You Have a Right To Your Opinion. I Have A Right To Think You're Nuts

Today's word is: medicaster. Noun. A charlatan. A mountebank. A peddler of suspicious wares! Note the inclusion of the word 'medic' there. Coincidence? You be the judge.

The internet is full of crazy people. And I'm sorry, but some people really do deserve to be called crazy on a public blog. Such as... oh, I don't know. Anyone who tries to convince anyone else that they're really truly an anime character and can shoot fireballs out their eyes and turn into an elephant. Or whatever's popular these days, I don't keep up with the trends.

And then, of course, after posting ten page essays on how they can transform into Super Sparkly Powder Princess or whatever, these people are surprised when they get made fun of. Really now, what do you expect? The internet doesn't even let Scientology go unmocked, and that's technically a recognized religion. You think you're delusional, grade-school fantasies are going to be taken seriously?

They call themselves Otakin, and hold the belief - supposedly - that they are the reborn souls of characters from Japanese anime. Swear to god, you can look it up if you don't believe me. They're trying to make it a religion, or something. I don't know, I usually have to wander away and have a lie down whenever I read about these people. They go on about past life memories, mystical powers, magic items....

Now, I don't think these people actually believe any of what they say. They probably want to believe - hell, I still wish I had magic powers! - and they want to draw attention to themselves. Especially since Sailor Moon's soul has apparently been split and reborn in the bodies of about fifty different people. There's nothing quite like reading a heated forum debate about who's the real Queen of Crystal Tokyo. It's better than Jerry Springer.

It all goes back to attention. But come on! There are ways to get attention without portraying yourself as a candidate for the loony bin. And I'd think those would be the things you'd think of first. You know, 'I'll start a website'! Not 'I'll start a website about how I'm Warrior Queen Fukifyia The Third Really And Seriously!'.

I just don't get it. I may have hoped that I was really a Caller from Final Fantasy and that someday the monsters would come take me, but I was eleven. Not in my thirties. I sometimes wonder how sad these people's lives have to be, that they're willing to humiliate themselves like this.

See parents? Letting your kids watch too much TV is dangerous.

Money Makes The World Go Round....

And that is the crux of the matter.

Clearly, my sporadicness in both my blog and other places I frequent has been noticed. I am dealing with some financial struggles. For the past week I have been trying to gather up a couple hundred dollars to help out my sister, who is in dire need of the cash. This year has hit her hard, and unlike me, she has a family and dozens of bills and a vehicle and all those things that prey on one's wallet.

This is why I advocate a more simple existence. Really, who needs the worry and fuss of all that stuff if you don't have to have it? I've been called immature and irresponsible for not wanting to bravely forge my way in the world, but come on. Do we really need to add stress related illness to my long list of medical woes? I think not. I'm nto avoiding responsibility, I'm avoiding stress. It's a preemptive measure.

My sister and I are close. despite our ten year age gap, she is my best friend. She's the only person who ever climbed out of a shuttle bus window for me - not an easy task. It's a long story, involving a Bryan Adams concert, lots of drinking, a scary migrant worker and a locked shuttle bus. We'll save it for another day.

So off I go, into the Big Bad World - or close enough - to scrape together money. And what a hassle it is! I only have so much to sell, after all. And now that I've depleted my fancy perfume oil stash and my fancy bath product stash, I'm stumped. I could sell my old autographed Star Trek photos, but really, how many people will buy autographed pictures of Wil Wheaton these days?

I maintain we go back to the old system of bartering. Along with that whole 'we take care of our sick and crippled' thing, that was a good one. ;)

One of these days, I'm going to fuck off and go be a hermit.

Happy Sadist's Day

When I was a younger woman, still in the grips of those horrible teenage years, my best friend and I hated Valentine's Day. We hated it with a passion. Why? Why, for the same reason every single, teenage girl hates Valentine's Day. It was a reminder that we were single and therefor unpopular and so obviously losers.

We dubbed the holiday Sadist's Day. We even made up a song. We wore all black and rented horror/slasher films and were generally your average over-dramatic sixteen year olds. Looking back, I laugh.

I still refer to the holiday as Sadist's Day, out of joking deference to my silly younger self. And so does K, who is still one of my best friends, even now. We don't get all dolled up in black and we don't sing angry death metal anymore, but it's our own little joke that has survived along with our friendship.

These days, I just don't care about Valentine's Day. I find it a silly holiday, with little actual meaning or depth. It's about candy and flowers and if you're very good, getting laid. The romantics like to dress it up, but all it is is a competition of affection, a celebration of worth and monetary expenditure. And don't we do that every day?

I'm not bitter. I'm not some desperate single who feels jealous. I'm single by choice, and if I wanted a girlfriend I'd have one in an instant. I like my own company and I like living my life by myself. It makes me happy. I just think Valentine's Day is silly.

