Cats are like sock puppets that no hand controls.

Currently drinking a bottle of Aquafina water and noticing that the bottle is very phallic shaped. It's an exceptionally slender bottle at 16.9 fluid ounces with a domed, sort of mushroom shaped top. This top also bears faint ridges, which further indicates the thing was designed for her pleasure.

I don't wanna think about the fact that I got this bottle at my mother's house.

...

My sister works at a restaurant called Claim Jumper and it seems she had to call 911 Sunday night because one of the customers was having a ceisure.

My dad is a fireman, so of course he showed up in his paramedic, fire-truck thingy. And so it seems that I have people in my family who do service to the human race.

What a misguided endeavour.

Didn't talk Tim into watching Pulp Fiction. Instead, I went to Target with him where he bought some storage containers. Apparently, his parents have finally put their feet down and have ordered him to clean his room. Which is too bad, because his room was such a wonderful colage of random junk. I love messy rooms. Maybe because I haven't got a messy room. True, I don't have a room . . .

After Tim's, I stayed up rather late drawing this.

Aside from wanting to flatter Nar'eth, I think I drew it mainly because I hadn't drawn anything but Doll Merchant in quite a while. It's been a very long time since I used my colour pencils. And this was the first time I ever in my life attempted to colour in leather garments, which was difficult, but not as difficult as I'd thought it would be.

I think to-day, I'll catch up with all the school work that's due to-morrow . . .

Not much to say to-day. I spent my time last night organising stuff on the computer (as you can see, I changed my blog a bit. Made it more streamlined, I hope. And, of course, I replaced the bird gentleman with a naked alien pretty lady).

To-day I think I'll go to Tim's house and try to talk him into watching Pulp Fiction. It's just a crime that he hasn't seen that movie yet. A crime.

After Tim's, I'm going to do some Other Things . . .

I am so uncute.


Rate Your Cuteness!
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Found the test on Mel's journal.

It's nearly 5pm, and I've just finished breakfast, how pathetic am I?

Not the first time . . . although, this time I have a somewhat reasonable excuse. I got to sleep at around 4am and had to get up at 8am while some realtor showed the house to some people . . . Yes, looks like I'm going to have have to pack up all my stuff again pretty soon and move to someplace else. Looks like it'll be Tierrasanta, which I always thought of as being a nice part of town. Of course, it'll cement my dependency on the motor vehicle, which ought to make me worried that I still need to get some new car insurance before November . . . I want it to be November so's I can see the Two Towers extended edition! It's not fair that I should want that month to come both soon and late.

Anyway, the realtor didn't leave until 10am, and it wasn't until then that I was able to go back to sleep. I did type up a lot of writing in the interrum, so at least I was productive . . .

I'd intended to stay in all day, but I'm starting to rather want to get out . . .

I read Caitlin R. Kiernan's Postcards from the King of Tides last night and got all intimidated, like I got reading Age of Innocence. You know, some brilliant works, for some reason, don't remind me of my short-comings as a writer, yet these somehow do. So I also read through bits of my novel last night, which is dangerous, because no matter how tired I am, reading over stuff I've written always has me compulsively editing it.

sigh.

As I was walking along in the mall to-day, a young woman asked me who was on my shirt.

"Robert Smith," I said. It's a black t-shirt with Robert Smith's big pale face with a dash of red lipstick. Under his chin, in red letters, it says, "The Cure."

"And what's the cure for?" she asked.

"The Cure's actually a band," said I.

"Oh . . . so it's the cure for entertainment?" she deduced cheerfully.

"No, no. The band's name is 'The Cure'." No one understands me.

"Oh! . . . I went to a Misfits concert once. Are they anything like The Misfits? Like, rock n' roll?" Yes, this individual was not attended by a parent, and in fact looked to be around thirty years in age.

"I haven't heard much of The Misfits' stuff, but I don't think so."

She said, "Oh, neat! How's your cell phone?" which I should have seen coming. Only some goofy Verizon salesperson would feel perfectly natural in the bizarrely pathetic-little-neighbour-kid-trying-to-fit-in tactic of "You like music? Me too! Let's be buddies!"

...

I started writing a new short story at my aunt's Starbucks. Looks like the first non Sci-Fi/Fantasy fiction I've ever written in my life. It's a little noir-ish.

And just before going to my blog here, I finished watching a Stephen Frears film noir that Marty lended me called The Grifters. It was terribly good and surprisingly disturbing.

For some reason, to-day my grandmother was trying to peddle Bill O'Reilly's book off on my aunt as my aunt was trying to walk out the door. My grandmother said something about O'Reilly's relationship with Cardinal Law and I piped in "Wouldn't it be funny if there was a Marshal Law?"

