Today, I arrived at a conclusion.

The amount of filth clogging your brain (or mine) can be measured as a function of how many seconds you stare at this picture…

…before realizing it’s a meat tenderizer.

It took me fucking AGES. 

I’ll admit – the realization was slow, slow burn. 

It went like this:

Hahaha!  That shit is hardcore.  Only brave souls would put that up their bums.

*pause*

*like, a really really REALLY long pause*

*cocks head to the side*

You know… That’s kinda a strange photo for a sex toy.  Hrm.

*pause*

*squishes up face*

Heeeey… That looks like a pinch bowl of oil.  What a strange way to access lube. People are so weird.  Thank goodness I’m not even a little bit weird.

*another pause and brow furrowing*

I wonder what that shiny stuff under the bu— OH MY FUCKING GOD IT’S CHICKEN.

*world as I know it crumbles*

SO.  How long do you think it woulda taken you?

(BTW:  It’s a Williams Sonoma product, but I remain convinced that, at the VERY least, a sadist invented the thing. It’s a reversible meat tenderizer, but if you want to use the flat side (as pictured) and you get the SLIGHTEST amount of fat or oil on your hands, I imagine it would become a painful journey that involves tenderizing your hand.)

Kaya got a hold of me last night to let me know my email address is bouncing emails back. 

I got a hold of The Man and asked him what was up.

I guess he switched servers and forgot to re-route email.  So that’s why any emails you try to send me are getting bounced back, and I’m not getting notified about comments.

I’m sorry!

Hopefully it should be fixed by the time The Man gets home today.  Lord knows I haven’t a CLUE how to fix it.  I mean, yeah, I’m sitting here acting all “Oh, I see what you did there.”  (See below)  But the truth is, I have no friggin’ idea.

I love him anyway.  But he’s hilariously uninformed in certain aspects of his job.

Okay, picture a bunch of mid-to-late twenties guys, hanging around in an office in Los Angeles. They’re working double-shifted days (some people on 6am-2pm, some people on 2pm-10pm) just to get all their work done.

They’re cool guys, remarkably.  They are working really hard.  They have all kinds of meetings and a MAJOR deadline.  Like, a large percentage of the population will KNOW if they don’t meet their deadline. I’ll know. You might know too.  Millions and millions of people will know.

And they all know their jobs really well – they’re a group of highly talented people, but I’m here to tell you they know fuckall about what the hell they’re DOING.

What ARE they doing, you ask?  Well, they’re visual effects artists.  And they’re working on the first installment of the seventh Harry Potter movie, which is slated for a November release date.

My brother is among them.

Please enjoy this conversation I had with my brother.  If you know anything about Harry Potter, this will likely amused you.

HARRISON: So I was modeling this stupid house that’s got all these stories and it’s weird and I had to get the high res blueprints of it because it’s SO ridiculous.

ME: The Burrow.

HARRISON: Right, that’s what someone said, the Burrows.

ME: No, just the Burrow.

HARRISON: Whatever.

ME: What are you working on now?

HARRISON:  *explains a scene he’s working on* I dunno what’s happening in this scene, though.

ME: Oh, that’s when Ron Weasley and-

HARRISON:  Who? Oh, wait, Ron. HEY. I didn’t know his last name was Weasley. I thought Weasley was a different character. But that makes sense. We were all sitting around, looking at The Burrows-

ME: The Burrow, singular

HARRISON: -and one guy said, “I think that’s Weasley’s house” and another guy was like, “That’s Ron’s house” and I was like, well, fuck dude, which one is it?

Me: Both.

HARRISON: Yeah, that makes more sense. ‘Cause there is this scene were Harry is out in the field thing, near the stupid house, with Ron’s sister-chick and then this other Harry arrives out of nowhere and gets carried into the house, and he’s all covered in blood. Real-Harry is doing something – I dunno, we don’t have audio – and Shitty-Harry is, like, bleeding from his neck. No idea what’s going on there.

