So, I’ve just wasted hours of my life trying to figure out how to change settings to this blog. Now I’m on hold to the host support, since of all of the databases I’ve newly created, this one is the only one where I can’f find any way to re-configure. Fucking computers fucking suck.

The style is now closer to what I want, but still UGLY.

On a much brighter note, morning came with a foot of snow and more falling, scrambled eggs and English muffins and coffee in bed. Not to mention M.’s invocation, “Since I’m not going to be around, I better take care of you now.” Now he’s gone into the swirling snow and dire warnings from news sources to make it to the gym before it closes. I can’t even imagine what it must be like to want to go to the gym at all, never mind in the first storm of the season that is already getting the joyous hyperbolic spin. My favorite part of winter in New England is the fear mongering. Don’t go out, snow, snow everyone! Save the women and children, buy milk and batteries. Better make sure my vibrator’s rechargeables are fully powered, just in case the lights go out.

On a completely unrelated note, I was thinking about a friend’s joke about knowing someone who worried about the caloric intake of sperm. She tags it with a reference to taste. In some weird wrinkle of synchronicity, I feel as though I have of late heard several references to that specific heady flavor. The conclusion I have drawn is that is a new feminist phony posture on par with “My, the wood notes of this Chardonnay are subtle. They remind me of the notes of a local vintage I stumbled across in a remote Alsation village bordering a birch wood that the locals shared with me. You could taste the bark and a fruit note of damask plums.” In other words, yeah, I get that communication involves a common vocabulary, so the tannic acid in Cabernets does taste like tea. But, naming the subtle nuance of spunk you have swallowed (or not) doesn’t require you to list any ingredients. Besides, at the point you are going down on a guy, are you really reflecting on it’s sensory bouquet. No, of course not.

One last thing to note. If anyone out there is planning to get me a Christmas present,
here’s what I want.

Yeah, I need to hover.

I have to figure out how to update this style sheet, since I can stand these blues everywhere. That’s almost like poetry.

Meanwhile, I realized something stupid about myself, which is embarrassing. So, for years I have dated a variety of different types of men, who mostly could be subcategorized under one universal heading. Of course, that heading would be asshole. Unfortunately, what I realized tonight is that the succession of a’holes has meant a version of post-traumatic disorder. I sometimes wince like the abused (although, thank fucking God, I’ve never been hit). I flinch waiting for the blow, or in my case the more subtle rebuff or fight or insult or something. The proverbial shoe drop, as in the shoe I’m always waiting to drop.

But, like seven months or so in with M., no shoe drop. Not even a hint of leather hitting the floor. He still smiles. He does nice things. He doesn’t mind that comedy and writing are both incredibly consuming and way too largely self-involved. And, he has the best ass of anyone I have ever dated. Almost so nice that I feel unworthy. (If you are reading this, and you are M., I said almost.)

It is going to be weird when he’s gone. But rather than miss him, I plan to value what we do have. Yeah, that’s my fucking experiment in optimism. The exertion will probably kill me.

I can’t decide if I like this new format for the blog. It is much easier to use, now that I had to resort to text editing HTML.

I have done a bare minimum to survive at work this morning. Now, I better go pick up paychecks and a grant, since failure could get me fired.

I got my first comment on my blog from someone I don’t know (or at least I can’t tell who it is). Greetings to “chasmyn,” and O vow to use more paper towels.

That reminds me, I’m on a string of fun search hits to my blog. “Black don’t crack,” being my favorite. I also liked “set up and punch,” because the result had nothing to do with joke writing. The Google result showed my matching text as

… of them are funny, and children do not belong in places like bars (I recently wanted
to punch a mother … I wonder how hard it would be to set up my own server. …

I like that I was writing about punching a mother. Today brought “female belly punch.” I wonder what the fuck that is all about.

Alright, better go earn my keep.

Let’s see how this works and whether I want to keep it.

Obviously this version is easier, but is it as fun?

OK, this is boring, I must stop.