyes popped out of her head.

Any questions? No questions: see the 'I'm hot' part of this post.

Steamy, in fact. TsSsSsSsSsSs!

p.p.p.p.s. :p

"I fell down some steps"

I fell down some steps.

People are very curious about this. Why? Is it like watching a train wreck? So the fuck what! Who the fuck cares! I fell down some steps. Big deal.

I fell down a whole flight of steps. The very first step on my cheap second, that is top, floor, of my cheap apartment, my foot didn't catch on that little metallic thingie/edge, that would have had me slide down face first on my belly down the steps, no: my heel landed exactly where it would slide, skid over the top of that metal thingie, and I spend a whole flight trying to catch hold of anything as I screamed, "oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!" as my whole body tensed itself, trying to save itself from this unremitting agony, until I finally did flip over and land on the floor with my face -- BANG! -- and cried and cried and cried until some nice Korean people from the ground floor came rushing out with their cell phones calling emergency.

Boy, did I scream then! I screamed that I was okay, and I wasn't hurt, and I was okay, and I dragged my sorry ass back up those self-same steps back to my tiny, shitty, oops I meant: 'efficiency' place and pull the covers over my head and went to sleep and didn't wake up for a day. A whole day.

Why was I going out?

Well, when your girlfriend tells you she wants to be friends now, and she wasn't your girlfriend, she was the reason you were alive for a whole year, and ...

Well, I was a little ... euphoric ... from emotion, so I decided to self-medicate. Alcohol is a depressant, you see, so I could be back on an even keel after a few drinks. The dive they call a restaurant/bar in our little dive town has 'happy' hour where they serve mixed drinks for one dollar.

By the way: I'm a cheap date. One beer, and I'm drunk. A few drinks? You ever read Salinger? He wrote Sappho's poem: "Raise High the Roofbeams, Carpenters!" as only he could write it. THAT's what'd happen to me. What happened to Buddy after one, very strong, Tom Collins.

Yeah, I was going to self-medicate, then maybe cross the street, and maybe this time God wouldn't stop that oncoming truck, and then everybody's problems would be solved, and it wouldn't even be a suicide, it'd just be some stupid fucking drunk girl crossing the street, crushed under a moving van.

Happens every day.

So, God might've taken preemptive measures, again, on my sorry ass, and had one angel push me down the stairs, and ... but it was okay, I was fine, because the floor caught my fall.

I had a big black and blue shiner that screamed 'SPOUSE ABUSE!' for any and all on-lookers for a few days.

And, well, tensing up like that, and having stair after stair hit tensed muscles like that.

And my tailbone.

Yes, my pride was injured, but then, I couldn't walk for a day, and then running? jogging?

I tried, but I couldn't the pain was general: all over my body, and then 'specific': like, super intense in my neck and back. It was fine walking, but when I tried to push myself, even a little bit, I saw stars through my tears.

And the bruises on my knees and hips.

But why didn't I go (back) to the hospital?

"I fell down some steps."

I fell down some steps.

Yeah, right.

How many times a day do the orderlies hear that lie? In Fight Club, you know: the movie that Saga quoted the 'I haven't been fucked like that since grade school' line, the protagonist used that line, that lie, to justify his beatings, on himself.

In 'Fried Green Tomatoes,' there was some falling down some steps, right, Ruth? But it was because her husband pushed her down them, and she almost lost her baby that way.

And let's not forget the best seller, 22 million copies at last count a few years ago, where Alice DID fall down some steps and crash through a window to cover up the fact that Bella was tortured by James, ... remember how he snapped her leg in half? ... so that she and Edward could live happily ever after?

Stairs, and falling down them, cover up a whole host of sins, of evils.

"I fell down some steps."

I go to the hospital, and say that line, and you know what they would think, and you know what they would do. And they I would have the police over at my house, and more people would be in my life, in my shit, and see just another example of an aborted abortion: poor white trash just taking up space, living in the ghetto.

You know what 'ghetto' is? No, it's not where (now) the Koreans live. It's not where the Black lived in Harlem. No, it's where the Nazis gathered the Jews ...

... collecting them, so they could exterminate them.

