Beee Sevunteeeen Bawmer.

As dictated by Claire.

A great by B-17 zoomed over the principality called My Life, and dropped a big-ass nostalgia bomb on me. It's been pretty righteous as far as reacquainting with old buddies go. So, let me spin you an epic yarn about a scarred-up girl with an attitude. And puppets. And restaurant ventures.

A long, long, long, long time ago, I'd spent the better part of a year on a Roleplay Server of Ragnarok called Agharta. Agharta's a pretty slick place, if you're a good-guy. There's just about zero room for anyone beyond "Crass Bitch," or "Brooding Intellectual," and if you get all up in normality's grill, you get raised eyebrows and unified retaliation.

However, if you're just making ends meet, say, as a Puppeteer, things go pretty well!

And I was.

I'd spent my evening getting tomatoes hurled at me, getting sunburns, and sporting lucky hats, and falling hopelessly, hopelessly closer to one Sathyre Caerwynn, a delightfully foul-mouth, scarred-up, and surprisingly strong Mu with a penchant for broadswords and street-lamp spears.

Sathyre Caerwynn would happen to be Sabina Damirovna! I've only mentioned her once before when I was lighting my wishing lantern to wish goodwill onto everyone!

Sabina was a good friend of mine. We'd met under false terms while I was using my once-trappish looks as an alternate identity. See, I hadn't planned on staying, so I figured registering under an alias would be inconsequential. It wasn't, because I had so much fun I stuck around.

Later, some issues with my crummy love-life prior came to light and I wound up taking a lot of time to exclusively focus on my college credits and graduating top-quarter. When I finally came back, Sabina had gotten royally screwed by the moderating staff and moved on to bigger and better things.

We've actually just recently gotten back in touch, and it's pretty stellar!

I can't say I'm the best, but to celebrate, I've taken a crack at drawing Sathyre with her trademark goggles and a two-handed sword.

Aaah, Memories.

On Painters.

When I was a young boy, I was something of an outcast because growing up in Europe meant growing up different. When you don't sound or behave like the others you kind of stand out and as society tends to dictate, the nail that sticks out furthest is hammered hardest. I think it was important that that'd happened, though. It really did wonders to broaden my perspective. All the same, though, I didn't have much that I could engage in. Edward William Marsh was my only friend, and he was a grade above me, so we were kind of separated by time in school, and by grade in the Youth Center we both attended after school because our parents worked late.

I didn't really have any friends aside from Edward, so I kind of spent most of my free time reading. There were, distinctly, three books I loved most: Anansi the Spider, the Eyewitness Guide series, and anything by Shel Silverstein.

The Eyewitness Guide series is one I've not seen since my stay in Europe, but it's essentially a collection of information and photos all organized into their respective topics. They had them for everything, too: Money, Mummies, Fossils, Gems, Deep Sea Life, and finally Painters.

I was particularly fond of Vincent van Gogh's Eyewitness Guide. I kind of related to him, and even though he's no longer my favorite artist, I owe him mention at least for instilling in me a sort of kinship and getting me interested at such a young age. However, I will say that as I grew Art became a distant subject for me until I discovered...

 

GUSTAV KLIMT

Gustav Klimt quickly became a favorite of mine, and for my birthday, I remember getting a framed print of his work, The Expectation. I confess I have a soft-spot for his piece, Portrait of Mäda Primavesi, too.

Mäda Primavesi's beautiful, but it's also downright gaudy. It's one of those pieces I'd love to have a print of, but I know better because I'd have nowhere to put it. Klimt seems like he'd have been a fun guy to know, too. Just as I have seen photos of him sternfaced at matinees, I've seen ones of him with he's sleeves rolled up on the beach, with his dog.

Klimt was my lone favorite for a long time, and I'd discovered my second through a bit of a fluke.

My little sister used to own a copy of Animal Crossing: Wild World, and we used to play it together before I'd gotten older and she'd gotten legitimately challenged in classes. If you've never played it, it features this sneaky fox who offers to sell you paintings for exorbitant sums of cash, and they all have a chance to be utterly fake and useless. The paintings are all renditions of factual acclaimed paintings and my favorite was the "Opulent Painting," which is actually a pixellated rendition of Alphonse Mucha's The Zodiac.

Which brings us to favorite number two.

