I AM Still Alive

Not that anyone has noticed (and bite me, even though you aren't here to read that), but I've been AWOL. Sorry. Nothing belittles a humble blog like the person writing it NOT showing up. Actually, my apology is to myself. I'm the only one I'm hurting. I oughta kick my ass for hurting me, but I'm both a pacifist and into avoiding pain, so that cancels that out on both ends.

But, not to be a tease, because that is an ugly thing to call a woman these days (We prefer the term "sexually ambivalent to your needs and/or wants"), but I'll make you aware of likely subjects coming soon. 1. "Mr. Walking Penis"--the office ladies man at work, 2. the time I wandered into the Netherworld of nerd caffeine junkies. Hope you can hold out until then, my pretties.

Done With The Holidays

Ah, the day after Thanksgiving. I have discovered a couple of truths ("truths" being utterly subjective based on my world view--your mileage or "truths" may vary).

1. You find, at least here in the Plains of Kansas, that, on Thanksgiving Day, there are a LOT of Hispanic families toodling about. Now, before you point your uber liberal fingers at me and cry "Hatemonger!", let me just say this is an observation and not an attempt to insult any ethnic group. I just noticed, while at the local SuperCenter, a large number of Hispanic families in the store. During regular days, you might see one or two, but I honestly thought there was some sort of Hispanic festival or something I wasn't aware of.

Then it hit me. Thanksgiving has to be one of the few days the mostly Anglo population is at home (the other would be Super Bowl Sunday). No one to intimidate, glare or insult these families. So they came out, most in what had to be their Sunday best. They don't have the same Thanksgiving Day concepts, so, to them, it was the perfect day to take the family out for shopping and fun.

2. People, on the day after Thanksgiving, are the biggest bunch of low-life, shit-sucking weasels to walk the planet. It tends to affirm my view that the nukes should be used post-haste and let's leave the planet to the cockroaches. Pushing, shoving, elbowing, cutting in line, spewing the most valueless filth from their mouths in a public setting where they are assured the biggest audience. Drivers aim for you, can't wait for pedestrians (WHO HAVE THE FUCKING RIGHT-OF-WAY!!!) because they just might miss out on more meaningless crap at some store down the street, and seem blind to the fact that every other moron with a driver's license is acting the same way.

This is all nothing new. We've all seen it. But it is sad to have it re-affirmed every damn year I venture out just to see the crowds and attempt to stretch my tolerance for interaction with my fellow humans. The saddest thing I saw today was the woman at a store who stood paralyzed with a look of distress. I was practically shoved into her, and, seeing that look on her face, asked, "Hey, can I do something to help you?" This brought the response "Don't fucking touch me." Yup, that's my thought. That thought goes out to the older guy who groped my breast while squeezing past through the checkout line I was standing in. You're lucky I didn't kill you, but I had been in that line for nearly thirty minutes, PLUS, you aren't worth going to jail over.

Next year, I'm just going to volunteer for an extra-long shift at work.

All The News That's Fit To Be Tied

While this is not a political blog, a person as far out of the political loop as myself still tends to be hit between the eyes with some of the most ridiculous crap that passes as normal behavior for the asses who hold office in this country. And I'm not just shaking a finger at the federal folks. We are talking about twits at almost every level.

I find it frightening that we tend to turn a blind eye to this kind of behavior. Since this nonsense happens every time, it is to be expected that we would see it as a pattern, shrug our collective shoulders and look for something new on the Britney Spears horizon. But here is one pattern that I've noticed that really cooks my ass.

First, there is something amiss with a person in office. When confronted with vague (or even not so vague) evidence of something wrong, the official tends to say something like, "My staff haven't made this available to me," or "I can't honestly respond until I research this a bit more." Obvious stall tactics.

Then the situation has blossomed and can't really be ignored. The official denies the whole thing, even going so far as to point fingers at the opposing political party or more directly at a public enemy of their office.

This is followed by a partial admission. "Well, I did spend three nights with the young man, but nothing happened." This opens the gates a bit wider and even more evidence tumbles in. "I did sleep with him, but the young man instigated everything, even though I protested."

By this time, there are porn videos of the official bitch-slapping the teen around and shouting, "Who's your momma?!?" The next statement follows one of two directions. Usually, there is the offer of "I have a drinking/drug problem. As if they had no control over themselves. Yeah. But, if the whole thing is sexual by nature, the drinking is usually followed with, "I was molested as a child by (Fill In The Blank)." Yeah, that'll shut them up.

