I was looking in the mirror this morning and thought I might have lost some weight. Generally, there is a direct correlation between the proximity of a man in my life and weight. I tend to not eat as much, if no guy is around.

Ergo, I am no lady, since a lady does not jam her face into a feed bag in the company of gentleman callers. More importantly, obesity is my future if I end up in a satisfying, happy relationship.

Since the clothes they sell to chubby chicks, like thus and so,
are a cruel fucking hoax, any vague sense of style I possess would evaporate. I swear to fucking Christ, clothing manufacturers are giving a big fuck you to overeaters: “Hey lady, since you like groceries, I bet you have lost your eyesight, too.” I once went to one of those stores with a friend, and I swear there was a dress with a Good & Plenty pattern . Somewhere some skinny chick in a design studio was giggling herself weak, “Get it? Good & Plenty, because they’re like fat, you know. Plenty. Ha ha ha. Let’s go eat some salads.”

I guess the plus side (of the plus size) is I, of course, only care about my appearance vis a vis men. Because, at the end of the day, all any woman ever wants is a boy to like her. Am I right, ladies?

I’m ready to grab my bag, take the bus to work and then leave from work to the train station. Yeah, New York City. It actually freaks me out to be going to NYC. In my head, if it’s not a Law & Order episode with a corpse just waiting to be tripped over, it’s Stevie Wonder. I’m “Living for the City,” getting off the bus and getting caught up and getting arrested, even though I’m not a poor, country boy.

On the bright, non-paranoid side, M. and I hanging out, going to the Village and spending some of my X-mas dough and feigning cosmopolitan style should be fun.

FUUUUCKCKCKCK, sometimes I make myself crazy. Haven’t written here, because I keep tweaking a bulletin board that no one gives a fuck about (including me). On face, it’s an amusing little diversion based on the bullshit over here. But, it hasn’t even matched that in sheer comic impotency.

Although, I guess figuring out a little about style sheets, web design, etc. and trying to begin a portal is probably building some skills I could use. Or, it’s technographic masturbation par excellence.

The true measure of the sheer waste of this activity is the lack of sleep because of it combined with the low productivity at work. At some point, I will be uncovered as an ineffectual cog in the grinding wheels of work. The fraud I have perpetrated is huge, since they have now invested >6 years in payment and training, and oddly I have developed a reputation for possessing valued skills and knowledge. FOOLS! They cannot see the facade I use to hide an empty face to an emptier work soul.

Mostly, I am fucking myself over in my productivity sink hole. I must finish something for work that has taken me months, in order to pass it off to someone truly ineffectual in a half-hearted attempt in hiding my inability to complete required tasks. Unfortunately, I also must plan for my flight to NYC tomorrow evening to see M., master of LinuxWorld.

You would think I would have my laundry picked up and packed by now, and various other errands completed. But, if you did think that you would be very wrong.

At least, fucking Kerry was able to pull off a win in Iowa. Maybe the Democrats haven’t quite yet damned themselves to a flaccid performance in November’s upcoming clusterfuck. I guess that’s today’s little ray of sunshiney hope.

By the way, I work with MDs. That is probably the main reason I can’t get it up my ownself for
Dr. Howard.

Spent most of the weekend in bed, nursing a cold and a hefty dose of apathy. If, on a long, Monday-holiday weekend, you find yourself groggily waking up next to a laptop computer, Palm pilot and vibrator with dead batteries, do you think that says something about you? I figure it means I am a master, make that mistress, of time management.

Channeling a little too much Janis these days, I think. The few times I left the house this weekend it was to go to bars (with comedy shows). Other than that I lay in bed (see paragraph above for reference).

Other than that, I saw this in the news. Fucking hell, people suck. I admit I read the headline looking for cheap thrills from yellow journalism. But, it’s just tragedy in the name of our lord.

FINALLY, it is not as fucking Siberian in Boston. It’s a balmy 32• Farenheit today, thank Christ or whatever divinity cranks your chain.