 ALPHONSE MUCHA

Alphonse Mucha did a lot of these really beautiful, fanciful pictures of people almost befitting of old school whiskey-labels. I have a particular fondness for this painting in particular titled Fate. There's something about those intelligent eyes, that Aleister Crowley nose-bridge, and those positioned hands befitting of a Buddhist statuette. I just can't help but love it. Mucha's a bit less, how shall we say, "Mosaic", than Klimt, but that's simply Klimt's hallmark style. Mucha's got a thing all his own going, though, and his works are just as distinct without any blatant hallmarks beyond Mucha's fondness for square, almost post-card or lable-like mountings on which he set his paintings.

But, goodness. I just love them both.

I guess that's sort of all I really wanted to do. I'd planned on sneaking in a piece about Matisse and his blindness, and how when he could no longer paint, he simple made things out of ripped paper. It's hard to discern what they are until you read the titles. I've kind of decided to just leave this post about my favorites, but if you'd like to see the charming curiosity that is Henri Matisse's career extending well-into his blindness and crippling arthritis, I encourage you to look up Matisse's The Snail.

It was shown to me at an exhibit in England by a woman who encouraged our small touring class to guess what it was without knowing its name. We all burst into laughter when, name revealed, we were able to see quite clearly what Matisse had made.

Bran-New Love Song

I spent the evening in kind of a stupor. I don't really know what's up.
I slept like garbage - I'd actually made plans to read Claire a bed-time story. I always do Dan Kim's "The Dollmaker's Tale," when it comes to reading people bed-time stories. I don't know why, but I've actually been pretty popular with regard to the topic. I think it might even stretch as far back as when I'd taken my first swing at Ragnarok's Roleplay Servers.

I was a troubadour named Papeko who regaled Towns and Inns with bad puns, singing, and puppeteering done with a colossal insect doll named Percival. Percival and Papeko together made up the "esteemed roadside spectacular" that was Papeko Paprenjak's Puppet Pantomime. It was a lot of fun. I regret concealing my identity there, and last I'd spoken to the folks I left behind there, they said they missed and remembered me very well.

Nostalgia. The day's got a lot of nostalgia.

I've finally finished all of my paperwork. It was a grind. Music's been helping me get through the days as of late. I've been starting my days early and kind of in the doldrums. Paperwork was the last thing I wanted to do, but I'd heard 8-bit Betty, of all things.
I'd heard 8bit Betty's "And I Know That You're Happy (Ballad of the Lonesome Spaceboy)" on a DJ Session. I want to say it was a Midnight Snacks session, but I could be wrong. It was really good, though. Struck a chord with me, because I was thoroughly enamored with Cave Story during the summer I'd heard it, and it fit right in with all that. I quickly downloaded Betty's album, Too Bleep to Bloop, and then kind of disregarded it after getting that one track I'd wanted from it. For some reason, I gave that album a full listen that morning, and I heard "Blast-Off!" which is...All about nostalgia, and plans, and love, and space...

I thought, "You know what? Let's go into space. Let's suit up. Let's do this."

Likewise, the song you've undoubtedly begun to hear now is holding hands with the stupor I'm in quite well. It's "Sleep Forever," from Jasper Byrne's new pixellated horror side-scroller, Lone Survivor. It's a lot like sideways rendition of lol's acclaimed .flow.
I'd given the demo a whirl. I have to confess I was actually pretty sad. I loved the game, and it ran smoothly, but no sooner had I than I watched a little bit of a Retsuprae so that I could see a little past where I'd left off. Everything ran smoothly, the monsters twitched eerily instead of just kind of writhing in place like mine did, and the fade-outs were quick, as opposed to the thirty-second snow-session I got every time I entered a sequence or something.

I guess I'm just really coming to terms with the idea that "Low Graphics" doesn't mean "Low Demands," and the fact that my Netbook is a pile of garbage. Dustin gave my specifics a look-over last night and laughed at them. He said they were, "So bad it's cute." Oh, CPUnzan, I really wish you'd have a successful installment in your namesake for a change. I really do.

I have a sneaky suspicion the CPUnzan's going to die soon. Moments ago, it stalled out twice without repair, until I'd not only turned it off, but hardbooted it as well.

But that's a First-World Problem if I've ever heard one.

I spent a good portion of my evening crying as well.
I don't like these stupor-y feelings. They're kind of odd little ruts where I'm not necessarily sad or unhappy so much as I am wistful or longing. Even my dreams were kind of like that.