And the questions they would ask: "Please give the name of your cohabitating partner. Has he assaulted you before?" He? HE? HE?

Or: "What are the names of your parents? Are you house sitting here? Have you been disciplined by them before this badly? What high school do you go to? Wait: did you graduate grade school yet?"

Yeah: I fell down some steps.

Oh, but I'm fine now. You know why: because I didn't go to the hospital, and have a police report filed against me: Jane Doe, poor white trash, so nobody knows that I can't pay the rent, that I can't go out with the gang from work for lunch, cause I can't pay with credit card and I don't have cash, and if I lose my fare card, I don't have cash to get a bus ride then catch the metro rail, then catch the next bus: two and a half hours to get to work, two and a half hours to get home to get paid a 'fuck me up the ass, boss' secretary's pay that doesn't pay the rent, so, no I don't go to sbux anymore for that $4.25 cup of coffee I don't have the money to buy.

You see: I'm fine. Nobody knows about me; nobody cares, so I can just be a little mouse, shivering in the barn; getting by.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

So, now, when I go down the steps, what I don't do is this: I don't check my email on my phone, I'm not getting any I need to read, like when I needed to read the email when Saga sent it. I don't think thoughts that cloud my sight. Like nearly every thought I think to myself and how I deserve this life I'm living, and I don't even deserve that. No, I grasp firmly on the rail with one hand, and hold the wall with the other, and nudge out my foot, reach out to that first step, and then I tentatively rest my foot on the first step, testing to see whether I rest there, or if I go flying, high as a kite, bonk-bonk-bonk, all the way down.

If I rest there, nobody comes running out their doors, nobody notices. Nobody cares. Nothing to care about.

Being noticed, falling, flying down a flight of stairs, get you noticed, and being noticed ...

I'm tired, and it's not even noon yet. This writing stuff. Wheee! So fun!

And a little tiny voice just now, just fucking right now, whispered in my head: "Saga noticed you."

I have to go to the bathroom now. I don't want my coworkers seeing me crying. They might notice.

`phfina and her boyz

So.

So Saga said ... something. Something like, 'let's be friends.'

Something that sounded to me, in my soul like I'm dying.

So.

So for two weeks now, she hasn't written me. Maybe she thinks about me. Maybe she doesn't. Maybe she thought she'd think about me, but then 'life goes on,' and she doesn't think about me for two days, and praying at night, and reflecting on her day, she realizes she hasn't thought me for two days, and then dies, a little, inside, realizing she hasn't thought about me for two days, meaning to write, wanting to write, but what to write, 'I miss you'? 'It hurts, missing you'? ...

... 'I love you'?

Or maybe I'm writing about me, not about her. And maybe she and I are so much alike, each in our own way, that writing about my loss of her is writing about her loss of me.

I don't know.

So.

So, I've been keeping busy.

No, not writing. Because writing requires a couple things: like honesty, like clairvoyance. Meaning 'clair' and 'voyance.' 'Seeing' 'clearly' ... and to see clearly, you have to look, and to look, and to see, you have to say what is, and what isn't, and you can't wallow, when you say what is, and what isn't.

Like me, what is ... and mostly: what isn't.

I'm ... not.

I'm not anything. I'm nothing. And without Saga, this emptiness, this nothingness, this ... me... hurts. She saw me for what I was and what I wasn't and laughed at my silliness, and scolded my nihilism, and gave me a reason to go on living, for a year, to have my heart beat so painfully hard, to have my toes curl until my (tiny) feet cramped, with the anticipation of getting an email from her, and reading what it says. What did it say? Didn't matter, it killed me every time. Every single time.

And I haven't received an email from my friend, now, for two weeks now.

She's moved on.

I'm left behind: a pair of jeans and sneaks on the side of an abandoned road, not even a ghost to eat the bitter despair of her regrets, and what did I do, besides nothing to ever deserve her and everything in my power to lose her.

"`phfina, why aren't you writing?"

Yeah, I just SO LOVE this self-examination! Thanks for encouraging me. Yeah, it hurts like hell, thanks for caring so much about wanting to read what I write, and not giving a shit how I feel writing it, like I've said over and over again, but does anybody ever listen? No.