Here's just a suggestion: Why can't we just dump these bastards into a pit the minute they offer up the "My staff hasn't made me aware of this" comment? A blind, tone-deaf, lobotomized hermit with crippling Downs Syndrome can see where such a situation is heading, so why should we have to listen to this shit, not to mention finance it as well.

Calling Out To The Falling Tree With No One To Hear It

I've lately been thinking about the nature of interaction on the Internet. As I've stated in a previous posting, the Internet is what you make of it. Some people make it a business venture. Others make it their way to torture all of those they can't hurt in the "real" world. Even more make it a portal to reach out in a bid to connect with someone of like mind.

I stop myself once in a great while and ask, "Why am I out here?" I don't care to make money at this, though that would be fine. And I've been on the receiving end of the jackasses who like to punish people online, and I just can't do that. To be honest, I've yet to find anyone of a like mind out here.

But I continue to put in an appearance. I keep posting even though it seems only one person has deigned to read this sad little blog. I find myself thinking about what to write as I peel off another day of my life at my job. And every time I get on here, no matter what I had in mind to write, I find myself choking on the desire to express something I have no words for. As if, once articulated, reality could shift to what it should be. For me at least.

The only thing I can possibly imagine this feeling to be is hope. The constant hope of finding that one person, that one site, that one bulletin board posting that will let me breathe deep again and feel things, at least somewhere, are right, and that I'm not flailing with no purpose.

A Couple Of Flashes Of Weirdness

Hi. Just here to drop a couple more touches of oddness from the wonderful world at our fingertips. Hope you enjoy.


This is what a bite from a brown recluse spider will do for you. Need I tell you to avoid this nasty little spider?


This speaks for itself.

A Friend In Need

I had a friend who threw me for a loop a couple of years back, when I was in college. He was a good friend. I'll call him Adam, because, well, that was his name. If he should read this, don't think you're gonna get off easy, and it's not like you're going to run for office.

We hung out together quite a bit. We both liked weird movies, and he introduced me to the wonderful world of Richard Laymon, who writes the most sick and vile bloodporn in the world (and I love it.). Two geeks with similar passions. I mean, we could go into a used bookstore and literally stay until I got woozy from screwed up blood sugar. That was when I started packing Powerbars and the like, just so I could go all day. There were times I would get all excited about spending a whole Saturday with him because I knew that the whole day would be an adventure of treasure-hunting, yard sales and pounds of junk food.

So, as would sometimes happen, I'd let him stay in my dorm room because he hated his roommate. I did, too. Total beer-swilling turd who took as many opportunities to flash his dick at me as he could. (It was pretty, but attached to a worthless person.) Anyway, one Sunday morning, I wanted to take a shower, so I left Adam in the room and went down to clean up. (No, we didn't have sex. Thought about it, but never did.) I got halfway through and realized I needed my pumice file (Okay, so I get dead skin built up on my heels. Bite me.), so I dried off a bit, threw on my jammies and headed back to my room.

I opened the door and called out, "Ah-ha!! Caught you!!" I was joking around. But I had caught him. He had a pair of my undies up to his nose and one of my sleepshirts draped over his dick. All he did was flinch. No words. I think he started to cry, to be honest. I was confused. I mean, I knew what he was doing, but this was my buddy, my friend, the guy I dumped on and who dumped on me. The guy I smoked incredible dope with and then freaked out with when we played Grand Theft Auto while stoned. The guy whose arms I'd fallen asleep in when I need to be held or was just cold. And here he was, sniffing my dirty clothes and whacking off into my best slinky sleepshirt.

The only thing I could think to say was, "Please put that stuff down." He did, and pulled up his pants. He wouldn't even look at me, which I can understand. Not sure I wanted him to look at me.

"Have you done this with my stuff before?" He moved his head, but I couldn't tell what he was doing. He opened his mouth a couple of times, but said nothing. And then this whole sense of betrayal just vomited out of my mouth, and I practically screamed at him, "Don't lie to me, god damn it." I wanted to hit him, just kick and punch and claw him.

And it wasn't my stuff or so much that he dug through my dirty clothes that made me so mad. We told each other everything. Icky shit about each other. Stuff that I won't even think about putting in here, despite the blog's title. I thought I knew him. And this was, while not troublesome in and of itself, something alien. I mean, if he'd told me, I would have bought stuff for him, kept it for him, washed it for him. I would have loaned him my stuff (well, he could have kept it after he...well, you know) if it meant something to him. But he hid this from me. That pissed me off. It hurt.

