Why would anyone prescribe anti-depressants to children ages six and under, especially when the drug being prescribed has not even been approved? And, there are new anti-depressants that carry a suicide risk for teens (which ones don’t?), and doctors find this to be an acceptable risk?
If you want free books, head down to Mexico City's subway.
Eeksy-Peeksy is m-mmm good.
Okay, kids. Sorry about the big depressing lump that was yesterday's entry. I re-read it this morning and saw immediately how craptastic it was, so I've fashioned a new entry the very next day (today) to make up for it. I am going to be strict with myself and try to stick mainly to news and culture. I may diverge just a bit but not to worry, because I gave myself a good band-aid last night that should hold up for at least a day or two. After I wrote yesterday's entry, I felt a little stir-crazy. It is still fucking cold outside, and the Fiery One was away for the evening, and I had just finished writing out my misery, so I donned my coat and went out to a local pub for a pint and more writing. (Yes, on top of this blog I also keep a written journal). I wrote for a while, and then two acquaintances of mine asked me to join them at their table. It was great! I have always liked both of these individuals but have never gotten to know them very well, so it was refreshing and fun and so what I needed. Thank you, my two lovely acquaintances!
I salute you, Massachusetts, even if George W. doesn't.
Ohio ain't as friendly-like to the homos.
I know, I seem stuck on a topic lately, but really, leave gay people alone already! A 17-year sentence for giving a friend head is ridiculous.
What do you do if you're Larry Spencer? If he was smart enough, he would have to be terribly embarrassed of himself.
What do you do if you're Hendrik Schoen? I mean, really, he must also be terribly embarrassed of himself.
Really and truly now, I am becoming quite annoyed. For some reason, the building manager has seen fit to change not only the front door lock but every apartment door lock in the entire building, which means that I had to come home earlier than I wanted to so that I could let the Fiery One into the apartment (we haven’t had a chance to get extra keys made yet). The Fiery One told me to be home around 6 pm to let him in, and then I could go back to whatever I was doing. I did that. I came home. I am still at home. It is no longer 6 pm. It is now 7 pm. I hate waiting. I am not a good waiting person. I’m sure that there are a number of reasons for this lateness such as working overtime, the grocery store being a madhouse, the cab took forever to show up, he is succumbing to hypothermia by a roadside somewhere. Today, though, I really want to not be sitting here waiting, because there was somewhere else where I was having a conversation and enjoying myself, and the friend I was talking to who was likely going to still be there will no longer likely still be there, and I am still sitting here. Come home, Mr. Fiery One! Because on top of being anxious to run away from here, which is becoming less probable as the minutes tick by, I missed the Fiery One today and want to see his sunny face. Please don’t be freezing to death on somebody’s lawn, my dear. That would be terrible. And you would be too cold to cuddle properly.
Von Hagens does gruesome work with the corpses, he does. (I can’t help it. I love the gruesome).
Since when does being a strong female mean making fun of and bullying boys? Such overtly negative messages would almost never be considered in mainstream culture if the target was females.
Last night I had the strangest dreams. Most of my dreams lately have been either too easily forgotten or painfully boring, but the dreams of last night held on to me so tightly that I woke several times in an effort to rid myself of them. The last one went on and on, and its beginnings have kind of trailed away on me, but the atrocious end is still with me. In the dream, I had just left a situation in which I felt forced to consume mass quantities of disgusting meat by-products, the worst of which was called “cow knuckles”. These could be sucked at to remove most of the meat, but the boney/cartilaginous knuckle had to be swallowed whole. I managed to extricate myself from the large group of us that sat gorging ourselves at a long table and went to a public shower area in order to try to clean some of the meat-stench from my person. Shortly after entering the shower, several people came in as well, and there we were, all of us naked. I turned to the side to discreetly vomit up a cow’s knuckle that was being pesky in my esophagus, and then turned back to the crowd. While the shower head coursed water down on us, I held up a particularly grisly grill and a scrub brush. The grill was heavily caked with animal fat and old meat, and the smell grew more and more powerful with the heat of the water. I proceeded to instruct the eight or so people in the shower with me on the finer points of removing caked-on animal fat from grills. I was unable to pull my eyes from the sight of heavy chunks falling and sitting thickly in the water on the shower stall floor.
And to finish things off on a happier and less disgusting note, here is the Online Etymology Dictionary. It is my newest joy.