ME: That’s the very beginning of the movie. A bunch of people transform into Harry to try to confuse the Death Eaters.

HARRISON: Who?

ME: Uh, the “evil wizards.”

HARRISON: Dude, the evil wizards have some great costumes. There’s this one guy who is doing something and he like, turns to smoke, and then he teleports-

ME: Apparates

HARRISON: -into a train. But he has this EPIC trench coat on. A pointy gray beard and a trench coat. It’s great.

ME: I bet it is.

HARRISON: But there is one shot I really wanted and I didn’t get. It’s when Harry’s looking at this newspaper and it’s got like, a video clip in it.

ME: No it doesn’t, it-

HARRISON: It does! It MOVES! It’s a newspaper with a YouTube clip embedded.

ME: No. Wizarding pictures just move.

HARRISON: Oh. Anyway, Harry is looking at it and I really wanted that shot because I wanted to make the YouTube clip 3D. And because Harry gets all pissed and he’s all, *high, squeaky voice* “Oh no! Dumbledore, framed for a crime he didn’t commit”

ME: You realize you already told me you don’t have audio, right?

HARRISON: Right.

Man oh man.  I got nothin’ but love for that boy.   I’m VERY tempted to send him the seventh book and force him to read it. But my instincts tell me he should read them ALL, in order.  My brain tells me that will never, ever happen.  And certainly not by his deadline.

Oh well.

(Hahaha… Star Trek reference in the title… I rock.)

A quick note before we begin. I have NO idea why, but for some reason all the comments from my last post did NOT get emailed to me.  I had no idea you guys had commented.  I’m sorry!  I didn’t get around to replying until today.  It’s lucky I was messing with my dashboard because I usually post through Windows Live Writer, get my comments emailed to me, and then go answer comments.  Without comments emailing themselves to me, I don’t think to come check for them!  I’ll have to ask The Man what that’s about.  Maybe he can fix it for me.  In any case, my apologies!

I was reading over at The Heron Clan, and swan has posted this – about the “usefulness” of a slave as she gets “old.”

While I agree with swan that a slave’s use is not strictly in acrobatic sex (which, yes, will probably become impossible at a certain age!), I have a bit more of a general approach to my idea that no, a slave does not necessarily become useless when she ages. Not because there is use in any specific list of things, but just… a general idea as to why it’s no.

In the end, of course, it all depends on how a Master defines “slave” and how that Master defines “old” as well.  If someone is in an M/s relationship that operates outside the bounds of love, emotional commitment, and friendship, then I can clearly see why someone would have no “use” for a slave who is past her physical prime.

I just… I don’t see that many relationships like that.

I think swan’s list of “uses” sort of demonstrates that.  I mean, maybe it’s just me, but I look at that list and think, “That’s just what a decent spouse or partner would do. None of that says ‘strictly slave’ to me.”   Plenty of men and women around the world embody that list to the letter without being in a Master/slave relationship.

BUT… The unspoken (I think) difference behind her list is that stuff gets done, house runs smoothly, children are cared for, etc., just like it does in other non M.s relationships, but in this one it’s all to HIS specifications.

Anyway… I’m sort of rambling.

No, I don’t think slaves are useless when they’re old.

For me, it’s because in my relationship, slavery can be defined (sort of) as “Prioritized Energy Usage.”

I have a certain amount of energy, it varies, and I have minimal control over it.  I can try to influence it, but that’s about it.

When I’m sick, I have less.  When I’m rested, I have more.  When I’m strapped with work, I have less.  And so on.

And… All that really matters to Antonio is that I prioritize my energy usage correctly.  He understands and encourages me to use a certain portion of my energy on myself.  Reading books I enjoy, going to see friends and family, etc. The majority of my energy goes either directly or indirectly to him.  There are no exact numbers, there are no real patterns, I don’t seek permission for every “me-moment” because it’s all in constant flux.