He started crying then. Crying is never pretty. You cry because of pain most often, and pain isn't meant to be pleasant. And I think he knew he'd broken us. It wasn't just getting caught. He knew from the sound of my voice that everything was different. He just nodded.

I grabbed my pumice file and walked out. I scrubbed one heel to the point that it hurt to walk for a day or two. When I came back, Adam was gone.

We didn't talk to each other for nearly a month. There was no avoidance, just no communication. I saw him. He saw me. I actually wanted him to talk to me after a couple of weeks, just to explain himself, but he must have mistaken my stares for dislike or anger, and he would leave wherever I might be if I hung out for a while. At the end of a month, I took all the stuff he'd loaned me back to his dorm room. All he could say was "I'm sorry, Row. I'm so sorry."

It was my turn to cry. I just said, "I know. And it's okay. It's just never going to happen again." And I kissed him. It surprised him so much that he didn't even kiss back. I just wanted to take one last thing to make sure I was making the right choice. I figured I was. So I handed him the box, and said, "Bye."

I had a dream about him the other night. All I remember was him looking happy and telling me he had to go. I have no idea where.

I just had to get this out of my system.

Eye Candy for the Masses -- All Two of You!!

I'll spare you the usual whining about how iffy the world and my life is. Still single. Still unfondled for--crap, is that how long a year is?!? But I found my groove once more for horror films, thanks to "Tombs Of The Blind Dead" (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0067500/). Watching the butchered American version back-to-back with the uncut European version was a hoot.

Instead, I'll present a couple of uplifting images I yanked from sites that seem to be deserted. I find them oddly compelling.




This little guy was just minding his own business on a shipwrecked site. The caption read "This is who I hope to be when I grow up." I think I want to agree.







Did I ever mention that I have the ability to chat with squirrels? Seriously. They will skitter down the side of a tree and chatter away at me, then I talk back, then they chatter back. This goes on until both of us feel better, and then we go back to our own little worlds. This is one HAPPY squirrel.





Well, I'll leave it at this for the evening. Enjoy the visuals.

Not Getting Into The Halloween Swing

Okay, I know it's that time of the year. Trust me, I'm not prone to act like this. I tend to think that maybe I've had my fill for the year, but it's just so damned unfair.

I don't feel like watching horror movies for Halloween.

There. I've said it. I feel it. I just can't quite believe it, though. You know? Kinda like when your friend tells you she's decided that THAT was her last trip to the tanning booth for the summer (okay, it's fall but it's been really warm here until the last couple of weeks or so), and she sounds so sincere, but you know she's gonna sneak in just a couple more and claim that she can really hold a tan. She's Irish by nature, so it's all bullshit. And I can't quite believe that I'm not in the mood for horror films.

I love them. Seriously. Another reason geeky guys think I'm cool, but they still don't ask me out. Assholes. Anyway, I've been watching a few, thanks to Wal-Mart (yes, I support the great evil--I'm cheap) and their $4.88 crapfest films. Well, they aren't true crapfest films. The worst of the bunch would be My Bloody Valentine, which is from Canada, and you can really tell. But I've yet to find that one that kindles that sick little flame in my soul. Hell, I even watched Grave Of The Vampire, and all I could think about was how sexy William Smith would be if he could just act, just a teeny bit.

If ANYONE reading this can suggest something to get me in the mood, please, post a comment. Something fast, savage and unnerving. But, please, don't recommend anything that is churning out the sequels faster than I can buzzsaw through a bag of peanuts.

Sporking With Miss Val

Chick crushes can be fun. Especially if they are returned. These days, with Millie Of The Million Miles an email and a long-ass flight away, I find myself falling for whatever strikes my fancy, be it books, blogs, scratch-and-sniff stickers or Miss Val.

Miss Val is a lady three years older than me who has worked at my current place of employment since she graduated high school. No college (so she isn't in debt up to her butt), but smarter than I hope to be. Pagan by way of religion, though I think she is more Wiccan-oriented than she cares to admit. And she looks like a cross between Scarlett Johansson and Marcia Brady. Frankly, I'd kill for her wardrobe (and her hair) because she looks so great in all those weird retro outfits. I'd look gangly, but Val is so perfect that I feel like her fantastic looks rub off on me like the colors from a butterfly's wings.

