Barycenter

Because I am generally relaxed (37th percentile) and I am relatively open to new experiences (70th percentile) and I am good-natured, sympathetic, courteous, and forgiving (87th percentile) and personality tests are so fun because you already know how they are going to end. You, feeling really fuckin' validated. Or you: lying around feeling drunk for yourself. And we're all doing one or the other; all the time. So take heart, my little wing, because no one hustles harder than me and I've got Armenians assenting allegiance and the State is making a federal case and am I really the only North American that thinks it is positively droll that there is a character on a very popular television show named T-Bag?!? Because I would be astonished if I was the only one who thought of a motherfucking nutsack slapping a forehead. I mean, I'm so debauched when I hear the phrase/name/word "T-bag" I actually think of the balls/forehead thing before even I envision an actual teabag. To the pump! And I don't mean petrol.

Mostly Cloudy/Chance Showers

Headache? Could've said hangnail and I still wouldn't have gotten laid because, if you think about it, the real appeal of pornography is that it demands nothing -- it doesn't ask you to fuck it when its hair is a mess or when it needs a bath or or when its face is broken out or when it acts miserable or when its baby is in the bed or when it carries around post-partum weight. And when its novelty wears off, you just click on the next link. I understand that a wife is so much more trouble. And I never wanted to cause trouble. So, the intellect battles the heart and so on and so forth and can you think of a more boring story? When you are feeling so alone and the wind is trying to crack you open and the whole world is a mud puddle, you should strap one baby across your chest and fix another one to your hip; nothing makes you feel warmer or more brave. Its called a wheel and its already been invented.

She said: What would it be like if there was no sunshine?

I said: Night. A day without sunshine would be like ... night.

Wah

I was going to write something mean about my three minute lunches and six minute dinners and low-grade headaches and shitty fucking work and lack of sex and lack of sleep and lack of proper bathing but you know what? I love my life.

You May Cause Chair Broken & Injure Yourself.

I feels ya, Deb, because I like staying in my dirty pink robe all day long and I am not sorry, except for my husband, and anyone else with eyes. But the years see what the days will never know and today someone called me a "deal junkie" but at least I seem to be cured of my hypergraphia [citation needed], for now. But maybe its because my tits are constantly being summoned and I don't mean that in a cheap way, like Heineken's retrograde trivilization of the essence of femininity in their spot portraying the girl android's uterus as a fucking keg. But this is not a fatwah on behalf of girl androids because, until women's body parts stop selling fine, fine products, we are all guilty. So let's divert from the path marked on our fathers' maps and be good to each other and rejoice on the anniversary of our sealing of a social contract and fuck all the time and huddle close on the beach floor beneath the milky moonlight. But let's not celebrate valentine's day.