Way of the Future

I'm sad for my special man friend, I think I'm getting the "Howard Hughes Dirty Hands" disease (aka obsessive-compulsive disorder), and I am once again baffled by Mardi Gras.

Someone has a case of the Mondays...

First and foremost, Pablo Honey's kitty Gir packed all his belongings in a polka-dotted satchel, slung it over his little kitty back, and moved to his new home. Luckily his new home was not "the alley behind El Pollo Loco" or "a shelter where he would most certainly be killed," but rather the LeezyB & Susan B. Anthony Estate. The kitty seemed to attain some level of comfort quickly, and Pablo Honey kept his composure while seeing him off.

It was the first thing I thought of this morning when I woke up, and it made my heart as gray as the sky outside the windows.

I have only been close to one animal in my life, and I couldn't imagine having to give her away. I also can't imagine having that much integrity and strength to even consider it. Fact is, the kitty didn't have enough space, and his roomie pays good money to live with healthy respiratory function. So...the harder-than-difficult decision was made, and the kitty found a wonderful new home.

But it still makes me blue.

Also making me blue is my lack of dental health. I am moving into the next period of my life that involves dental irrigators, electric toothbrushes, and infinite amounts of baking soda mixed with salt and hydrogen peroxide. But the only problem is that while researching how to make the environment in my mouth pleasant, I am learning how many chemicals we put in our bodies at every turn. Hence, the OCD.

Toothpaste and shampoos have SLS in them. Anti-perspirant has Aluminum ingredients. My makeup has propylene-glycol, my lotion has lanolin in it, and parabens are in everything else. Apparently every day, I am helping my body soak in breast cancer, rashes, nitrates, and other irreversible damage.

I've been examining the products I use to get ready in the morning, and trying to figure out how to eliminate the chemical-laced ones. But this is a slippery slope. It might start at my moisturizer, but it will lead to my detergent, and my lip balm, then jump to my dishwashing fluid, then the fabric of my clothes, and end at...well, it won't ever end.

Is it possible to live a chemical-free existence? I don't think so, which is why I'm pondering moving to a Costa-Rican cave and becoming a nudist.

Speaking of nudity, Mardi Gras, for yet another year, pisses me off. I can never seem to figure out when the hell it actually begins or ends. It appears to this white girl from Colorado that Mardi Gras happens about three times a year before June, with people invoking its existence just so they can see some bare knockers and sling those tacky beads around.

I could have sworn someone had a Mardi Gras party back in January. Now, here everyone is, sending photos of themselves watching live sex shows with their grandparents and drinking purple rum drinks out of impossibly huge hurricane glasses.

Oh yeah, the hurricane. Won't New Orleans just calm down for a second? Shouldn't they be worrying about how to get their homes rebuilt and public facilities running before they concern themselves with how many shots they can take from between a hooker's sweaty breasts? Maybe I am misinformed. Perhaps things are way better than they were, and that the city is miraculously healing itself and overcoming adversity.

But it seems to me that this is the second time Fat Tuesday has happened this year, and amid all my wistfulness, it's irritating me. Re-open your colleges and save the parades for next year.

meow. g

Zurg's Dead, baby. Zurg's Dead.

Pablo Honey wanted the title of this blog to be "My Boyfriend's Better than Me." And as you can see, stereotypes once again prove true, as his shooting score surpassed mine on the uber-fun Buzz Lightyear ride. I feel fine about it; my supple breasts prevented me from aiming the gun properly.

We just got back from a day in the Magic Kingdom. I was expecting the day to be full of cynicism, edginess, and superiority complexes, but it was really just delightful. The minute I laid eyes on Main Street, every memory of Disneyland that lives inside of me swelled and leapt to the surface, bringing an acute feeling of joy that was like pop rocks leaping all over my body.

I immediately likened it to Americans' pull towards McDonald's after a trip out of the country. We might not ever eat there during the daily grind, but once we're away, it's the first thing we want to stuff in our face upon returning home. So The Haunted Mansion is similar to a Quarter Pounder with cheese.

I went on my first rollercoaster ride in five years. The best part of it was not the weightless feeling in my tummy as we descended 108 feet, but rather the insane giggling of my cohort, Mister Pablo Honey. I experienced the same chortle while on a short-but-presh rollercoaster in Toontown AND Thunder Moutain Railroad. I decided that it adds a mentally-unstable element to the whole thing that I really enjoy. Because what's better than riding a rollercoaster? Riding a rollercoaster with a crazy man that you get to see naked, that's what.