(Let’s pause right here, though, for a quick reality check – It’s harder to make this happen smoothly long-distance, I assure you.  Actually, it’s impossible.  And when we’re together, perfecting the “priority list” can be tricky, but doing so is always my goal AND my reward.)

So…. Anyway, yeah.  There is a long list of things I do, want to do, think about.  They may be things that any average woman in a relationship does, wants to to, or thinks about.  The difference is simply my focus.  While the average woman’s might OFTEN be about her significant other, I strive for mine to ALWAYS be about him.

Antonio has never been overly concerned about my successes vs failures in terms of end results.  He cares mostly about how hard I TRIED.  To me, that’s at once really wonderful and really difficult.  If he says, “Write this for me” or whatever, and I get frozen at work and cannot do it, he doesn’t care. Life happens. But if I do the written work with minimal energy, minimal enthusiasm, minimal effort, even if I turn it in on time and do it “right” he is NOT pleased.  It’s not really a matter of what gets done, it’s how invested I am in doing it.

He just wants me to CARE.  To try.  To put my energy toward useful things, to really invest myself in my efforts.

If he cared about the end results being Perfect No Matter What?  Yeah, when I get old and fragile and cannot achieve the exact end results I used to, he might have no use for me.  That’s just never been the case.

And since I believe that’s the attitude that defines my “belonging” to him, I don’t see that magically falling apart because I get older.  As long as he places the most value in my efforts and my prioritizing my energy, and as long as I put forth my best effort and prioritize my energy in a good way, we’re all set no matter how old either of us are.

Full disclosure, though… This whole “too old” thing is not actually something I have to worry about. At all.  And not just because I don’t see it as a problem in general.  But because I am significantly younger than Antonio. There are a million things having nothing to do with age that could put me at a disadvantage – from brain injury to chronic illness.  But I’ll probably never get “too old.”  If he wants to trade me in for a younger model at any point, he’s going to raise some SERIOUS eyebrows – I’m already much younger!

FYI, my test failed.  I tried about 90 billion things, and I can’t figure a way to post something I spent a long time putting together.  I’m sulky, and if you all could see the wondrousness that is this post, you would be crying yourself to sleep for a week.  Guaranteed.*

So.  ONTO other things. Things that disturbed me.

ONE – The other day, Antonio was all, “Hey, write me a 900-word story about facefucking, piss drinking, everything.  You have until I get home tomorrow.”

(No, that part didn’t disturb me.  Well, the word count did.  Why not 1,000 words?  WHY NINE HUNDRED? Effing weird, man.)

Anyway, I wrote an honest, detailed account of said activities, complete with my raging insecurities, motivations, etc.  I’m not capable of weird, porno-style fakery replete with a litany of genitalia euphemisms.  It just… It doesn’t come naturally to me. It make me uncomfortable, bored, irritated.  I can’t write it, and I can’t read it.  I even LOATHE watching porn clips with actors.  (Give me amateur or give me death!)

Anyway, 2,200+ words later, I sent it off.  Wanna know what his reply was?

Mission accomplished.
And… very interesting.

What in the hell does THAT mean?  So I asked (in email) if that was a bad thing. 

He promptly ignored me. 

He still hasn’t said anything. 

I remain unamused.  And slightly disturbed.

TWO -  These dildos:

Coming soon from KinkEngineering, dildos inspired by… Horror movies.

Uh, okay… O_o

From left to right: Alien-inspired, Sea Monster-inspired,  and ZOMBIE-INSPIRED.

Don’t get me wrong, whatever anyone wants to stick in their vag is their deal. And man, do I love zombies….  (Seriously, ask anyone.  If I’ve known you for longer than a week, you are probably aware that I seriously enjoy zombies.  I’ve seen all kinds of zombie movies, I have a love/hate relationship with George A. Romero, I think about what I’d do if there were a zombie apocalypse a lot… In fact, I mentioned that in the blog before!  Right here.)  But, even with my love of zombies, I still don’t want to hear about dildos like that.

