I’ve forgotten who all actually looks at this. I can’t remember if this is one of the ones I have to censor.

Anyway, I’m sure my level of concern is inversely proportional to how many drinks I have.


Maybe I’ll start doing this again.


Someone really ought to post something here sometime.



You know what I’d like to do? I’d like to go back in time to whenever it was that whoever it was invented McDonalds or TV dinners or corn subsidies or whatever and make them stop. Because at Chick-fil-A today, I was trying to order my moderately-less-deadly Caesar wrap combo, and she asked me what I wanted to drink, and I had this momentary panic attack about whether it was worse to drink the sugar or the chemical fake sugar in my lemonade (forgetting that I could just, I don’t know, not order a combo and drink water instead).

But this just highlights something that I’m bitter about in general: I’m pissed off that previous generations have created all this fake food that is the only thing you can find anymore that it turns out is killing us all, and now it’s MY job to try to avoid it, but I can’t, really, unless I go off the grid and live off the land or something. And I have all this OTHER STUFF going on in my life right now and all this energy I spend on trying to figure out what lurking, genetically-modified, chemically-enhanced NON-FOOD food products to avoid is energy that could be much better-used elsewhere, except that if I do ignore it, I will get fat and cancerous and die. Even if I run marathons.

In conclusion: fuck you, ConAgra. Fuck you right in the eye.

PS: More updates coming soon.  I’ve been somewhat preoccupied, mostly with running around waving my arms and bleating uninformedly about the coming apocalypse.


Vuvuzela?  I hardly know ‘er!

(Okay, fine, it only works if you say it like you’re Norm. But still.)


I’m…. finding Tom Cruise attractive in these previews for Knight and Day.  I… I really don’t know how to process that information.


I should be enjoying things, I shout, in my head.  I’m never going to get this day back!  Or the one before that! There are things to enjoy and I am not enjoying them and it’s all your fault!

As long as it’s not my fault.


Okay, so… you know, this whole Alvin Greene thing.

Here’s the thing. And it pains me to admit that it’s “A Thing” but the news cycle hasn’t dropped it yet, so apparently it is.  Anyway, here’s the thing:  It doesn’t matter.   Whether the state GOP paid his registration fee or not, whether he won 60% of the primary votes because his name was first on the ballot or the electronic voting machines went hinky or, more conspiritorially (but entirely plausibly, because this *is* South Carolina), because it’s an open primary and you can vote in it whether or not you affiliate yourself with the party in question and hey, wouldn’t that be a hoot, guys?, whether he’s right in the head or not — it doesn’t matter. 

Unless the Democrats ran Jesus himself in that race, Jim DeMint was not going to lose. 

Now, I believe we should take our electoral process seriously, and I believe if there is any indication that something truly was out of line in this situation, it should be investigated.  Just because the result of an election is, barring video evidence and a signed confession from Jim DeMint that he eats babies (and maybe not even then — this *is* South Carolina), a foregone conclusion, doesn’t mean the process should be used as a joke or in perpetrating actual fraud.  But all this gnashing of teeth and hysterical finger-pointing on behalf of the SC Democrats is only making the situation more embarrassing for everyone.  If there is evidence of wrongdoing, investigate it and bring that to light so that *the system itself* isn’t abused in that way in the future. 

But here’s the thing, SC Democratic Party: if you felt the ultimate result was enough of a lock for the other guys that you didn’t want to spend funds supporting the candidate you would have preferred win the primary or the time to investigate the only other guy on the ballot — the random, completely unknown guy on the ballot — BEFORE the primary, it’s a little late now to cry foul now.  When the general election comes around, Vic Rawl was not going to win, Alvin Greene is not going to win — y’all need to sit down, shut up, and figure out how to keep this from happening again instead of wasting all of our time blaming everyone else for it having happened this time.

I am a Democrat in SC, and I approve this message.


So, later last night, I ran across the prequel to the journal entries I started transcribing last night; I think I can date these things better now.  Last night’s entry was actually from sometime around the middle of my sophomore year of college, so probably late 1996 or early 1997.  The one that follows chronologically appears to be from the spring of 1998.  I was not a very dedicated diarist, apparently only feeling the need to record my PAIN and HEARTACHE for posterity when things were going badly between me and ol’ John (or rather, when they were going exactly as theatrically badly as I could have wished). I’ll post the “prequel” next, which will lay a little bit more groundwork for the horrors to come.

See, I had enjoyed a long and happy relationship in high school that lasted about three years.  My boyfriend was a great guy — he treated me like a beautiful and special princess snowflake, brought me flowers, and suffered through ballet performances.  We went everywhere together and wrote each other schmoopy notes and had long telephone conversations (“Are you asleep?” “No, are you?”) when we weren’t together (which was pretty much when we were either in class or I was in a ballet rehearsal).  Of course we fought occasionally about stupid teenager-y things, but he was cute and athletic and the whole thing was hearts and rainbows and, eventually, a good bit of fumbling and awkward, but ultimately sweet… physical experimentation.  His parents travelled a good bit and his older brother was away at college, so we had the house to ourselves a lot. Also, he had a pool.

The other thing is that I was a pretty solitary kid in a lot of ways.  If I wasn’t over at my boyfriend’s house engaging in… physical experimentation… I was either at school or at a ballet class, or I was reading.  Oh, I had friends and we hung out some, but I was a voracious reader.  I graduated from high school having consumed a steady diet of the likes of Gone With the Wind, Anya Seton, L.M. Montgomery and Elizabeth Peters.