We got to see Pirates of the Caribbean before they rip it out and make it more like the film. Alas, we did not stand up on the boats or sing Nirvana songs too loud (as some of my friends have), because I was too wrapped up in the magic. I felt like I was five again, except this time around I happened to realize that the pirates had attacked some Spanish port and were trying to drown and rape Spanish-speaking people. That really made the whole thing more...vivid. But I purchased a commemorative wrist band souvenir that has both a skull and crossbones as well as "Dead men tell no Tales" embroidered on it.

Fantasyland bugs me, since all you do is sit in tiny little unprotected carts and run into walls. The whale in Pinocchio, the descent into Hell on Mister Toad's, and the Evil Queen in Snow White all scarred me as a wee HellCat. As I cruised through these horrible rides two decades later, I felt my anxiety level skyrocket. Thankfully, Pablo Honey was nothing but supportive, even though my iron grip on his leg skewed his circulation for a solid thirty minutes.

Towards the end of the day, as our feet were getting tired and the omnipresent children became less adorable, the Disneyland-sanctioned group of Annoying Men Banging on Garbage Cans seemed to follow us everywhere we went in Tomorrowland. These men, although blessed with amazing rhythm, were doing things that homeless people in my homebase of Hollywood do all the time. I came to Disneyland to escape all this, for chrissakes. With every strike of their red and white sticks, the balls of my feet seemed to hurt worse. If it weren't for a surprise cameo and finger-gun-shooty motion from Buzz Lightyear, I might have totally lost my mind.

And just to note, I think fashion-conscious Asian women manage to look even cuter at Disneyland. I didn't think it was possible, but it truly is. If you find yourself succumbing to yellow fever, you MUST drive to Anaheim immediately!

The day was truly one of the happiest I have had in a long time. Although I was beyond exhausted, I still had a huge smile on my face when I drifted off to sleep. And the best part? We got a free 2-day pass, and get to do it again sometime real soon. Life is beautiful.

hi-ho. g

Solemn Vow

I tend to follow a whole "When it rains, it pours" mentality when it comes to Grae Maintenance. Since I lack insurance, it's always a challenge to do things like go to the doctor or dentist. This is mostly because I love bargain hunting but know that you get what you pay for, particularly when it involves people rooting around in your mouth or hoo-hoo.

This is why I generally avoid making scheduled trips anywhere. I let it go maybe just a little long, like a dentist visit every year and a half instead of every six months. And therein begins our tale.

I have always loved the dentist, beginning as a wee tot in Dr. O's office. He was a gentle, caring Asian man no less than seven hundred years old, and he always gave me ceramic figures of clowns to paint when the checkup was over. I liked the cut of his jib, and therefore loved going to the dentist. Until today.

Any fondness I had for dental offices was shattered when I went to my appointment today. In the waiting room, angry grandmothers and the disenchanted almost-homeless created a palpable air of Periodontitis Blues that threatned to suck me in. My name was called and I escaped to a large, dismal waiting room. I sat among the indifferent dental staff, and noticed that the fluoresent lighting was buzzing really loudly. It took me three minutes to figure out that it was actually a child screaming behind a closed door at a constant rate.

It was the first time in my life I felt a sickening sense of dread creep into my tummy while waiting for the Mouth People to do their Mouth Magic.

When the Russian doctor strolled over to me, she called me Grace and ignored my polite attempt to correct her. She told me that I need a good cleaning and that if I don't do it soon my face will implode. Or something. And to continue the afternoon of firsts, it was at that moment that I felt dentally lackadaisical and ashamed. They used to call me Goldenmouth back home. Back then, I walked with a quiet confidence--even if I only got a 1200 on the SAT, I still had excellent dental hygiene. And now, in this city of sin, I have disgraced myself and no longer have pearly whites to be proud of. I have let myself and my tooths down.

You are present to witness my vow to change my teeth care regimen. I will fight gingivitis, get my teeth straightened, fix my cracked veneer, and reclaim my throne as Teeth Queen. My bathroom will soon be reminiscent of a dentist's office, with an electric toothbrush and oral irrigator. I will rinse bacteria from my mouth with pride, my darlings, and will never lose my teeth or need a root canal.