I am okay with a host of truly foul things, I know, but for some reason, I’m deeply disturbed by the idea of sticking something made to resemble diseased, rotting, maggot-coated, pus-filled flesh with open wounds into my vagina. 

Fucking eeeew.

And I know I said two things that disturbed me today… But I’m torn…  This is pretty disturbing too: 

I’m calling it Vagina Chair because that’s what I see it as.  Some among you, with fewer neuroses and a cleaner mind might see something different.  If that’s the case, let me know, because we are going to have to stop being friends.

* Not guaranteed

I’m testing something.  Ignore me. 

For your efforts, I reward you with a sleeping bug, covered in dew. 

Are we looking at The End of Men?

For nearly as long as civilization has existed, patriarchy—enforced through the rights of the firstborn son—has been the organizing principle, with few exceptions. Men in ancient Greece tied off their left testicle in an effort to produce male heirs; women have killed themselves (or been killed) for failing to bear sons. […] Now the centuries-old preference for sons is eroding—or even reversing. […] Even [Ronald] Ericsson, the stubborn old goat, can sigh and mark the passing of an era. “Did male dominance exist? Of course it existed. But it seems to be gone now. And the era of the firstborn son is totally gone.”

Women, it seems, are awesome.

The end of the era of the firstborn son in many countries is astounding.  Even rigid patriarchies (like South Korea) are over it.  But the article points to the fact that in the US, things are going one step further. 

When parents visiting fertility clinics in the US first got the ability to choose the sex of a baby, feminists feared for the future of women.  There was no need for that fear, it seems.  Having girl babies is the option of choice by a wide margin.  (In some clinics, it’s as high as 2-to-1.  And with a new sperm-selection method currently in clinical trials, girls account for 75% of the requests.)

And, not from this article, but adopting a girl baby costs about $2,000 more than a boy baby. (source)

Girls are in demand!

The postindustrial economy is indifferent to men’s size and strength. The attributes that are most valuable today—social intelligence, open communication, the ability to sit still and focus—are, at a minimum, not predominantly male.

• Earlier this year, for the first time in American history, the balance of the workforce tipped toward women, who now hold a majority of the nation’s jobs.
• For every two men who will receive a B.A. this year, three women will do the same.
• Of the 15 job categories projected to grow the most in the next decade in the U.S., all but two are occupied primarily by women.
• Women now hold 51.4 percent of managerial and professional jobs—up from 26.1 percent in 1980.
• Yes, near the top of the pyramid (Fortune 500 CEOs) women are not there yet.  But they’re climbing: last year, female CEOs out-earned their male counterparts by 43 percent, on average, and received bigger raises.

Overall, the feeling I get from the article is that in a changing world and workforce, men are proving unable to adapt.  Women have faced a need to adapt for decades, and adapt they did.  Against all kinds of social pressure, women did things like go to work, get an education, work as  single parent, work while married,  work with children at home, etc.

Men?  Even though they are losing their grip on control of the workforce, on getting an education (which is a prerequisite for so many jobs these days), etc, they seem to lack the drive or determination to do the things necessary to take back what they’ve lost, or at least keep pace.  So now they’re falling behind.

(And sometimes it makes them sad…)

In recent years, male support groups have sprung up throughout the Rust Belt and in other places where the postindustrial economy has turned traditional family roles upside down. Some groups help men cope with unemployment, and others help them reconnect with their alienated families. Mustafaa El-Scari, a teacher and social worker, leads some of these groups in Kansas City. El-Scari has studied the sociology of men and boys set adrift, and he considers it his special gift to get them to open up and reflect on their new condition.

“Who’s doing what?” he asks them. “What is our role? Everyone’s telling us we’re supposed to be the head of a nuclear family, so you feel like you got robbed. It’s toxic, and poisonous, and it’s setting us up for failure.” He writes on the board: $85,000. “This is her salary.” Then: $12,000. “This is your salary. Who’s the damn man? Who’s the man now?” A murmur rises. “That’s right. She’s the man.”

