AAAARRRGGGHHHH.  Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

I just wrote out a bunch of fabulously humorous shit about all the coincidences of place I have experienced.  Like a friend living in the house where my ex dickhead beau once lived with his eventual dyke-loving ex-wife after she sold it to a womyn from her drumming circle, who I later met and saw naked in a hot tub. 

Somehow, though, through a key combo I haven't figured out or a lingering mouse click the new MacBook fucks some clickety click bullshit in FireFox and gone, gone, gone, fucking gone.  Humor, brilliance, late night babbling gone.

Computers should suck my cock.  Figuratively, of course, since I am cockless.

The point is a chick from work is leaving.  She's moving to Cambridge, 'cuz there's some big school there or something.  And, judging by her description, she'll be in M.'s old neighborhood.

And, I went out with people from work, just like used to happen in other jobs before the bad, horrible place.  Nothing bad or horrible happened, of which I know.  Except the waitress shushed us.  Shhh, keep it down ladies.  Yeah, again, suck my figurative cock.

Oh, one last thing, I really, really, really hate the chick who is lawyering for me.  She can suck the imaginary cock, not once but twice.  Suck it, lawyer lady.  Suck it. 

I have to admit my favorite part of marathon day was going here:

[image:4082:l][newline]

I think it's now a historical landmark, and it opened in the '40s as part of a beachside amusement park.   You walk into a dark, black room with no windows but a rotating mirror reflecting through a hole in the roof a living projection of the scenic shore outside.  It's like science and photography and a total waste of time all rolled into one.  In other words, a few of my favorite things.

For modern amusement, they've thrown up a few holographic images for shits and the kids today with their cameras and computers and all.

There was a chatty little girl inside, who her mother had left alone in there.  She wished she was taller to see the holograms and asked me to explain a few.  We discussed one that I thought might be a gremlin, given that holograms seem so '80s.  She had never heard of them.  She said, she does have a video she hasn't watched yet of hobgoblins, though.  I really hope it's not this video.

I don't think M. thinks I'm right in the head.  When we were walking away down the seawall, I pointed out that the little girl was damn lucky we weren't pedophiles.  It was implied to me that normal people don't think like that or, I guess if they do, don't mention it. 

Here's my baby at about 6 a.m. today.  He appears to me as less than a happy camper.[image:4069:l][newline]

Here's the same guy only a few hours later.[image:4078:l][newline]

He finished unofficially according to the chip reader the half-marathon in 2:38:23.  (I thought it was going to take much, much longer, since I had seen that face at the beginning, and I had experienced the tossing and turning, restless sleep first hand.)

Not bad for an old dude, and the bonus of doing the half was we could hang out without hospital gear all day.

Today is/was the San Francisco Marathon.  So, M. and I are up in the city with a Triple-A deal on a Marriot Courtyard.  Conceivably, it could be romantic, what with it being SF and all.  

Sometimes I marvel at how professional people think I am during your average day job.

Then, someone important uses a phrase "seminal thinker," and I almost giggle. Ha ha.  Semen.

Worse yet, it was about a semi-famouse neo-con.

Neo-con semen.

Yup, I should be fired by the thought police. 

I just want to make sure everyone in the world (since, of course, that's the kind of readership I have) sees a certain hi-lar-i-ous video clip on New England Cable News.

Go to this here link, and click on "Brothers in comedy on the 'Globe at Home.'"

Just doi it, as the marketing line goes. 

Didn't hear from any lawyers or any real estate folks today.  I think that means that the paperwork is done.

Soon, this place will no longer be mine, I do believe.

And this neighborhood will be someone else's.

 [image:1790:l]

I don't know what I'm doing.  I can't use a browser. My computer skills have deteriorated.

Maybe it's the heat.  Maybe it's global warming.  Maybe it's my brain.  Or the new quite zippy, quite warm Intel Duo Core processors.  Did I even string those words together in the right order?

It's so goddam hot outside and the laptop adds another wide chunk of British Thermal Units, so I searched the web and my gray matter for some kind of laptop pad, cooling device.  Easy to use, portable, capable of pulling some of the heat away and/or shielding my skimpely (or however the fuck it's spelled), naked-ish thighs.

Cooling pads exist.  I even sought them out a bit.  Ultimately, I decided to create something myself.  Tonight, I invented the towel.

Unrelatedly, I know now why (and I suspect I knew 11 years ago when I bought my place) why the cliches and hating are consistently directed at real estate agents and lawyers.  They're not bad people, I suppose.  The problem is they know everything by rote.  We, the dirty, unwashed, dazed buyers and sellers do not.  We interpret unanswered calls or quick emails that say "no hurry" to mean, I guess, um, "no hurry."

Then, comes the call with code words like "Where's the P&S?"

You know, when I left the message saying that I hoped it wasn't a problem but my car was in the shop and I wouldn't have access to a full, wide array of office equipment, it meant the people I am paying huge piles of dollar bills to help me could rally.  Fucking A. 

Mostly in this thing M. and I call a relationship, I live a deprived and desperate condition.  One in which my fitness-loving beau speaks out against one of my favorite things in the whole whide world.  Tasty, rib-sticking, satifying, energy-providing carbohydrates.  A meal for him is pork ribs and maybe a salad with a side of pork something else.  Or maybe a 5 inch steak and a piece of lettuce.

He's gotten a bit mellower on the issue, since he stopped working with a, might I add chubby, army of Atkins and South Beach dieters.

But, this week, what with the SF Marathon coming up this weekend, when he plans to run the half-marathon >13-mile version, the carbo thang is first and foremost.  Cake, bread, pasta, noodles, rice, did I mention bread? are all in the foreground.

Sadly, it's so fucking blisteringly hot all over the US map, I'm not feeling very scone-loving.  I finally have my way in the quest for food joy, and all I fucking want is a glass of ice water.