Do you think that this could be caused by too much oral? Hmm. Like maybe I shouldn't feel so bad; hookers have it worse than me. I shouldn't be so hard on myself, because at least I have the teeth of a girl who doesn't get paid to do it.

chomp. g

Hard to Swallow

Occasionally when surfing the Intranet, I will hear a tiny bleating of discomfort from somewhere deep within myself. It is as though something demands my attention, and my body is forced to protest my tendency to use the gift of connectivity to watch videos of fat girls falling off motorbikes and tracking where my dollar bills went.

Sunday I heard that call, and went where my keystrokes took me. They landed on craigslist, in the "Therapeutic Services" category. Among endless ads from foreign women advertising "Tender Flowing Touch w/Sweet College Girl," and "Pure Body Bliss from Real Asian," I saw the ad for "Urea Therapy."

"Naw, it couldn't be." I thought, as I clicked hurriedly towards the weirdest thing I heard all day (which is a feat, since I was hanging out with my sister and her best friend earlier and they had some tales to tell! Fake pregnancies, distant husbands, and falsified HIV tests, oh my!).

Some wacko claims that he got a massage (in Eastern Europe, of course) where the masseuse kind of flipped the script on him. Oh sure, Uda the Masseuse used lotion on Mr. Craiglist, but occasionally he would urinate on him as well. Apparently the pee-lotion made for a really desireable effect.

At first I thought this Mr. Craiglist enjoyed his Golden Massage because he is a serial killer. But then I googled Healing Urine and came up with ALL THESE PAGES that say this is a good idea. Apparently urine is sterile for about 15 minutes after exiting the body, and even after that when bacteria begin to grow, they aren't all bad. If you massage it on your skin, it makes your skin all soft, and doesn't even smell! One site even suggested you use it to clean your windows!! And, like a magical, golden shaman, it heals ailments!

The most intriguing information was that the bodies' experiences, both psychological and physical, collect in the urine. So reintroducing it to the body gives the immune system another go-around at building strength against whatever is ailing you.

I can't bring myself to try it.

Flash Foward to today. Upon exiting my yard, I stood atop the final, large staircase and took a deep breath of the cool air. I put my left leg out to begin the descent down and promptly fell down the stairs. With me came a bag full of hard drives, DV tapes, and important CDs that managed to land on my sternum. I lay on the steps for a minute, shocked and praying I hadn't broken anything. After I determined that I was mostly okay, I opened up my mouth and wailed "Owwwwwwww," loud enough that a painter next door poked his head out of the garage and said "Are you okay?" in a thick accent. I nodded and stood up, assessing my wounds.

I whacked my right ankle on the brick hard, and I landed on my left ass cheek super hard. I scratched up the palms of my hands, and made a deep gash on my right pinkie knuckle. And now, 12 hours later, my ankle and pinkie are killing me. When I am going through any trauma, it causes me to talk to myself. Here's what a conversation with myself looked like as I limped into the SavOn to get an ace bandage.

"Hang in there, chief. Pain only makes you stronger, Grae. That line is some bullshit said by some unintentionally optimistic retard whose brain doesn't even register pain. They sprain their ankle and instead of 'Ouch' they say 'Ice Cream!' or some shit like that. This hurts so bad, it assures me I never want children. Fuck the stairs, man. This is why people should drive everywhere, even right into their house. Fuck the environment and the EPA. They're full of the same retards we were discussing earlier. And also I hate Asian drivers."

So I am sitting here, throwing my head back in pain every 30 seconds, wishing for more Vicodin.

And I have realized that these things always happen as they are supposed to. That ad on craigslist wasn't just an accident.

I think I'm going to have to piss all over myself.

It's the only way to heal this ankle and pinkie is to urinate on them constantly. I have my water bottle filled and ready to leap right into this. Squat for the cure, baby.

tinkle. g

I Love The Sex and Pasta

As truthful as I am here, in our own private little Web World, I still leave some things unsaid. Some things I find necessary to keep to myself. But lately it's become clear that this might not be the healthiest way to go. I figured that releasing these skeletons from my proverbial closet would set me free. So here they are.

First of all, I am not a smoothie person. I like the idea of smoothies, because they contain fruit and/or vegetables, and if I can drink something instead of chew it, I'm all over it. But when I find myself in front of a menu, I feel overwhelmed at all the combinations. Suddenly, the small difference between strawberries and raspberries seems monumental. Orange or pineapple? Do I want apple juice in there, or not? And what about papaya? Am I really exotic enough to get fucking papaya in my drink? Or Mango, for that matter? Sheesh.