My aunt said, "The Marshal Law? There is a Marshal Law, it's called the Marshal Plan."

My grandmother said, "No, Cardinal Law is a person."

I said, "Yeah, I know. I'm saying what if he were in the military--like, Marshal's a rank in the military. And there's also m-a-r-t-i-a-l for Martial Law. Like when there's a police state."

"The Marshal Plan," said my aunt, nodding.

My grandmother said, "No, he means martial arts."

I gave up at that point.

Found this quiz on Mel's journal . . .


You are Mary Bell. At the ripe old age of 10 you
strangled a neighbor boy, afterwhich you carved
your initals into his skin. At his funreal you
laughed. Your next victim was a 3 year old. You
pushed him off the roof, resulting in a broken
skull. After he was found you went to his
mothers house and asked to see him, she replied
tha t he was dead. You smiled brightly and said
'Oh, I know he's dead. I wanted to see him in
his coffin."
You horrid little girl you.
-smacks your hand-


Which Imfamous criminal are you?
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It's pretty accurate, I think.

...

I had a really good day yesterday. I skipped class and Trisa and I hung out all day. She gave me things . . .

. . . I can't sleep.

This may have to do with the fact that I slept in 'til 1pm on Sunday. It may have to do with the fact that I had four meatless, soy corn dogs for dinner. It may also have to do with the thermos of very strong coffee coffee I finished drinking a few hours ago. Or it may even be because when I lay down in my bed, my mind starts boiling about my current animosities, my current fears, and my current causes for sorrow.

This whole year has been one period of change after another.

I currently find myself at a point where I've realised that I can neither trust or depend on some of the people I once considered my closest friends. And of course, at the same time I have to be wondering whether or not I'm suffering from paranoid delusions. I have to wonder that, you see. I think it could have something to do with the fact that I grew up with a mother who quite casually and frequently lied to me in her attempts to manipulate me. And, in case anyone reading's ever given thought to trying out this technique, I'll tell you now it doesn't work. The truth is invariably found out, if not by the conscious mind, then at least by the spirit.

In any case, I currently find myself in a state where I am far happier alone than I am when I have meaningful relationships with other people. And it doesn't actually feel like there's anything wrong with me, it merely feels like a preference. And I still derive pleasure from superficial relationships, where I just chat or play with someone who shares my interests.

So why do I attempt to have deeper relationships?

Let's see . . . I guess it's not so much a need for companionship with a human, as it is a need to bond with specific humans. It's not that I seek a relationship, it's that I seek a soul. And the only path to a soul that I know of, is through a relationship. Is there another way to gain possession of a soul? Paging Mr. Lucifer . . .

Anyway, I did a new page of Doll Merchant. It's been a while since I've done a page at night . . .

I am very angry to-day.

Very angry.

My anger has actually given me a headache. I'm so disgusted with 90% of reality right now that, if I had the means, I'd probably destroy the world.

I won't go into why I'm so angry . . . There're a lot of reasons.

I wish I had more money. But on the other hand, I can't think of anywhere money would take me that wouldn't piss me off . . .

Just looking over the Forbes listing of 400 richest Americans (don't ask me why) and noticing that the list still includes one Rockefeller and several Hearsts.

Some things will just make you angry, huh?

I despise nearly everyone on this list, except maybe George Lucas and Steven Spielburg.

...

I dreamt last night that I still lived in my old neighbourhood (from when I was 12 or so) and I was over at a neighbour's house. This guy (who I've never seen in real life) had two kids, two little boys. It was around midnight when I told him that his children were in trouble.

"No," he told me, "they're just outside playing."

"Then let's go find them," I said.

So we began searching the dark streets, finding no one, our sense of panic deepening. We split up.

On one very long, wide street, I spotted a little boy walking in the dead centre. This was not one of the little boys we were looking for. This boy was much younger, not even two years old, and very pale. He walked with an awkward, stumpy little stride and I wondered how he had gotten so far away from his adult supervisors--he was alone. When I approached him, he spoke to me in the deep voice of an adult with a thick German accent. After I brought him home to his mustached and smiling father and his plump, blushing mother, I resumed my search.

Many times I saw the silhouettes of children in the distance but somehow knew that no one would ever reach them.

...

I've been treading on dangerous territory lately--nostalgic territory. I've been watching my Evangelion tapes and last night I even broke out my Star Trek tapes. I haven't watched my Star Trek tapes since before I was kicked out of my mom's house . . . The commercials back then were so innocent and so, come to think of it, was Star Trek . . .

