You Can't Hear Even Though You're So Near

Pretty plain, that's pretty clear, and I'm the only one to whom it matters but while they're off litigating or being Dutch, I'm here: being cracker, measuring houses; mothering. Stop. Move. Talk isn't cheap, just poorly made, and I needs the sex hotel or some reasonable facsimile; with clean sheets and an unobstructed view of: don't even care. But do bother! Because I always dreamed of a man who would anticipate my needs and feed me chocolates and light my cigarettes; upon sounding off sounds more like I dreamed of a butler but whatcha whichever, some kind of kicky kink thing, like my personal favorite fanfic, his faux-chauv: the clamp on my inner fake-fem's nipple. But I reiterate: I don't care: about religion or politics or playing nice-nice with the woo-woo's who live for either/or. What I do care about is how when acting with a man's initiative, you grab my ass and I can finally exhale and draw the damp curtain 'round my blushing ambition.

To think, I have to write a proper report in a few short weeks.

The Honor of Your Presence

Q: Why did the poor dog chase his tail?

Please join me for half an hour of bitter whining if you live anywhere in the US or Mexico. From Canada is also not too far to travel (consult your travel agent for more information.) I don't recommend coming from Europe, Antarctica, Asia, etc. You'll be disappointed. South America, say, would be on the fence; depends how much you love half an hour of bitter whining. Mongolia: too far. Greenland: come. Algeria: too far. Cuba: come. Costa Rica, even: come. New Zealand: stay home; do something else.

Just another storied story: about science getting thrown under the bus for sports, smart girls getting pregnant and going stupid, the most beautiful human beings grappling with losspurposemistakeslovebabiesaddiction. Those stories -- their telling never gets old to us. But post-oil society and Malthusian traps? Shut yours and give me the Olympics! We don't wants to hear about it.

Here's some personal short term goals:

1. Continue on steadfastly with plan to live forever. So far, no major obstacles.
2. Invent something that will suppress regret and call it Advanced Tequila 3000
3. Make an A in C++
4. Not be so crazy (this is also a long term goal)

A: Because he was just trying to make ends meet.

He Keeps A Pulpit Straight To My Heart

A man is trying to reach his lover.
His carriage has broken down in the rain.
The wheels stuck in the mud.
She will only wait so long.
This is the sound of his agitation.

Biochemicalnanomedicalengineer. Dr. Smith to you. Playing against type, just to make a little more scratch and be a little less boring. More than meets the microscopy, though. The Mormons believe that it is a sin to waste the gifts that god has given you, by not exercising them. I am nothing like a Mormon and I don't believe in the existence of a god, vengeful or otherwise, and I pay no nevermind to the concepts of sin or good works. But I do have a moral code. And three house cats to feed. And California to explore. But why do we even do anything? I am suspicious of every motive, maybe my own most of all. I've caught myself in too many lies in the past: its exceedingly rare to be smart enough to outsmart yourself. And I find its real fucking work just to be civil to myself. And then I remember what I am still too smart to mention.

"Aneurysm" used to be my favorite Nirvana song until you touched my arm while we were listening to "Sappy" in the car the other night. Now its "Sappy".

Here's another speech you wish I'd swallow, another cue for you to fold your ears:

However much you love me, I love you more.

Ow! Ow!

Now come out of your thinking chambers and go straight to the dock of shame! Because I was a teenage bride with a baby inside getting high on information. Now I'm just a grown up twenty-something urbanite party girl in a hurry to get out of this housing Super Bubble, banking on becoming a biochemist or one of its affiliates, got to break the panorama just to save me and mine from its sticky wet slippery credit crunch clutches. But they are so pretty when they pop, you know, like gasoline on the ground; an iridescent desiccant. Descend! Not into madness, ha, don't do enough of anything to go that far (including thinking (but don't make me pull this car over!)) Nay, I just get psychotically melancholy, ask anyone (to whom I'm currently married.) Not enough, way too much, shooting straight from the baby-holding hip, licking my fingers, planning my ink, and sucking rose petals to my face. Fairness is just a measure of the facts, or is that truth, and does it matter, the difference? That the ex gets it, and even the ex's new girl, but me? I wouldn't know a gentle asking voice -- it would roll right over me -- because everything that is good I deem "too good to be true" and what's so impressive about a diamond, except the mining? Because I don't understand, I can't understand, but I'll try to understand because that is all I can do. Is it my fault? Is it my lack? Aye, it was a white (trash) wedding and I wouldn't change a thing, except the whole month leading up to it, because I wanna be someone's prize, pouts the pretty pretty petty princess in me. Says he's glad he did it, didn't have much choice did he, with me looking down the proverbial barrel asking, "Baby, whatcha gonna?"

I sure am ugly (when I'm mad.)