All I know for sure is that I don't want any dairy, soy, or bee pollen coming anywhere near my precious drink. I'll choke a bitch that tries to put those nefarious ingredients in there.

This problem leads me to avoid Jamba Juice like the plague. One time I went in there just because I needed a quick snack, and I stood there like some Mongoloid at the zoo. Finally someone asked me if I was okay. I said yes a little too loudly with panic in my voice, and hurriedly ordered the first thing I saw off the menu. I ended up with some Soy Yogurt- Ass Fruit- Sweaty Balls Shake with a Bee Pollen twist. It ruined my day.

Next on the list is what I do when I look in the mirror. I have been told by several people that I have a "Mirror Face." Only problem is, I don't know I'm doing it. Apparently I take care of my reflective business, and then just before I leave the mirror, my back straightens just the tiniest bit, and I purse my lips together. I also add a small raise of the eyebrows. Then, I just leave and go about my day.

And the last thing I will reveal is that while I'm watching TV by myself, I put my left hand on my belly because it comforts me.

Since you asked so nicely, here's a bonus. I am a huge fan of Gross Bodily Occurrences, with my most favoritest one being Ingrown Hairs. I particularly enjoy ingrown hairs that have been aging under my skin for a long time (not entirely unlike fine wine). Those are the ones that surface and end up being seven inches long.

Also, if anyone has any mysterious boils or pimples that need to be popped, give me a call. I have nails now, and I know how to use them.

squish. g

Happy Fricking Valentine's Day

The following is the work of my beloved Pablo Honey. He is a master wordsmith, and this is a piece inspired by our life together. I must admit that it gets the HellCat Stamp of Approval. Lucky for you, you're in the loop. Enjoy!


LIGHTS UP. A HUSBAND and WIFE sit on a couch snuggling.

HUSBAND
No, I love you more.

WIFE
No, I love you more.

HUSBAND
No--wait, I guess I love you less. I'm just kidding! I totally love you
more!

WIFE
Awww, shnookybutters!

(they nuzzle each other in an annoyingly adorable way)

WIFE
Babypants?

HUSBAND
Yes, bunnyface?

WIFE
Why don't we ever fight?

HUSBAND
Do you think we should?

WIFE
Well, Father Tim says that it's healthy to have an argument once in a while.
It gets out anger and clears the air.

HUSBAND
I could try it, I guess. What do we do?

WIFE
Just go out and come in and start screaming whatever's on your mind.

HUSBAND (chuckling to himself over the absurdity of it all)
Okay, but I'm not pulling any punches! You're gonna get it!

WIFE
Hee hee! Okay!

(The husband goes out of the room. Once he comes in, all the rest of the
dialogue should be delivered in tones of escalating, foaming rage.)

HUSBAND (stepping in the door)
Look at this place. It's fuckin spotless! Whaddaya do all day, just clean
and tastefully decorate this beautiful home?

WIFE
Oh, here we go. Whaddaya YOU do all night except sexually satisfy me in ways
I never dreamed possible?

HUSBAND
Maybe I wouldn't feel like doin' that if you'd stop cooking me delicious
meals every time I bend over to tie my fuckin' shoes!

WIFE
You're the one who's been able to get it up every night without fail since
our honeymoon!

HUSBAND
Your breasts grow firmer and more succulent by the day, WHORE!

WIFE
All right, motherfucker! You want a blowjob?

HUSBAND (narrows his eyes)
You don't have the guts.

WIFE
Oh yeah? Just watch me!

(She kneels down and starts undoing his pants.)

HUSBAND
Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this!
(yelling directly into the top of her head:)
I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH!!!

BLACKOUT.

Never Take Pilates Lessons from a Fatty

I am standing on a dusty road, wearing my light blue cropped sweatpants with the word "Pink" emblazoned across the ass. As the hot, dry wind whips across my face, I shift my sports bra back into place, and adjust the do-rag on my head. As the sun shines in my eyes, making me squint, I wrinkle my nose at the uncertainty ahead. It finally sinks in that I have reached a Pilates crossroads, my darlings.