The men in that room, almost without exception, were casualties of the end of the manufacturing era. Most of them had continued to work with their hands even as demand for manual labor was declining. Since 2000, manufacturing has lost almost 6 million jobs, more than a third of its total workforce, and has taken in few young workers. The housing bubble masked this new reality for a while, creating work in construction and related industries. Many of the men I spoke with had worked as electricians or builders; one had been a successful real-estate agent. Now those jobs are gone too.

Men, it seems, are not able to adapt. In school, they have a harder time committing to education, even when they are in dire need of certain education to get a new/better job.  They are not as good as women at seeking out study groups, asking for help when they need it. As the article says, “Guys high-five each other when they get a C, while girls beat themselves up over a B-minus. Guys play video games in each other’s rooms, while girls crowd the study hall.”

One senior college student told the reporter, “men are the new ball and chain.”

In the professional world, men are not adapting either.  As noted earlier, of the 15 job markets  projected to grow the most in the next decade, women dominate all but two.  Theoretically, there is no reason men should not be able to do these jobs.  Teaching and nursing schools have tried HARD to recruit more men in recent years, and it’s just not working.  Teaching used to be a male-dominated profession, and then women took it over and men never challenged to take it back, or equalize the percentages.  Men seem unwilling or unable to compete in non-brawn jobs, and thus they are a dwindling force in this increasingly non-brawn society.

The article ends by referencing a Dodge commercial that aired during the Superbowl.

Of all the days in the year, one might think, Super Bowl Sunday should be the one most dedicated to the cinematic celebration of macho. The men in Super Bowl ads should be throwing balls and racing motorcycles and doing whatever it is men imagine they could do all day if only women were not around to restrain them.

Instead, four men stare into the camera, unsmiling, not moving except for tiny blinks and sways. They look like they’ve been tranquilized, like they can barely hold themselves up against the breeze. Their lips do not move, but a voice-over explains their predicament—how they’ve been beaten silent by the demands of tedious employers and enviro-fascists and women. Especially women. “I will put the seat down, I will separate the recycling, I will carry your lip balm.” This last one—lip balm—is expressed with the mildest spit of emotion, the only hint of the suppressed rage against the dominatrix. Then the commercial abruptly cuts to the fantasy, a Dodge Charger vrooming toward the camera punctuated by bold all caps: MAN’S LAST STAND. But the motto is unconvincing. After that display of muteness and passivity, you can only imagine a woman—one with shiny lips—steering the beast.

I post this not to really have much of an opinion on it, but simply because it made me think…  And also as a way to say, “Hi guys!  I’m here!”

As promised…  Because I know literally none of you were salivating in anticipation…  I thought I’d get this up quickly before I head out.

Pictures of my mother’s laundry room.  The rest of her house is lovely all the time. But for some reason, Mom was using the laundry room as a dumping ground.  Honestly, the “before” pictures don’t really do it justice.  There were hundreds of spiders (and their webs), mold and mildew on the walls, many loads of laundry and items to be ironed, mice nesting in her wetsuit, trillions of screws and nails and tools strewn everywhere, mouse droppings everywhere, literally 80% of the floor covered in STUFF… It was really just atrocious.

So I fixed it! 

Took me ages to organize and throw stuff away, and bundle coats and shoes and clothes for Goodwill, and then to clean all the spider-mouse-bug crap outta there.  But I DID IT. 

Yay!

So, without further ado…

BEFORE & AFTER PICTURES! 

^The area supposed to be for folding laundry was home to everything from mouse poop to a sewing machine to a television to books to a broken Brita filter…

And here it is after…

^Sorry for the shoddy pictures, btw.  I borrowed my mother’s camera and I can’t work it right.  I miss MY camera.  *sniff*  Anyway, hey, look, you can actually fold laundry  there now!  I even hung the random hangers I found around the room on the rod underneath the table.  To remind my mom that the rod is there for a purpose.  And as you can see, while I am nice, I am not THAT nice. Because I left a basket of her ironing there for her to do.