In other words, I had no idea how a real relationship worked.  There wasn’t any particular Event that broke High School Boy and I up, unless you count Life and College and the fact that we were really only kids playing at being grown up.  But the relative idyllic perfection of that relationship left me completely emotionally unprepared for messier quasi-adult relationships.  I hadn’t experienced any angst yet! I didn’t know I was supposed to! After all, I had been A Girlfriend for years, I had that deal down cold.  I would just have to pick a likely prospect — and why shouldn’t they all like me?  I was great!

So that was pretty much my emotional landscape by the time “John” and the other college guys joined the picture.  And for the most part, I wasn’t terribly off the mark; if they weren’t actually falling at my feet and pledging undying devotion, it wasn’t particularly hard for me to get a date.  John — John was the enigma.  His recalcitrant refusal to prostrate himself obediently before the altar of my Girlfriendish perfection, despite all that we seemed to have in common and what appeared to be a clear sort of affection and friendship between us, utterly confounded me and, at the same time, entranced me. Finally, this was something deep and true — it must have been, because that was the natural progression of all the romantic stories I had read; of course the hero and heroine encountered obstacles, but those obstacles would only ultimately prove how right they were for each other. He wasn’t unattainable, he was just unenlightened. I refused all evidence to the contrary; I was utterly miserable at times, and realize now that I enjoyed all the misery and drama for all it was worth.  He was an irresistible challenge, the heroin to my romance-addicted little heart. I was Scarlett O’Hara, and John was my Ashley Hamilton.


Okay, I made a butt-cringingly embarrassing discovery tonight and I’m starting a new series of entries, because it’s too rich not to share.  I was rooting around in the basement looking for a box I never did find, because I ran across some old journals and papers from college and before I knew it, I was sitting on the floor, reading and laughing at my poor, 19- or 20-year-old, extremely angst-ridden self. Extremely angst-ridden.

As very minor background, I dated this particular fellow off and on during college. Apparently, during one of our “off” periods, I took to journaling (old skool pen and paper style — this was the mid-90s, please remember) my PAIN and HEARTACHE.  It’s kind of sad, actually, how wrapped up I was in this non-relationship, and how convinced I was that what we had was DEEP and TRUE and, oh, it’s just all so tragic.  To assure you (and, more honestly, myself) that I’m not quite the romantically-challenged asshole that these will make me appear, I did date other people in college. This lucky guy was the only one that drove me to writing utter drivel, though.

(NOTE: Do I think he’ll see this and know it was him?  Highly doubtful, particularly since only about three people who know me in real life know about this blog and he is not one of them — nor does he have contact with any of them, as far as I know.  And if he does find this — oh, well.  More mortifying things have happened in the 13 or 14 years (Years! My God!) since these were written.  Maybe he’d be flattered to know that he inspired me to such heights of crap all those years ago. More likely he would just shake his head and thank whatever it is he believes in that he avoided the psycho. Honestly, if this is what I was like that year, I’m surprised I had any friends left by the time summer came around.)

And, so, without further ado, Part I.  I believe this was written the summer of 1997? 1996?  I didn’t actually date these things, so I’m guessing.  But this appears to have been written at the start of a school year.  Spelling and punctuation is as was originally recorded. Commentary by Present Me is in bold.  Names have been changed to protect the truly innocent — which would be everyone except me in this farce. “John” is the star player here.


Well … hmmm… I’m in a sort of a … funk right now — I guess that’s what Charlie would call it anyway — thinking too much, perhaps?  Just thinking things like — what if I never find anybody?  [Seriously?  You’re what, 19?] I’d always thought it was pretty much a given that I would. But right now I just don’t feel close to anyone — I see Andy and Christy, Mark and Anne — it makes me sort of jealous, because that’s something I don’t have. [It’s ok, give it a few years, and you may end up marrying one of those other guys. Bless your heart.]  I used to feel pretty close to John, but that seems to have retreated somehow.  [Yes, some dates and some making out = lasting, undying devotion. Of course.]  I just don’t understand — why can’t I have someone I feel totally at one with?  Someone I feel like cares so much about me and wants to spend all their time with me. [Oh, so young.] Instead, I feel like I do all the pursuing, all the talking.  I guess deep down inside I just want someone to love me. That I can love back.  It’s hard waiting for that, not knowing if it will ever come. It makes life seem awfully long. [Nineteen!  And you just broke up with one of the five people you dated the past year! Who ARE you?]  

I guess I’m finding that trust and committment are very important to me… maybe more important than I realized. [Not as important as spelling, apparently. But now we’re getting to the meat of the issue. Shockingly, “John” didn’t return my fierce passion and, after a summer away from my charming clinginess, wanted to date other people.  Granted, he didn’t actually come right out and *say* that, he just sort of went ahead with that plan.  He probably realized I would have collapsed on my fainting couch and had a fit of the vapors before murdering his bunny rabbit if he had actually told me that.  Good grief. Nineteen.]  Makes me feel pretty lonely - - - I know I have people I can talk to, but no one I feel really connected with.  Do you actively forge those connections, or are they just there with certain people (who I obviously haven’t met yet)? [Or have I? Dun dun, DUNNNNN.] Or it is a combination of the two? [Fairly insightful, you blithering idiot.  You still haven’t learned this lesson as well as you should have by now.]


End of Part I.  I really need to come up with a catchy title for these.  Next time — John and I are apparently back together.  OR ARE WE?