I had a bizarre series of dreams that consisted of what appeared to be little vignette-y interviews with addicts and prostitutes. I remember a woman - really angry in voice, but I couldn't see her face. She was talking in a soliloquy of sorts while someone painted a fuse-box. She said, "You open your mouth wide, and decide you'd like to become what you destroy, but it doesn't work that way. You can't be whatever you want."

After that, this blonde woman with a page-boy cut and really grimy make-up that kind of hid the fact she were an addict apart from her teeth was smoking a cigarette and talking about her time as a prostitute and how she'd fallen in love with one of her frequent clients. She'd said, "He had a spider tattoo. Then again, maybe it was an asterisk. It was a small tattoo, I don't know. But man, we all wanted to climb that silver thread. He took care of you. Shared his fruit. 'Course, his cock was the only part of him with a real job."

Somewhere before both of those was a vague vignette where two people told eachother that they were important, and then simultaneously had multiple affairs.

It was all exceptionally sexual, but also unhappy. Even the fond memories of the blonde woman with the cigarette had kind of a weird conclusion and they were just that - memories.

I don't know.

But I reread Emily's letter to me, with it's worries, and it's hand-drawn sigils and pentagrams, and silly faces that she does so perfectly, and how her mother likes me, and I started to cry. I just cried and it puddled-up on my glasses. And I just stayed like that for awhile, until I felt composed enough to wash my bedsheets. But not before sponging my face dry with them.

It's a good evening. Just a nostalgic and odd one.

It's a really odd evening. The Pillow's "Bran-New Love Song," (sic) and "Sleep Forever" just really cover all of what I'm feeling right about now.

That's Why They Call Me Mister Fahrenheit.

I WANNA MAKE A SUPERSONIC MAN OUT OF YOU.

Alright. Let's do this, Cobuniji. You're not gonna get a single pause out of me. I'm going to go one-handed as I down my coffee. Two-hundred degrees, baby. It's on. Uninterrupted.

Here it goes:

Right, okay, so, it's been awhile since I've written, but I promise I've got some good stuff. Promise. 

Let's start with the Anathema of Zos. Funny thing about loving someone with a brilliant mind is you occasionally find yourself in these Hot-for-Teacher moments where you wind up fantasizing about someone's sexy brain in addition to their rather stellar looks. Reading the Anathema of Zos was one of those moments. Awhile back, I took the time to read Thus Spoke Zarathustra, which I find exceptionally similar to the Anathema of Zos in composition and voice, though perhaps not content. Thus Spoke Zarathustra is a Nietzsche number that - among other things - is essentially a book of views that could possibly help someone survive a world in which there are no gods. It essentially says that man's highest goal should be furthering itself and achieving its most loftiest and nameless of goals so that it might one day surpass itself. I mentioned it in that Transhumanism discussion.

The Anathema of Zos is a little different. It - from what I've gathered because such texts are rarely linear and uh, what's that word. Literal - is a text essentially advocating balance and self-love in the form of an angry rant delivered by Zos, an enlightened goatherd of sorts. It's kind of like Ayn Rand meets some kind of pseudo-Taoist mentality. This pseudo-Taoist mentality is a basic principal in the occult, spoken fondly of by Emily as the "old rule of As Above, So Below," and familiar with most as Newton's Third Law of Motion, though it's applicable to a wide-range of topics. Give it a read if you don't mind words like, "Excrement," and other kind of funny insults. If you can say "You spoony bard!" with a straight face, you're probably solid.

Don't stop me, don't stop me, don't stop me no-

Right. New topic. Let's do this. Call-signs.

In the Military, you're given a typically un-affectionate nickname called a Calls-sign that's used to address you in shorthand while working. Today, on the way to the airport at 4:00 AM to send my mother off to Japan to visit Tara, we've gotten to hear a few of the many, many terrible code-names my Father works with, such as:

• "Growler" - an Intel soldier who's exceptionally sharp and intelligent, but notorious for having- well, it required a bit of back story. As it seems, there's a small, closer-to-everyone restroom, and there's a further restroom that's much larger. It is given courtesy that you use the larger, more-distant restroom in the event that you have to crap at work. Growler did not know this, and casually detonated the closer restroom, which is smaller and unventilated, ruining it for anyone who had to pee and didn't want to go the extra distance. He was given the Call-sign as a punishment. It's the technical term for a "shit so forceful it requires vocal accompaniment."