^I can’t even begin to explain this. So I won’t try.  It’s just embarrassing.

And here it is after…

^Would you lookit that… Better.  I would still want to fix those shelves, but she wouldn’t let me throw anything else away…

^Here is that whole side of the room in one shot… Before…

And after…

^ I’m supposed to be taking the paintings, but I need to get them to a framer first. That’s why they’re still sitting there. 

^Last but not least, the actual washing machine/dryer area. If you look closely, you will see a bottle of maple syrup and a bottle of wine on the shelf with the detergent.  I don’t know, man, maybe she was filming one of those “Look how well it gets out a red wine stain!” commercials for her own private use?  I don’t like to think too hard about these things.

ANYWAY.  Here it is after.

^I realized, after I’d left, that this shot doesn’t include the shelf…  I promise you it’s clean and organized, and free of food and adult beverages.  The area is not, however, free of the mat knife I left on the dryer.  My bad.  Pretend it’s not there. (Also can someone tell me if it’s mat knife or matte knife?  I’ve seen it both ways and google won’t tell me which is correct.  Kthnx.)

I’m quite proud of myself.  Now the laundry room matches the rest of the house in terms of prettiness, order, and cleanliness.  Sweeeeeeeet.

My mom said, “Holy shit.  HOLY shit.  Holy SHIT” over and over and over again when I finally finished and showed it to her.  Even at 27 years old, parental approval still feels good. *beams*

So.  I have not a goddamn thing to talk about.  I’m pissy and irritable, though, so I’ll share that.

Job #2 is going swimmingly.  However, that’s the 10-99 job.  Job #1 is the one that gives me health insurance and life insurance and all that good stuff.

I accrue a decent amount of time off, so that’s cool.  I cashed in my time off in April, in order to pay for the moving expenses (new furniture, bedding, etc.) when I relocated to Anne’s condo.  That was all well and good, and I haven’t taken any time off since then, saving my Personal Time (PT for short, so I don’t have to keep typing it out)…

And then a few weeks ago, I found out ALL the staff at my house are on a forced vacation. For at LEAST a week.  Leslie, the woman we support, is in the hospital for testing.

So, because I receive benefits from my job, I have to use my PT. So does everyone else I work with and we are NOT pleased.  Here are a few issues.

1. It sucks to have to use PT when you don’t plan to. Especially when you can’t GO anywhere while using it.
2. We have NO idea how long Leslie will be gone.  A week, minimum.  However, they may want to keep her longer.  Also, they may change her medication and (being as the last time she had a major med change she almost died) that would mean she’d probably stay in the hospital longer…
3. Two of the girls I work with are going to go into negative PT because of this. One of them just used up all her saved PT to go see her boyfriend (who is across the country, becoming a border patrol agent) for three weeks.  The other girl JUST got off maternity leave, so her PT is depleted too.
4. I’ll end up with zero PT, as will a third girl I work with.  If Leslie stays in the hospital longer, both she and I will also end up in the negative.

I’m not even close to happy about this. I NEEDED that fucking time off. But there’s nothing I can do.  Except sulk.  And sulk I shall.

In other news… I have no other news.

I do have a V. Important moral question, though.  If you’re engaged in a teasing little conversation with your man… (Which HE initiated by snapping a picture of himself standing next to a pink car, and then sending it to you.)  And he ends up saying “Yeah, my friends call me Pinky.”

Well, is there anything WRONG with calling him Pinky?  Please say no.  I’ve had to hold back, and it’s painful.

Incidentally, I decided later today I’m going to post “LOOK I CLEANED SHIT” pictures.  Why?  Because that’s literally the most exciting part of my life.  Cleaning shit.

Subtle had to go changing things up, and now I want to answer these questions too… So here are the ones she added/changed.

(I’m stuck at work, being bored while Leslie eats her dinner SO EFFING SLOWLY I WANT TO MURDER HER.  I managed to kill time and not her with this, though!)

