#511: I'M NOT THERE, BUT I'M NOT REALLY HERE, EITHER
Before I go on about the lamentable state of my not-being-at-Blogher-ness, I have one thing to tell you:
I have three standard Vox invites to give away. If you want one, simply tell me about something that strikes your fancy. Do you have a fancy? Does something spank it? And remember, if you don't have an accessible e-mail address, I can't give you what you want.
So, I am not going to BlogHer, because I am less wealthy than I need to be to go anywhere that requires an airplane. Or a bus that goes more than three hours away from Cityville. And don't even joke about renting a vehicle, because sometimes they'll ding you with that per mile crap. Damn the crazy rent we were paying this whole last year. Damn student loans.
Poop on a poop stick.
There are so many people that I would love to meet in person and share pints with and then drunk dial the Fiery One at 2 am with news of just exactly how fucking cool I am. Perhaps next year I can go and make a complete dork of myself times two just to make up for it.
You're looking forward to it. I know you are.
I wish I were there so badly that: last night when I was revisited by an apocolyptic dream in which the world was pretty much destroyed and I had to become a full-time mother to an orphaned koala baby, the dream took a sudden turn when I had to juggle a baby bottle and the koala and a telephone because I was drunk dialled by a hotel room full of BlogHer attendees. The baby koala was not impressed with the feeding interruption and mewled piteously.
No, this year I am staying in Cityville and trying to figure out how to take this site to its next phase of development.
I recently purchased www.schmutzie.com, and I would like to be able to transfer all my years of entries here over to that domain and make it so they all have domain-appropriate urls without having to leave Blogger. Do I have to leave Blogger? Does anyone know what I'm talking about? Hello?
Dammit. I think I lost all seven of you who were bothering to listen today.
HELLO. I WANT TO SHED MY WATER WINGS. I WANT TO CONTROL THE WHOLE DAMN THING. I WANT TO HAVE MY OWN .COM AND MEAN IT.
My brain is not staying in one place at all, because now I want to write about how I don't like suckers, my hatred of flip-flops, how my nose pin is suddenly a sneeze trigger after ten years of having it, how after three weeks of almost no pooping I am a veritable poop machine, how the horizontal blinds fell and crashed into the laptop keyboard last night, how one of the qualities of my new cheap quilt is that it smells like paint and is likely toxic, how a coworker will die because she took my favourite green paperclip, and how I actually have darker patches of melanin along my upper lip so that it looks like I have a moustache-shaped tan.
How could I possibly even hope to organize a whole new website when I am in this condition?!
On a sort of related note, I rate the books I read out of five cats now.
It's been too hot here. Even the cat has been dragging himself along the floor on his belly in search of cooler patches of hardwood. This morning he was doing it with his mouth hanging open when he got way to high on some catnip my mother-in-law brought for him.
All my higher brain functioning has been arrested by the heat.