• "Wedge" - you already know Wedge. Wedge is a LARPer who is exceptionally overconfident in his abilities. He opted that his Call-sign be 'Maximus,' because it was superlative, just like him. That didn't happen. Instead, he was called a tool. The simplest tool is a Wedge. It stuck.
  
• "Spork" - You'd probably wondered why I mentioned Wedge, when you'd already heard of him. That's because Spork was named in parody of Wedge. Spork is really good at what he does, and what he does is a very broad topic. However, he's a bit of an ass. Being an utter tool, but immensely useful, he was dubbed Spork - "the most useful tool."
  
• "Moai" - Moai's sort of funny. You're probably imagining that he's some sort of gruff, unshaven Hawaiian with lots of cool Hakka tattoos or something. No. In fact, it's kind of sad, really. As described to me, Moai is a poor bastard with an "exceptionally massive skull." He's got a big head. Moai is term for the statues of massive heads at Easter Island.

Right uh, wait for it, wait for it, I've got something else. I've just got to think. I uh...Wait for it.

I've got an oddjob today. I'm excited. It's a chance to recoup the eighty bucks my derp square-off with the U.S. Postal Service cost me. I'm kind of excited because I've been practicing some silly doodling and I'd like to give it a shot on some postcards or something. I always get all the letters I want written put-together when I'm oddjobbing because I never have anything to do on lunch-breaks. I just kind of sit there awkwardly. In rare cases, there's coffee but I'm running on empty. I've got like, just enough grounds to cover the red plastic at the bottom of the can. Mostly.

On the other hand, this particular drum of coffee lasted me like, forever. It might be because I got a drum of cheap Maxwell House sometime between getting it. Funny thing about Maxwell House, actually.

I'm really fond of pens. Particularly pens that don't screw up. The military issues a specific pen for use. It's a black retractable pin with a metal clasp in the middle and "Skilcraft - U.S. Government" stamped in the middle of it. They're pretty durable. I've actually seen people loosen the ink in them to keep using them by holding lighters to their tips. I'd run out of ink in the one I use for letters and was curious to get more, when I'd given a look into Skilcraft as a company. They're actually a Disabled Workers community. They make just about everything the U.S. Government issues the military: uniforms, clocks, pens, playing cards, notebooks, flash-light fixtures, and yes - even Maxwell House coffee.

I thought that was pretty bitchin'. Hell yeah, U.S. Government, giving a perpetual supply-and-demand for disabled workers. You done me proud.

And crap, that leaves me short a topic. Uh. Wait for it. Saytr-...er, Satyrs.

Let's go:

I've been on kind of a Satyr kick which is what got Anathema of Zos read, too, because while not a Satyr, Zos happens to be a goatherd, and a satyr is featured on the cover of the book. I've never been too much of a fan of Archery in the sense of Vidya and RPGs because I've always associated it with those obnoxious Peter Pan outfits. Y'know the ones. There's very few games that can make that work, and if they do, it's because they make it into a ranger's uniform, as it should be, instead of a ridiculous hat perched upon a tunic befitting of Zelda's Link. Satyrs are pretty sweet. I'd actually spent quite a while trying to dig up information on some game I'd played once upon a time that featured one with a crossbow. Instead of running, he kind of half-galloped with this bow pressed into his belly. I can't for the life of me remember what it was, but as I type this, I think it might have actually been the Gnolls from Warcraft III. I could be wrong, though, too.

...Hrm.

What else have I got? I could uh. Wait for it. Dark beer.

I spent awhile reading about dark beers, too. If you're not familiar, basically, if you use roasted oats in a long-run malt, typically cold-malt, you get a beer that's like, black. I was always fascinated by this because, while I don't drink (much or frequently. I have had a beer in the shower on occasion to assert my utterly lazy intentions for a few days off, I confess) I've recently begun to make these fashion pins out of bottle-caps, and the weird beer-section at the supermarket features all of these bizarre brands. They have a lot of pseudo-occultist ones that have really cool labels and utterly disappointing caps. However, Old Rasputin Imperial Stout has a cap featuring none other than the Mad Monk himself, Gregori Rasputin.

I've got to keep an eye out for that one. I know there's a Chinese beer, too, that features a bright red star. I should try to get that for Hjalmar. It'd be a good gift. 