1. Fail moment in the last week?

Ate some out-of-date food by accident, and puked my brains out until stupid o’clock in the morning.

2. Most memorable job?

Working as a live-in nanny on a 300-acre hunting and trap-shooting ranch in Tennessee with congressmen as clients, 122 animals, two kids, several psychotropic medications, no high-speed internet, no cable, while my boss was trying to be fixed up with a stable guy who had such a thick accent I literally couldn’t understand him.  Ah, Tennessee…

3. Favorite pizza topping?

Roma tomatoes, artichoke hearts, green peppers, black olives, onions, and imaginary feta cheese.

10. Most painful experience with contacts?

I got a bacterial eye infection from dirty contacts that landed me in the ER. I was rocking back an forth in a pain so bad I literally can’t describe it.  I mean… Okay, so… I once ran down the stairs, my foot landed on the metal pole of a vacuum, and my ankle snapped, and it took me THREE DAYS before I even went to the doctor.  And I was TEN YEARS OLD. 

What I’m trying to say is that I have a pretty high pain tolerance. 

And this eye pain is the worst pain I have ever felt, bar none. 

My IQ is pretty fabulous, but when I had this eye thing, the nurses at the hospital thought I was retarded and gave me stickers that said, “Girl Power!” to try to get me to talk.  Fuck that and fuck them. I couldn’t hear, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t talk, I wouldn’t think.  Nothing mattered in my whole world except the pain. 

The doctor was a douche, though.  After giving me all kinds of meds for the bacteria and putting some Vicodin down my throat, he refused to give me anything for instant, topical pain relief, saying it would slow down the healing process.  My father, being an EMT, knew what to look for and stole a bottle of something from the ER which he dumped in my eyes once I was standing, shaking, in the parking lot by his truck.

That shit was amazing.  It was also creepy, though.  I mean, you never really FEEL your eyes… But imagine if they were GONE.  That was the feeling those heavenly eye drops gave me – like I had empty holes in my face. 

So. Fucking. Odd.

11. Movie you want to see?

Winter’s Bone.  NO OTHER MOVIE MATTERS UNTIL I CAN SEE THIS! Oscars are in the future for this movie, I’m SURE of it.

12. Weirdest thing you’ve had in bed?

A fully functioning, loaded assault rifle.  Yes, I’m serious…  And thankfully, I took a picture because I wanted to show Itty, since we were talking in msn and APPARENTLY in England they think it’s weird to have loaded assault rifles hanging around your house.  (I know, I agree – THEY’RE the weird ones, obviously.  Silly British.  *shoots things*)

14. Word you edge into every conversation to make yourself sound superior?

“Anthropomorphic” or any of its permutations.  (Also, “permutation.”)

15. Name you thought would be really cool to give the fruit of your loins without really thinking it through?

D’Artagnan.  I’m 100% serious about this.

16. Thing you think you’re slightly too anal about?

Proper pronunciation.

17. Thing you wish you were slightly more anal about?

Washing my sheets.  I sleep at work 4 nights a week, so I use that as an excuse to not wash my sheets at home for two or three calendar weeks.

18. Proud moment?

Recently?  I spent 3 hours cleaning my father’s fridge.  Took the whole inside apart, tossed everything out of date, and scrubbed every surface, every nook and cranny (I even employed Q-tips to make sure EVERY bit of EVERY area was spotless.)  I was so excited about it, I earned Antonio saying, “You are an exceedingly strange pet.”

19. Dish you can cook with confidence?

Anything I’ve made before, basically… I guess specifically I make wonderful chili, the best chocolate chip cookies, amazing pancakes, and this one dish my brother calls “The Best Thing in the World.”   That’s literally what he calls it.  He’ll say, “Hey, can you make The Best Thing in the World tonight?”  I miss my bro. ;(

20. Reason why you’re doing a meme instead of a real blog?

Because I have nothing to talk about.