The only thing I like about Valentine's Day is the day after. Or, as I call it, Candy Day. All the candy you can eat for half off? Now that's something worth celebrating.

Political Correctness And You!

Today's word is: sevidical. Another adjective, meaning: speaking cruel and harsh words; threatening.

Today's word relates to my post topic for the day! Political Correctness. It's everywhere. We have it shoved down our throats every day. What we can say, what we can't say, what harmless word is now considered taboo. I don't even know what it's okay to call myself these days. Or if I can call myself whatever I want. Or what the rules are for who can call who what.

I'm fed up with the whole thing. And I have my hangups about it - my friends can call me a gimpy dyke all they want, but if someone I don't uses those words, I lose my shit. Why? They're the same words. Is it a comfort level thing? Is it a safety net? These words are all well and good when in a controlled environment, but letting them just run about loose? Words need to stay in their cages, where they belong. Apparently.

It's a constant shifting flow, and I'll admit that I've given up being able to keep track of it. I wonder sometimes, who gets to decide what's PC and what's not. Is there a PC committee? How does one get on it? Where do you apply? What are the qualifications? What brilliant minds came up with 'handicapable'?

I don't deny that words have power. I know all too well the power of words. But where do they get that power? Who instills it in them? Oh, the shiny happy answer is 'we all do!', but that's bullshit. We are not a united people, we never will be. And the whole PC craze? Not helping.

I don't know much when it comes to this tangled web of words and intents. I really don't. But what I do know is that assholes are assholes, no matter what they say.

Words don't make people assholes, assholish tendencies make people assholes.

On Words....

One of my favorite sites is back online.

The Phrontistery. This is a site dedicated to the English language in all of its glory. As you can imagine, it is a much underrated website. Americans? Caring about the language? Absurd! What is this world coming to, when the uneducated youth of our fine country goes out of their way to expand their minds!

Luckily, I doubt any of America's bright young examples of ineptitude are reading this blog. If they are, I pity them. And offer them a dictionary and a quick course in reading comprehension.

While this hallowed hall of wordsmithing is up and about, I offer you a word of the day. Just a bit of long forgotten knowledge that may bring a smile to your face or a new wrinkle to your brain. We can all stand to learn a little something new, after all.

Today's word is: murklins. Murklins: An adjective that fell out of use around 1675, meaning 'in the dark'. What a fun little word, murklins. Fun to say, fun to read! It brings to mind small, furry, under-earth dwelling creatures, doesn't it? The murklins, a fabled race of tunnel dwellers! Tell your children of the long forgotten murklins and their vast underground cities! Remember the time when mankind clothed himself in murklin skin! (And now you know why they're not around anymore. Poor little fictional buggers were hunted to extinction.)

I can see much potential for this little bit of lost English.

I Don't Take Anything For Nothing

I'm sure some of you have noticed the donation button on my sidebar. I know some of you have, because you've made use of it. And to you, I thank you. But thanks aren't enough, in my opinion. For your generosity and support, I do have something for you.

I have a new blog, one for my original writing. That stuff I'm attempting to make a living off of. And the stories there are gifts to my kind benefactors. One is up already, a gift for my first benefactor and a dear friend. It's a gothic horror piece in the Lovecraftian style, I hope you enjoy.

Read on, if you're interested:

The Starving Artist

The Ideal Of The Starving Artist

Ah, how romantic a life! Struggling, starving, suffering, slaving away in obscurity for the sake of art! To let go of modern trappings, to give oneself over to nothing but dreams and hope and insubstantial ideals!

The starving artist has been hailed and regaled in literature and media for as long as I can remember. And why not? Who can't identify with the starry eyed dreamer? Who doesn't feel some kinship with that person who is able to give themself over completely to their destiny? We all look at them and think, on some level, ah - if only!

But, like Farley Flavor's dream of the girl next door, the starving artist is indeed a fantasy ideal.

We aren't all Christians. We aren't living in the shade of the Moulin Rouge, courting beautiful ladies of the night and drinking the poet's wine. In reality, it's a miserable life. It's a life of stress and short fuses and long nights awake, ready to give up.

But we still do it. The writers, the artists, the musicians. We all throw ourselves into our dreams and we smile and laugh when people remark on our romantic, bohemian lives. We don't bother to mention the bills, the frustration, the mind-numbing repetition of searching for that one break. Come on, who wants to be a dream killer?

Well, I suppose I am, what with writing this and all. But I see these romanticized views of the poor writer's life and it makes me laugh. Because I did think that was what it would be like. I had visions of a crappy apartment, of second hand clothes and dumpster diving and spending late nights in a park with like-minded intellectuals. And I thought it would be wonderfully romantic!

The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, as they say. I'm still waiting for my beautiful courtesan to be moved by my words. I'm still waiting for that brilliant flash of drunken inspiration. I'm still hoping that some kind person will send a little money my way, for no reason other than my art has reached them. Oh, I know these are all just silly dreams.