I may as well go a buy a gun and shoot myself in the head. If that doesn't kill me, at least all my worries will be gone with the free lobotomy. Happy-happy, joy-joy. Then it won't matter if people listen to me or they don't.

So.

So, I've been online, playing Halo. Why? Why not. My brothers do, and I can kick their asses. Or at least throw it down.

Let me tell you something about girls playing Halo.

Hm. Wrong start? Let me tell you something about boyz playing Halo.

You know the male gender? Yes, you do.

I didn't, however. I mean, I 'knew' ... like in the Biblical sense, the male gender ... you know: Nelson, and ... others.

'I haven't been fucked like that since grade school!' was the line from Fight Club that Saga introduced herself to me, reading one of my chapters. And I responded to her review with 'well, I have.'

Well, I have.

Anything to get Daddy back. See, Daddy? I'm not a queer, right?

Anyway. So I had this rather limited and limiting view of boyz. You know: them, the enemy, and me, the victim.

(You can say I have a rather limiting view of myself, but I can answer, 'shut the fuck up.' Thank you very much)

But a girl, playing Halo?

Let me tell you a little bit about this girl named 'phfina' playing Halo. See, I have two brother who've played Halo since even before it came out, one of them is one of the best players in the world.

I have some good training.

So, my 'BPR' ('Battle Proficiency Rating') is in the 90th percentile. It doesn't mean that in 10 battle I come out the winner 9 of them. No. But I do tend to pick my battles, instead of them picking me, so it's more likely if you see me in your reticle, and I see you (usually I see you, and you don't see me), you're dead.

Because boyz? This is how boyz fight: 'ARRRG! CHARGE!' and they all go at each other, toe-to-toe.

This is how phfina fights. She picks a hidden perch, and she waits. She waits for the boyz to run out into the open straight at each other, and she picks them off with headshots, one by one, as they ignore her, clubbing each other to death.

One fight, I picked up the sniper rifle, climbed a cliff overlooking the entire battlefield, and picked off boyz, one by one. Until they noticed, and came at me in force. So I jumped down from the cliff (banana-roll, phfina!) ran for about 50 meters, turned around, and sniped the boyz taking ineffective pot-shots at me with their magnums.

Some boyz, understandably, don't like this.

That is: a girl who dies the least and kills the most in fight after fight after fight. Girls aren't supposed to fight back, and especially aren't supposed to win fights. That's a rule, or something.

So, there are several reactions from boyz.

A common one, when the do kill me (which is often: boyz are boyz, so they charge and overwhelm me, and bang, I'm dead), then stand over my corpse, 'teabagging' me, and screaming, 'Get back into the kitchen, bitch!'

This has happened more times than I care to remember or to recount.

And, yes, I let them know, by killing them back, after the respawn, and NOT teabagging them, and sending them a message about their behavior.

You know what teabagging is? It's rape. A guy kills a girl, then he humps her corpse. I mean, what? Was that guy unloved as a child? Is that they only way he can get any?

I send them feedback, and a very carefully, and strongly worded, message as to what their behavior means about their character.

That's one type of boy.

But boyz, I have found, can be complex.

Some come right back at me, unrepentant, mouthing profanities.

Those are reported.

Some come back, and say, 'Hey, we're not jerks!'

And I'm like, 'yeah, right.'

But some actually aren't jerks ... they're just boyz, being boyz. And they endeavor to amend their ways, and prove themselves to me.

And I give them a second chance.

So I have three friends on my friend list that are boyz that I called jerks, but came right back at me and asked for a second chance.

I can call out shit, ... and I can forgive.

Other boyz, I go toe-to-toe with, and, sister, they are better than me. WAY better than me. One of those boyz, 'MAD DEZINEZ' he stayed off, and shot me, better than I shot him. So I messaged him after the game, saying he was better, even though he annoyed the hell out of me, how he would shoot, then fade, then shoot, and kill.

And he messaged back, 'I only go after the best players on the other team, and you're really good.'

We've been friends for a while now. And he puts up with my shit, with good grace, which is rather amazing to me.

