All everyone ever wants, I think, is to have some fucking power over his or her own world. Some tiny grip on the edge of the cavernous mouth of death and dread and unknown, unknowable darkness and mortality. Something that makes you think you might possibly have some hope even though death is certain.

Or maybe it just makes you feel good and cocky, like having a little jingle of coin in your pocket or the fresh scent of a new lover around you like an aura. Either way, who among us doesn’t at least like to fuck around with the illusion of choice, right?

To that end, I’m re-working this motherfucking dung heap. (That’s a stupid metaphor. Fucking your mom is bad, and throwing shit into the mix? That’s just perverse.) Anywho, I’m changing the styles around a bit — check out the bottom of the right-hand column if you want to toy with some templates. Be warned, though, they are straight out of the virtual box, so most of them screw the bejesus out of the layout I got going on. Fixing that will havve to be another day’s project. For the sweet comfort of the familiar, and who doesn’t like the sweet comfort of the familiar, try using the layout called “dpr.”

I’ve also banished (at least for the whimsical short-term) almost all of the old posts. Today, they are like dead to me. Except the ones about my heroine, Pat, since, well, she’s not dead to me, albeit she ain’t what you would call living. I figure you gots to honor your mom, and some of that stuff I kind of like anyway.

Just like I’m trying to re-work my real-life house and chuck the old clutter, I’m trying the same experiment here. Although, given my total packratted compulsions, it’s really only an experiment. Trying on a new outfit, if you will. Dancing with a stranger. OK, building a new stranger from scrap and then trying to get the beast to dance with you. Dance, damnit, dance, I made you. Pleeeaaaseeee.

Anyway, this may very well be a new start. (Or not, because face it I am one equivocal son of a bitch, unequivocally so. OK, wait, not really a son of a bitch, because I’m a chick, and my mother could behave bitchily, but she wasn’t a universal bitch, but I do flip flop or worry and obssess or consider things fully. I guess I’m not sure, or wait, do I have to commit to what I am right now?)