It's funny - just as my mother leaves, Hjalmar, too, has left on a trip. Hjalmar's headed out to Broccoli, a kind of annual get-together. I love seeing the silly crap they do; my favorite tale is Stoner-Octillory. Octillory is a silly pokemon, and while playing, one Broccoli attendant paused and exclaimed, "Woah. That thing is -seriously- stoned." At which point everyone got together and whipped up doodles of Octillory in a Rastafari get-up, complete with a bong and a casual "I don't care," in Swedish.

I'll never look at it in the same way. It's just perpetually got that reputation, now.

Kind of like Archers being Peter Pan.

Or Starbucks being the eternal safe-haven of obnoxious hipsters.

Or Khezu being perpetually relevant.

Or Brazilians and Pinoys being terrible, inarticulate gamers.

Or lists broken by many "or"s reminding me of that scene in FLCL where Mamimi talks about pandas with mean faces, sandals with pressure-points, and stale bread.

I'd taken a break to try and write something yesterday. I really wish I'd taken time to flesh-out the basics first. I tend not to think things like that out, and then I wind up recalling half-ways how difficult it is to include dialogue from anyone else beyond the narrator in a travel-log style set-up. I need to try and strike that half first-person set up that worked so well for me once upon a time in the days of auld lang syne, when I was a Writefag.

I might continue that endeavor, but I'm not entirely certain if I will. I've got some stuff I do need to handle, but I suppose first and foremost is my oddjob, which I'm about two hours away from.

I've officially received my New York State Donor's Card, which makes the solid one more time I have to donate platelet's much easier. On the fifteenth of May, expect pictures of Hijab-Phlebotomist with all sorts of cool details. If I don't catch her there, I'll seriously continue donating past the gallon-mark until I do, indeed, encounter her again. She was really cool. Old, but cool.

Which reminds me - I've been talking to Emily's mother on occasion. Boy, does she have some stories. It's really neat, actually. I can honestly say she's genuinely pretty cool to talk to, because she's always got either slick stories from the Seventies, or nostalgic stories about the people she's known who have since passed-away.

We've gotten to talking kind of regularly, and she asserts she's going to have a land-line put down sometime so that I can call for free, which will be slick, because I can finally stop wasting Emily's minutes in addition to getting my nostalgia-fix.

I've actually got to get on the phone later today with an assistance agency. The Government forms I'm handling are so convoluted that they actually have a help-line for implementing them. Which is really good, because there's so many government issuance-numbers that it simply expects me to know, and I simply don't. I mean, I would if I were handling them daily, but I'm not.

...Heh. That line makes me think of Nice Guy Eddie. 

If I ever get an obnoxious Call-name, I hope it's either Mister Pink or Nice Guy.

Somehow, I think the chances of me getting a Reservoir Dogs reference for a name, though, are pretty slim.

Oh-! Shit! There's a topic! It just hit me. 

Were Emily to get a call name? She'd be -Ganymede-.

No joke. Let me get you a picture. You probably don't have anything to compare it to, but she's got the same slightly-curled hair that Ganymede has, only it's strawberry blonde. Exact same build. And soft and Renaissance-Statue Proportion.

Seriously. It's uncanny.

All I need is Zeus to try and mack on her in the form of a 

colossal Eagle, and it's a done deal.

I should probably be closing up. I'm kind of out of topics. So much for that whole Mister Fahrenheit bit. I'm sputtering out like a firework. Thanks for reading. I'm going to go run my two miles at the Gym before I suit-up to make myself an extra few bucks. Until next time.

Wake Up with the Sunshine.

It's been awhile. Let's catch up.

God willing this'll be a pretty big entry. It's just been long enough for some tantalizing developments to pile-up. My fasting has concluded. I did well, and I've been reading sporadically through Liber Null, which has detailed the interconnectedness of emotions with their juxtaposed counterparts, as well as the two-pronged dilemma of relying on peaked emotions as a catalyst - as you repeatedly invoke them, you'll deaden yourself to them and become increasingly "debauched" for lack of a better word as you work harder and harder to chase the elusive peak you'd once been able to readily utilize for your spiritual endeavors. It's not unlike the unattainable initial high of any addict. A firm grip upon your wants, instincts, and even your mind is needed to push past the brink and then recompose and continue as if you hadn't.

This is all largely spiritual, however, and I probably seem a bit of a pretentious jackass discussing it. Moving onto a bit more physical of concepts, I'd been speaking to Eiki with regard to Transhumanism - the idea of humanity being surpassed or bettered through it's own endeavors. I'd actually considered just pasting the discussion here and pretending it's an entry, but that seems really dumb in retrospect. We discuss everything from Nietzsche, to Space Travel, to Deus-Ex; if you'd like to read it, I've uploaded the Entirety of the Discussion to Pastebin for your browsing pleasure, if that's your cup of tea or you're simply nosy or curious.