Avast and stand well, me hearties, for with me swings a lantern's tale
Aye, for who best sees ye cats sympathies for the gable and turn
And out on the line o' sea does the perty Apollo burn, aye
We 'aven't got a plane to ogle and swap the bloody swallow

Who aught me lass go 'un?
I take me hearty glass for fun
Drep te coast and loverly bossoms
Girl, me friend e'er me cosms

So one "arr" rides more on for her
Ye see no great troubles singing 'll incur
So take saucy dance with saucy drepin' lass
And hoist the dead men over
Hoist the dead men
Hoist the dead men over the river they need pass . . .
An' we sail on top o' the water, cut a' glass, cut a' glass

I wanna go back to sleep. Dasani's not as good the next day.

Yesterday my sister told me that she and her boyfriend had broken up. When I said, "I'm sorry," she just said, "It's okay," and didn't seem to think there was much to talk about.

It turns out, she dumped him because he cancelled a date and because he didn't know what Brail was and he didn't know who Helen Keller was.

Suddenly I'm glad I never had a girlfriend in high school.

...

I did get around to reading The Miller's Tale yesterday and . . . damn. The Farley brothers are but amatuers. Chaucer had raunch and fart jokes nailed six hundred years ago.

I also looked for Neil Gaiman's new book, Endless Nights, but it was of course sold out at both comic book shops I went to. I suppose I'll try next Wednesday . . .

Gods . . . I'm angry.

Tuesday was . . . disapointing. True, it could've been worse. I could've had Trisa's day. Her day looked like it was far worse than mine, poor dear.

Now I am, once again, drinking a Mountain Dew whilst making a blog entry. Now it's almost an hour later than last night's, though. I'm making progress.

I'm supposed to be reading the miller's tale from Cantabury Tales at the moment. But I don't feel like it. I haven't been good for much lately. Feeling sludgy.

I typed up more of chapter 71 one to-day, but otherwise got little done.

I'm currently tired of the human condition.

Did you know that Peppermint Patty was a swinger?

I just drank a full bottle of Mountain Dew, and it's made me realise that I've been going to bed awfully early lately . . . It's not even 2am, and I feel like I should be going to sleep . . .

Awakened this morning by fear!

Fear of what exactly, I'm not sure. I just found myself suddenly griped by a mysterious, rapidly escalating sensation of panic. Dunno what caused it. Perhaps it was all the pizza and coke and chocolate cake I ate last night.

I was flat broke yesterday. Actually, I'm even flatter broke to-day as yesterday I scrounged together just enough money to buy a cup of coffee at Starbucks so that I might write at that place. Seems I can't simply go at the pen and paper at home anymore . . . At any rate, I did get a good deal of writing done. I wrote roughly half of chapter 77--no, not chapter 78 because, as you remember, I discovered that what I'd been calling chapter 77 for weeks was in fact chapter 76. I think. By the time I'm done with the first draft and I've gone through the whole thing carefully, I may find it to be chapter 2. Maybe.

I did find out why my room smelled of an aquarium yesterday, and why the adjoining bathroom smelled even more aquarium-esque. I won't say much about it, except that 1) it wasn't my fault and that 2) humans and fish really aren't so different as we perhaps like to believe.

Why does my room smell like an aquarium? Ew?

Saw a nice fellow Nebari on Caitlin Kiernan's forum this morning mention the upcoming Shadows Over Baker Street. A terrible thing to show a penniless soul like myself. Of course I have until the 30th to pull money together . . .

Sherlock Holmes meets H.P. Lovecraft, as written by Caitling Kiernan, Neil Gaiman, Poppy Z Brite, and others . . . I want it so badly I can taste the badness sizzling behind my eyes. Oi ouch. I want it!

I have a number of things to do to-day . . .

Watching the detectives to-day . . .

As I read The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans earlier, I was struck by how odd it is that the best collection of the original, Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes only seems to be available for free, here. All of the so-called "Complete" Sherlock Holmes collections at the stores omit the original illustrations, thereby, in my opinion, making them decidedly incomplete.

After reading that, I watched an episode of Twin Peaks for the first time in a very long time. I love Agent Cooper.

. . .

Victoria the cat does not meow to-day, so much as 'quacks'. Exactly like a duck.

It's just true.

I'm sleepy. And lacking optimism, pessimism, and cynicism. I am void. My teeth hurt. Although not as bad as they did a few days ago. It's as if the pain's diluted into a big, general bruise.

I bought the second issue of Neil Gaiman's 1602 yesterday and it is good. It is a good series.

. . . yaaaaawn . . .

I wish this computer worked properly so that I could play some TIE Fighter.

Last night I had this crazy idea about going through all my old Star Trek tapes and finding the episodes I really loved. I didn't do that. What will I do?

So far to-day I did type up some of chapter 70 of my novel. I have a lot more in my notebook than what I've typed, and it is a little daunting at this point . . .