The weather’s not cold, but I have one. So, I’ve been lying in bed sniffling and doing little more than reading stuff on the Internet and whatnot. The “whatnot” probably signifies some activity. But let’s not go there, shall we?

No politics of BJ talks today, so I’m working less blue, as it were.

And, I have been fucking unbelievably lazy about performing or even checking shows out. So I’m less blue in that I have convinced myself to push harder. {I should clarify that I mean lazy for me, which is performing (or attending with the hope of performing) only about two shows a week. Of course, during the holidays, there were not as many shows, and I had other commitments.}

Besides not wanting to go out in sub-zero temperatures, part of my laziness has been from many situations that just make me feel out of step with the Boston scene, such as it is. Of course, the folly of actually retreating at moments of feeling disconnected is that you distance yourself further. Part of the whole game needs to be putting your face out, asking for time, making connections, etc. in order to remind people of your existence. Unfortunately, it is simply not human nature for people running shows to find you, when right in front of them are several other people who are assertive and brimming over with self-promotion. Is kind of a bird in hand thing.

So, today, I have essentially told myself that I will go to the Studio and hang out. I will engage. I will listen to others’ performances and appreciate what they have (OK, unless it’s so godawful that I want to puncture my eardrums). If I get to perform, great. If not, there will be other times. I will be a veritable fountain of goodness, hope and charity, spilling into wholesomeness. Or at least I will fake it and have a few beers and pretend it’s ambrosia from Mount Olympus.

Onward and fucking upward.

Hey, on an even smarmier note, my baby is coming home for a couple of weeks. Special orders from the government, cheap flights and East Coast business mean I get my playmate back for a couple of unanticipated weeks in February. (And, maybe the best part of all, it means there will be a man in my life to torture self-consciously and insecurely as I over-analyze and over-hype Valentine’s Day, like women described in magazines everywhere are wont to do on February 14.)

The thoughts that filled my head last night were about what the ancient Romans might have called civilitas fellatio. Unless they just said, “Fuck, what’s the big hairy deal about giving head?”

If anyone who knows me in a platonic or familial sense sees this entry, quick pick up a pencil, because I think you probably want to ram it into your eyes now, lest you read further.

Last night in a comedy show, there was an interesting counterpoint. There were sketches from a couple of 20-something women, one who definitely swings on both sides of the sexuality gate and the other, I’m guessing, is quite comfortable in the company of women. And, there was stand-up from an interesting character, who has told me at various times he’s 29 or in his 30s, but who looks to be definitely in the range from 40 to death. He loves misogynistic shock stuff, and for some reason I don’t understand I laugh at his shit even as it registers high on the anti-woman meter. Maybe it’s the sheer bombast of his delivery and the outrageousness of his claims.

So, in one of the women-fueled sketches, there’s a reference to giving a boy oral “because his pleasure is my pleasure.” Fair amount of laughter from a crowd dominated by co-eds from a women’s college, who came to support their friends’ sketches. On the other hand, the sociopathic male comic (I say that as a point of fact not at all an editorial comment on his humor) made repeated references to breaking women’s pelvises with his banging abilities and monster cock and even killing a woman with his swordsmanship. A different segment of the audience entirely laughed.

From my point of view, it’s hard to accept the laughter from the sketch, but I laughed at the running dick joke of the comic. I am so not into submission, ropes, pain, blah blah. Too much work, and even when I kiddingly act the weaker sex, it tends to sound ball-bustingly insincere. Neither joke resonates with my personal reality. (Although, I once got a pathetic phonecall breaking of ties from a guy who I, in an overly athletic maneuver, appeared to have wounded somewhere in the lumbar region. Apparently, after going home, he ended up in some kind of massive back spasm, days of bed rest and doctor-prescribed meds. Not to brag or anything. Too bad, too, since he was cute and a projectionist so I could see movies for free.)

I think the underlying assumption in both is chicks don’t like sex. In the first, women everywhere nod along, maybe, because to give head is to be somehow subjugated by the man. In the second, he is such a man he not only dominates women, he snaps them. It’s so fucking absurd (especially if you knew this guy) you have to laugh.