I've been keeping up with my jog-a-few-miles, lift-weights alternating work-out and it's doing wonders. My stamina for running has always been small because of my asthma and weak lungs, but I've managed to the point that I can run two miles uninterrupted. It's taxing, but I've been working to do it every other day to success. I have trouble doing it on the uneven roads, but I can do it without anything beyond casual stretching at the track. It feels promising, and I'm hoping to be sporting an even better physique soon.

I've been trying out some really slick recipes as of late. I'd like to cook for Emily when I've arranged to visit, the available date to do so I hope to receive today alongside my wire frames for my glasses. Emily had never enjoyed coconut as a breading, so I'd taken the liberty of learning to make...

COCONUT WHITING WITH MANGO SALSA

I am desperately hoping that this not only will serve as a romantic dish to have with Emily, but something new and adventurous for her to enjoy. As I understand, she's not a fan of coconut, because her Father
(Colossal douche.) enjoys it regularly, so I was determined to make something that would change that opinion. If you've ever had Coconut Shrimp, it's pretty amazing. This spat all over Coconut Shrimp while it was down and then smoked a cigar with its former friends.

I hope the Carrot and Sweet Potato Soup I hope to make beside it goes over half as well - the ingredients are far odder, and to my dismay include the ever-expensive but delicious carrot juice.

I also made what can only be described as the most unhealthy pancakes ever. Remember those Pancakes from a ways back? The chocolate-banana ones? They were a precedent-establishing case. Now whenever she wakes up, my little sister pulls me away from my morning coffee to ask for pancakes, heedlessly unaware of the ass-pain that is scrubbing mixing bowls at 7:00 AM. Today, I caved. I said, "We don't have any bananas," and she asserted, "We have discount M&M's!" so I wound up making M&M Pancakes. Which she then covered in chocolate syrup.

Yes. M&M and Chocolate Syrup flavored Fried Dough. I didn't get a picture. I was too ashamed.
Even the Amandine from months back were healthier than that. She ate them while watching a documentary on the Green River Murderer.
Aah, youth.

I spent last night discussing Vidya with Liam. Lately, he's on a Monster Hunter and Katamari Damacy kick. I've never played either, but EVERYONE with a soul loves the Katamari theme-song, and I happen to have a favorite monster, which I have distantly admired for years while people played Monster Hunter. It's the Khezu. The Khezu is quite possibly the most charming monster ever.

In addition to resembling a cross between an uncircumcised penis and the Scolex of a Tapeworm, it is also my favorite monster because of its titanic, electrified, tooth-ringed, and featureless face resembling the Headsucker's from the Powerpuff Girls or Ninomae's Flandre. I love it. It's also inadvertently spawned an inside joke where everything pertains to Khezu. In addition to everything pertaining to Khezu, Khezu is also known to "Use the Sun Ring," and "Think Male-Ninja is Good," both of which are kind of their own in-joke, too.

Beyond that, there's not a whole lot going on. I've been reading about Circe on the side. I've been turning the idea of writing a Fallout: New Vegas story for quite some time now, because it's been a very long time since I've ever written anything like that. I wanted to write a Gummo parallel to it about a year ago, where Jarrod Wiggley would embark on a Caravan Trip with Solomon and Tummler, who would spend their days raping dying Raiders as opposed to disabled prostitutes, killing Geckos instead of cats with a pellet rifle for Huntz for profit, and taking Jet as opposed to sniffing glue. I never did. Since, I've been turning an idea about a young Priestess in Caesar's Legion who tries to create a revolt and rises to distinction - I'd planned her to be named Circe and be defined by Circe's knowledge of flora and fauna and her treachery. I don't think I'll do it, though. I've just not got time to, but the idea's there. Dustin's pitched the idea of writing up a big adventure bit. I'll probably just expend my extra creativity there and save myself the trouble of writing alone.

Oh. Shit. I forgot I have mail to get out in addition to mail to receive. I guess I'll leave out on that. Thanks for reading. Also, Khezu.

Blood Clinic Shenanigans.