The road to the left leads me to an Adonis-like French man teaching the class and lending his expertise to tone my powerhouse. The road to the right involves a dour, pot-bellied man of indeterminable cultural origins barking orders at me, making me wince and hate my life. Seems like no contest? I wish.

I was introduced to Adonis and his amazing Pilates studio recently, and it has greatly improved the quality of my life. Not only is he easy on the eyes, standing at about 6'4" with zero body fat, but he runs the class in a way that is inspiring and challenging all at the same time. He makes funny jokes, does this precious little whistle when he wants you to pick up the pace, and plays phenomenal music. He even manages to call you "sexy lady" at moments you couldn't feel less sexy. But it makes you smile through your straining muscles.

Somehow, performing Pilates at that studio makes me feel like a better version of me. The only problem: it costs a LOT to be a better me.

So, I reluctantly decided to check out the half-as-expensive Pilates class at my gym. With only one or two classes per day, I am not wild about the idea. But, out of duty to my checkbook, I signed up.

This morning I went in and checked out the machines as the first class was working. They pale in comparison to Adonis' machines, but they are better than the ones on QVC. Check.

The people I saw through the glass door were supposed to be doing an advanced class. However, they seemed to be spending a lot of time doing beginners work that holds little satisfaction for the more acrobatic, cardio-hungry user like myself. My enthusiasm began to wane.

Then I saw the instructor. He stood with unimpressive posture that only seemed to improve when he was criticizing someone's form. His eyes were dull and half-closed, and his lips were like two slimy earthworms perched atop his chin. Then my eyes moved south to see his pot belly. Pot belly! No one who actually does exercise that centers on using abdominal muscles for EVERYTHING should have a POT BELLY!

"This is an outrage!" I thought to myself as I gripped the now-forgotten USA Today in my right fist. "That's like taking advice on raising children from a childless, crazy cat lady!" My eyes narrowed, my heart rate quickened. I began to long for the diffused light that filters through the beautiful West Hollywood glass of Adonis' studio and perfectly lights the sweat on my torso.

As the "advanced" class ended, I walked in and took off my green clogs. I sat, with a smile fixed on my face, and watched as Earthworm Lips didn't lead them through stretches. His beady eyes scanned the room, perhaps for loose change or linty candies from someone's pocket, and they fell on me. He sauntered over, as gracefully as any fatty could, and proceeded to tell me that I couldn't take the class.

"You need to sign up for a Level One class, since we all do the same exercises and you'll slow us all down since you don't know them." I looked at him and told him that the desk told me it was okay to sign up for Pilates 2 if I was familiar with the machines. He grinned. "No. I need to evaluate you first. Tomorrow or Thursday, 8 AM."

Impotent and repulsed, I stood up and grabbed my shoes. How dare this Poor Man's Jabba The Hut turn ME away! I wanted to challenge him to a Pilates Battle, so we could see who should be judging who.

*editor's note: Realistically, this makes perfect sense. But the crankiness of not being able to afford Adonis' great classes combined with the slovenly appearance and uncaring demeanor of Earthworm Lips makes it an outrageous affront.*

I will see this character tomorrow morning, and I will wow him with my skills. All I know is that Jabba better make me sweat, or I will unleash upon him the fury that comes from a lamely-exercised abdominal area and hurt feelings.

grr. g

The Zero Hour

Every single program I've watched tonight was about death and/or the End of the World. It really got me thinking. We get so caught up in this rat race that we never quite remember to really make the moment count. There are so many people around here that deserve to know how much they mean to me.

If today were my last day on the planet, I would make sure to be wearing my ear flap hat. I would put on my garter belt and stockings, my hottest bra, a short skirt, and an inappropriately thin white tank top. I would then act the same as if I was wearing a snow suit and roll around on the ground and make angels of some kind, even if I had to use dirt.

I would tell you that exchanging emails with you makes my heart sing. After your brush with death where I saw you hooked up to numerous machines, frantically trying to scribble notes on a notepad to no avail, each electronic word is a gift from the big JC.

It recharges my inspiration tank when I picture you reading this column every Saturday morning, cup of coffee in hand. When you tell me how much you loved it the next week, I swell with pride.

Our lunches in Silverlake and yummy homemade cookies at famous people's houses serve as the perfect backdrop to conversations that I need to keep my sanity and compassion for the world alive. I adore your curly hair but don't understand your love of running.