I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe no woman ever sucks a cock, because she wants to suck some cock. Obviously, there is a pretty strong belief that a blow job is icky, otherwise there wouldn’t be a shitload of male hack comics basically bitching that they can never find a chick who will polish their helmets. Maybe even the tiniest movement toward woman on man oral is a cry for help, and self-esteem is not even a fantasy of a dream of a reality. “Hurt me, daddy, I am a wicked girl.”

Yeah. fuck that bullshit. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t ever want to be a one-trick pony and make a suitable hummer my life’s work. Hey, I like doughnuts now and again, but I ain’t never ate a whole dozen. Nope, I prefer a multi-course meal and cum guzzling would likely be just an hors d’ouevre.

You know what? I should never have skipped lunch to write here.

It is so fucking cold that some towns have closed schools so kids don’t freeze their faces off at bus stops. It’s unbelievable. If you believe in wind chill, reports are saying that if you have exposed skin for 10 minutes, your skin could freeze. I’m going to walk up to the Great and Secret Show, since it’s close. But, I ain’t looking forward to it.

I think my bouts of self-loathing are related to the fact that I’m a total tool. OK, I, of course, flush with my own talents and wonderfulness at any given moment, don’t actually feel that harshly about myself. I prefer to throw my contempt outwardly at the clowns who pee on my world’s cornflakes every moment.

Here’s what I learned today, or learned to remember: For every time I feel like someone let me down, there is usually someone to pick me up again. Comedy has been kind of a struggle against those things in which I feel not so much a failure, but less than successful. I want to be good when I do something, and my learning curve has felt very steep in the past couple of years. But, I honestly thing I have grown and developed, so hey, what the fuck am I complaining about, right?

Quick aside, if I had to hang out with the people on Donald Trump’s new reality show, I would not hesitate to take up arms. I would have to at least stab one of the pushy bastards.

OK, so now that’s said, here’s the thing. Today, five different people, who I respect and/or like (there’s no real reason for that ‘or’) reminded me about what I can do. So, fuck the people who play a different game than me. Fuck the insecure hacks who are intimidated by me. Fuck the boys and girls who equate sexuality with sluttiness. Life’s not a disco, and it don’t matter that I can’t dance.

Besides, nobody fucks with Dee-Robot.

Apart from your average existential crisis (and a dull one at that), I guess life isn’t all that bad.

For example, instead of looking at a multi-million dollar grant, which I have had trouble focusing on at work and brought home, I read about a call girl’s personal adventures in fisting.

IHOP is advertising “Never Ending Pancakes.” Never ending, can you grok that? Never fucking ending. Endless. Eternal. Pancakes. Nirvana, that’s what that is, fucking nirvana.

M. listens to me. Whilst feeling anxious and depressed, in a perverse and peevish wound-licking mood complete with sniffles and cramps, he hears me out and says supportive things. What a marvelous invention this “boyfriend” concept, where someone provides you some bolstering.

I only ever worked for McDonald’s for three days, unlike
some people. Incidentally, work was fun today in one aspect. A woman who has been temping in our office and is very good is mulling over our job offer. Unfortunately, she has another offer on the table from private industry, so all we have in the not-for-profit world is so-called quality of life. In discussing work choices, the boss prompted me to tell the “I worked at Mickey D’s for 3 days, after graduating college, saw my AP math teacher and left over the proper use of the word ‘fuck’ disagreement with the manager” story. Sometimes at work I fucking crush. And, if it’s the boss lobbing the softball your way, she really can’t bitch about the frivolity.

Incidentally, while I am trying to create an upbeat mood, I have to mention the following. The boss has been on a search for the supreme memory key (she won’t let me get the secret agent watch). She wants form and function. The other day she said “OK, forget about size, I’m just looking for something that fits the hole.” I didn’t say anything, while a reel of witty double entendres played in my head. After a baited beat or two, she said, “Come on, I can’t just keep pitching them slow and easy like that and not have you jump in.” When it’s time to go, it will be hard to leave a job where the person in charge goes to some lengths to be a good straight man.