I grab my crappy little Wal-Mart Tupperware knockoff container of leftovers and rush down every day for lunch. It's the same way I used to feel when Wonderfalls used to be on TV -- all giddy and more than ready to go. And we sit down in the lunch area, eating with the endless supply of sporks she has at her disposal. We chat and giggle and hoot. The other day we spent the entire lunch rewriting movie titles with "woodchuck" replacing main words, like A Woodchuck On Elm Street, Desperately Seeking Woodchuck, The Woodchuck Club, or Better Off Woodchuck.

I love sporking with Miss Val. I'm going to have serious suggest going to dinner at a cool restaurant and have her bring sporks to use instead of the good flatware provided by the restaurant.

Twice The Bad Luck

My goal with this post is to slowly alter your visual perception of my postings. The intent is to cause you blindness and macular degeneration. When you get old and can't see shit, you can point to the heavens and declare, "It was that bitch Rowena and her evil little blog that caused all of this. Damn her to a life of gumming overcooked breaded chicken strips...that are three days old...and reheated, uncovered, in a microwave."

See, it is working already. Your world is closing in on you. Quick, watch all of your DVDs of Friends before total blindness sinks in, and you forget Chandler's different hairstyles.

You are sinking quickly. BWAH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Just Your Average Brainiac Geek Stereotype

Just look at me. (Okay, you can't, and don't go looking for pictures because, honestly, this is the Internet, folks. It is the age of not believing what you see. Reality is fluid. So pictures of me? Feh. It could be of me or of some chick with measurements that sound like my high school locker combonation (Locker 48C: 38-22-34. in case you're ever in my old high school). You would never know, and who really cares?)

I'm 5'8". I have drab, dizzling-shit brown hair. Glasses. (Would it have hurt my mom to eat some fucking carrots every now and then while I was in the womb?) I'm thin enough that older ladies look at me and say, "You should eat," but girls my age tell me, "Being thin is wasted on you, bitch." (Honest to God quote there. Yeah, like I enjoy freezing when the temps hit 65 outside.) My skin is moderately clear until I get close to my period, then it looks like a Parkinson's victim attacked my face with a knitting needle. I do concede to loving my eyes, which are a pearly green. Not that they are noticed by many because of the glasses. And, sadly, I am a C-cup, which makes me come across like a carrot stick with two olives glued to it. They get stared at more than my eyes, but ...ah, well, fuck it.

People notice the wrong things. They don't notice when I fix posters on display on the street that are falling down or straighten up a mess someone leaves behind. And they never notice when I navigate the curb without tripping. But they notice when I trip or walk into things like trash cans because I'm distracted by a passer-by who is oblivious to my presense less than two feet away.

And they notice when I read. They've been noticing since I was five. I was the kid the librarian would hide from because I wanted a stack of the little storybooks back when I was barely able to manipulate the things without dropping them (still do that). Aunts would quiz my mother with "Is it healthy for her to be reading that much?" Other kids used to ask me to play dolls, and I was happy to do so, but I didn't want to just pretend to go shopping. No. My doll wanted to fly and smash rocks and dig for relics and act out silly shows. Apparently, that wasn't the right way to play dolls. Boys wouldn't let me play because they said I'd get hurt, and that I should just go read my stupid books.

So, I played on the swings with Bettie O., who thought I was funny and liked to pretend we were flying when we went high on the swings. She was the best friend I had until she left the summer between fourth and fifth grade. After that, I'd just hide in a classroom during recess and read. That was around the time kids started taking some sort of offense to my reading, and would throw my books around the schoolyard. It was safer inside. And Mrs. Terryson would sometimes come in atalk to me about my books. She loved kids books, and had read almost every one of the books in our school library. She had even read Have Spacesuit, Will Travel by Robert Heinlein, which is still one of my favorites.

Brainiac. Sounds like a cliche, something from a stupid 80's teen sex comedy. And it is. But they still used it. I let them. I didn't fight. Hell, I'd usually offer one of my books to read, and I did so without even the slightest hint of sarcasm. I never offered my good books, the ones I loved. And there were times I was taken up on the offer. A couple of times they said they threw the books away. Often it would be returned to me by way of another student or a teacher. Now and then, the borrower would return the book and say things like, "Why do you spent your time reading this crap?" Twice, from different girls, the book was returned with the admission they actually read the book. Once, the girl asked if I would suggest another. That was Millie, now Millie of the Million Miles, because that is how far away she seems. She became my single greatest friend and still is.