When we laugh together, I realize that there isn't much more to life than that sound. Then, I realize that there is more, actually--like when you tell stories about the naked people you passed on the way to the Starbucks that morning or people who accidentally pee in their own suitcases while sleepwalking.

Every time I see your face on TV, I remember the time that you couldn't sleep because ants kept crawling in your ear while you were in the sleeping bag on the floor at our friend's house. You still went out to get donuts with me even though you were exhausted and were twiching at each imaginary ant still near your aural canal.

When I see you onstage, making people laugh, it makes me so proud I feel like bursting.

Watching you play with your daughter gives me hope for the future.

Each pearl of wisdom you throw my way between the lunges and the bicep curls makes me a better, smarter, stronger person.

The times you searched through my closet for a Halloween costume at the last minute while still managing to scrounge up something hilarious was a joy to watch.

I loved watching movies and drinking 40s with you on your couch.

There was nothing like coming home from and honest day's work and barbecuing with you guys. That beer hasn't tasted as good since.

Our hikes are the only reason I like going outside on some days.

From movies in the graveyard to filthy documentaries, no one does movie night like you. And those rolls! To die for!

Filling your dorm room with balloons on your birthday was THE ONLY good thing that came from bringing Patch Adams to the big screen. I remember how much fun we had shoving them aside while you opened your gift, which was an inappropriately large vibrator. In school colors, nonetheless.

I've never enjoyed staring into someone's eyes as much as I do yours. I've never slept as soundly after doing it, either.

You make text messaging fun.

It is next to impossible to have THAT much fun on the Metro. You outdid yourself on that one, kid.

You were the master of surprises and always made me understand that I was on your mind more than I let myself believe. Thanks.

Muffins and conversation with my dearest, darlingest wife. A perfect, self-improving evening is what I call that.

Let's go skydiving and then play with your dog.

Remember when we snuck into that rehearsal hall after they were closed, ate some ice cream, and then spent hours trying to figure out how to get past of all the locked doors? I learned many things about illegal behavior that night that I treasure to this day.

Thank you for loving me.

Now let's all pray that the bomb inside the World War II reenactor won't explode, or that those underwater creatures won't disturb the Earth's core enough to create MORE natural disasters and wipe us all out. Put those hands together and hope karma is real and that men and women can exist in harmony, etc. And also throw in a clean tank top for me, too.

kiss. g

Sweet Chocolate Jesus

I consider myself to have excellent willpower and an overall strong constitution. I take the high road, often at the cost of my own comfort. I take pride in doing the right thing. Blah fricking blah. That all means nothing now. Let me paint you a picture.

I am sitting in my atmospherically-lit apartment. I am wearing my jam-jams, comfy slippers, and my softer-than-a-cloud pale pink bathrobe. I just got done eating a healthy dinner, and am considering turning in for an early night.

I gave the cable box one last workout before I pulled back the covers. It landed on the Home Shopping Network, as it has a couple times in the past month, and what I saw there left me breathless. In front of my very own unsupervised eyes lay Valentines candies, glinting under the warm HSN lights. There were pretzel sticks covered delicately in nuts and chocolate chips, brightly gleaming caramel corn, and caramel apples rolled in nuts and drizzled delicately in white chocolate. The people at Silvestri Candies even thought to leave the stick out of the apple so it lasts an entire month. That kind of longevity, of course, is useless, because the very moment that an apple of that magnitude enters any woman's general vicinity it will disappear so fast it will be as though it never existed.

Let's talk more about why this is such a problem in case you're not following me. I am alone in my apartment, and before the fateful channel surfing began, was considering throwing out a booty call SOS to my boyfriend. Alas, the timing was not right, and I fixed the yummy dinner instead. Then came the TV. So I am a lone filly, on the couch as estrogen coarses through my veins, and I have fuzzy slippers on. The Home Shopping Network is possibly the worst channel to stop on, but I did anyway. And lo and behold, there was candy on the screen.

I had lost before I began.

It was reasonably priced, too. Not a penny over 20 bucks including shipping and handling. Hellfire. This is making me hate Valentines Day. This year, I was looking forward to the holiday, because I have a superb man friend and lots of wonderful friends and family close to me. But now, tonight, during my intense sugar craving, a dark cloud has formed over my head. What to do? Go to the Liquor store incognito and purchase an ice cream sandwich? Eat an apple? Go to bed? Masturbate? Pray for a death that will not come?

I think I'm going to cancel my cable.

static. g