If you've never filled out a Red Cross questionnaire, I'm about to kind of explain some of the stuff on there. I imagine it's quite the same for any place you're donating your bodily fluids, to be honest, unless they have a different testing regiment or something. Regardless, I'll give you the run-down:

1. If you have spent more than two days or so in Jail, don't donate.
   (We don't know if you'd gotten raped, homes. We also don't know if the later-mention narcotics, or lying for that matter, landed you in there.)
   
   
2. If you have spent time adding up to four years in a foreign country from the year nineteen-blah to nineteen ninety-blah, do not donate.
   (Mad Cow Disease was some crazy bidness and we don't want no cow-insulin tainted gaijin tappin' his veins for us.)
   
   
3. If you have had any naked contact with someone of the same gender, do not donate.
   (Everyone has AIDS! My grandma and my dog, Ol' Blue! The Pope has got it, and so do you-!)
   
   
4. If you abuse drugs or narcotics, do not donate.
   (The advent of the plastic syringe, being the disposable unsterilizable syringe, has made heroin and third-world vaccinations a whole lot more dangerous.)
   
   
5. Don't donate if you've needed blood, platelets, dura-mater, an organ, or any other transplant or transfusion.
   (This ain't JC Penney's. No returns allowed. Plus, you could be having some terrible delayed reaction to them we've not seen due to a latency period or something.)
   
   

The deal-breaker for me, in the future and due to their very bleak outlook on the transgender community and their unwillingness to stray from the idea that anyone who has had contact with someone of the same - or once the same - gender is hopelessly contaminated with HIV, was number three. The attendee I had recently asserted that there are testing advents that will someday change that, but they're still in the works. I'll tell you more about her because she was interesting, but in the meantime, blood.

I realized that if I were going to donate, I'd have to do it celibate so I've been doing it since my sophomore year of High School. Realizing that I lived within walking-distance of a Community Blood Center in Missouri, I began donating frequently and graduated as a Gallon Donor for whole-blood.

Then, they began asking me about Platelets. I was actually quite spooked but I gave it a shot. It went terribly because the Community Blood Center is very fond of a single-vein TRICA Machine, which essentially uses one vein for returns as well as draws. It's quite slow, has a jarring sensation as your blood's pumped back into you, and worse, on my first donation, I had the joy of this sullen woman who wanted absolutely nothing to do with me or my puns, and she actually disregarded me while the needle pierced the vessel. It was horribly painful and I had a discolored needle-stuck arm that left me reminiscent of a junkie for two weeks or so.

Before leaving Missouri, I was three donations or so away from having donated a gallon of platelets as well. I'm two-down and one donation away from reaching one-gallon on platelets.

Having already registered to donate marrow, I'm moving down the list pretty fast and it's exciting.

Donating was pretty odd here. I tried to donate a ways back but they didn't have any openings for platelets and I wound up having to donate Whole Blood again. When I did donate, they stuck an underlying nerve by picking a vein I'd asked them not to use, and it took a long while to heal.

I was a little nervous about going in this time, because I imagined getting that whole Junkie-Limb Procedure again. Instead, this aging Islamic convert shows up with her beautiful hijab pinned with one of those tiny gold fibulas, and tucked neatly into her labcoat, gives me the All Clear and tries (successfully) two new and completely asymmetrical veins to donate Platelets with something other than the TRICA Machine I was used to.

She was very kind, as well. And she liked my jokes. Trying a vein in my wrist for returns and using the typical elbow-joint vein for withdraws, she puts the wrist one in and asks, "Does that feel okay?"

Being a charming smartass, I replied, "It feels great. I'd actually like you to do it to my other arm, too!"
Giggle-snorts from the entire facility went off and she laughed, obliging.

I think, when I go in for my final Platelet donation, I'll get a nice photo of her and her name so that I can show her off. She's quite possibly the nicest person I know, and I admired her for being so open with developments in the phlebotomy community's technology and the plight of the transgendered donor. Or even my situation: I'm in love, but I'd better not let it get too far ahead of itself if I want to help anyone.

I don't know. It was just really cool, and I feel sort of progressed. Onto marrow and maybe sperm, if that's not totally weird.

Pious Beyond Amusing Implications.

This day begins what is an eight-day period of fasting, meditation, abstinence, and reading on my part.

I am beginning with the Gospel of Judas Iscariot and proceeding onto my metaphysical manuals.

All the time I've spent honing my body dwarfs the investment I have made spiritually. I will amend this.

Pardon the austere tone, I am simply thinking.