Another boy, GRAVITY, is the number one player in the world in the game type 'Invasion' (my favorite type. It has everything: a goal, vehicles, tactics, teamwork, everything). You play against his team, you die: it's that simple. Why? He's not that good. He is, but he's not like some I've faced, who, at DMR distance become a blur, hopping from foot to foot, making headshots very difficult, or who, at close range, evade, and turn and twist, so you're dizzy trying to melee them, but you just hit air when they snap the back of your neck. No, he's not like that, he simply plays well and plays with a team that plays well, game after game.

Well, I fangirled him. 'My brother, geophf, told me you're the best invasion player in the world!' And he gave me a '^^' back. And then, one time, our team beat his, and I squeed and did a happy dance, and PMed him right away, and he friended me.

So I have the best invasion player in the world on my friend list. So there's that.

So there's those type of boyz, the ones on my friend list. Good: better than me, but nice to me.

"`phfina always gets at least a killing spree every game."
"Nice snipes"
"A girl that kicks ass at Halo ... I think I'm in love!"

And are still boyz: "faggot assed motherfucker!" (after I said I'm a 'faggot' and don't like that language)
"You have to be mean to girls, 'cause they leave you if you're nice" (um, what? You're obviously seeing the wrong kind of girls if they leave you the opinion you have to be mean to girls, because you pull that shit on me ...)

and all that.

Then there are the third type of boyz who are better than me: Halo gods.

There is a rank called 'Inheritor' as in 'inherit the earth,' but they are not meek at all, oh, no!

They get teased a lot before a battle: "Hey, buddy, how much you pay for that rank?"

They don't deign to laugh in return: "You messing with me, punk?"

And then, in the battle, ... it's like, there is water, and they are walking on it, as the rest of us drown. They move into a fracas, and kill everyone fighting each other, and walk away, unscathed. They run halfway across the field, a blur of motion, to single you out, and take you out with ease. They stand off, and snipe, and snipe, and snipe, and every shot is an impossible headshot if it were you on the sniper rifle. And the end score is them, 25, and the next closest person is like 12 ... not even close. And post-game, they don't even bother to set you down, they just go to the next battle, to kick more n00bs ... behinds.

Those kinds of boyz, I have no dealings with. They kill me, over, and over, and over again, and could care less, cause I ... my level of skill isn't worth their notice, and when I do kill them, I'm like WOOT! and they respawn, and kill me, just because I'm in their sights, not because they want revenge or give a fig that I was one of the very few people able to land a killing shot on them.

Those are the kinds of boyz I meet on line, some nice, some not, and some don't bother to care about 'nice.'

The girls? Across the spectrum. You've already seen how one girl fights in me, but other girls, like lilred and I Love Decline, they'll kill you, kill you dead.

But there aren't that many girls online, so I have to hang with the boyz. It's been educational, realizing I have a rather one-dimensional view of boyz, and with good reason, for most of them: jerks and assholes to a 'T'. But not all boyz are like most boyz, some are kind, and caring, and have families or consideration or both, and have mad skilz, too, and tactics, and dedication, and ... friendship.

And it's been two days, now, that I haven't thought of Saga, that I haven't ached, checking my email, and not seeing a message from her, because I've forgotten, after two weeks, what it feels like to receive a message from her.

And that hurts.

It hurts a lot.

Um, Happy New Year?

Nothing to see here, Ladies and Gentlemen.

(Literally: 'Nothing,' that is: 'me').

Move along.

Oh, you're the type that loves train-wrecks? Great! You've come to the right place.

I'm not eating.

I had a bit of apple for breakfast, with some tea.

I had some pineapple slices for lunch, with some tea. To go along with my lunch: I ate half of the roasted quarter chicken and two brussels sprouts.

I feel stuffed. Bloated.

I wonder how long this will go on.

Hm. Not long, I suppose. I'll get better, or I won't. Whatever.

Happy New Year!

Okay, okay (`phfina relents), here's a Happy image for you:

Me, skip-di-skipping down the road to Rhinestone Eyes ... you have the admit (so: admit it. Go on, then!) that when the chorus comes in, it's very skip-di-skippy-y.

And, after skipping, you just can't plod along, after that; no: a girl has to run, run with a big, huge smile on her face.

Not bad for a girl who, this month, fell down a flight of stairs.

Not bad.