But what is a starving artist but a dreamer who never lets go?

If we let go of our dreams, we wouldn't be starving anymore. But we wouldn't be artists, either. It may not be romantic, but I plan to keep on suffering for the sake of my muse. Slowly but surely I'm making those dreams of mine a reality.

And who knows? I just may find that benefactor after all.

If I'm lucky, she'll be cute. ;)

I Like To Claim We Aren't Getting More Stupid, But...

I've never linked to anything before, but this... dear gods in heaven this defies any explanation I could possibly provide.

Koala's Ain't Hard, They Some Little Bitches

An essay on why a student doesn't care about koalas. Please do listen to the dramatic reading. I think I pulled a muscle laughing. I like to ignore the fact that this is most likely a very real essay, and pretend it's clever parody of today's gangsta youth. To think anything else would tear my mind in two.

New Month, New Look

Regular visitors may be a bit surprised. Yes, I have overhauled my blog to make it more striking. Or at least more striking in my opinion. Which is really all any of us have when it comes to judging aesthetics. But this is my blog, so my opinion hold dominion. This is not a democracy. I need one place I don't need to worry about being PC or catering the whims of the masses.

So there it is! New colors! New features! New art! New photo of me! Yes, those are my natural breasts.

The banner is art a friend of mine did for me. I love when people draw pictures of me. Maybe it's a stroke to my ego, I don't know. But I love seeing how other people choose to represent me. If I had any money whatsoever, I would commission every artist I know to draw me.

I suppose that makes me something of an attention whore. I wonder about that, sometimes. We're all so quick to scream 'ATTENTION WHORE!' at anyone who steps up for any recognition. Well, let's be honest. Everyone wants attention at some point. It's human nature. I want it, you want it, he wants it, she wants, etc ad nauseum. It's all part of being human.

I don't begrudge anyone their desire to stand up and say 'look at me!'. What I do begrudge is when someone begins dancing loudly, singing drunkenly, and vomiting on the good carpet for their attention. In life and online, that's just tacky.

And it doesn't matter to me what the lyrics of your drunken song are. Be it cries of oppression, discrimination, theft, monetary need, illness.... I don't care. If you want to be taken seriously, then conduct yourself seriously. In this high tech world of scammers and spammers, we need to be careful who we listen to. But let's be honest: we listen to everyone, at least in passing. And the loud ones with the lampshades on their heads? Oh, we remember the loud ones. And not fondly.

Nobody likes a Drama Llama.

My Accidental Adventures With Cough Syrup

As someone who hates most prescription pain killers, I've worked with my doctors to ease my pain with alternative routes. One of the most common involves taking more over-the-counter pills than is the recommended dose. Yes, this is safe. I have a variety of pills that will give me the comfort I seek without taking away my coherency.

Unfortunately, this has given me a lax view on recommended doses. Last night, I reached the end of my line with a nasty cough I've been suffering. After taking two little plastic cups of Robitussin to no effect, I took two more. And then another for good measure. Nearly the whole bottle, once I took a look.

I wasn't too worried. I checked the chemicals in the bottle and checked the dangerous doses. I was still safe, I hadn't overdosed. And I had never believed any of those silly stories about getting ridiculously stoned off of cough syrup. I remember thinking about that, clearly.

Two hours later, I wasn't thinking about that. Two hours later I wasn't thinking about much of anything, other than how absolutely brilliant Beck's music was and wondering if I *really* had to be sick or if the spinning room just made me feel like I did. I don't remember actually being sick, and found no evidence this morning that I had been, so I think it was just the sensation of motion.

I stretched out on my bed, the music pounding in my ears, feeling as though I were floating. I couldn't feel my bed. My sense of space and distance was nothing. I kept hitting my hand on the wall, not realizing it was there. Patterns of light flashed across my closed eyelids. My heart felt like it was beating so hard it would burst. I was terrified and jubilant at the same time.

I don't quite remember what I did after the music stopped. I have vague memories of watching some Adult Swim and feeling like I was on a boat. I know sometime after that I went to sleep, and somewhere before I fell asleep I hallucinated. That in itself isn't anything strange or remarkable. As an insomniac, I suffer from hypnagogic hallucinations - my subconscious mind begins dreaming before I'm asleep. But I am certain that the intensity of the hallucinations were aided by the DMX that was coursing through my system.


I do know that I woke up this morning curled in a ball at the foot of my bed, naked except for my undies and my winter coat. And I felt miserable. I spent the morning at the altar of the porcelain god, the expectorant doing its job well. It was worse than a hangover. It was worse than the flu. It was like gorging on day old sushi.

And all I could think was 'there are people who do this on purpose?'

I think I'll be sticking to lemon and honey to soothe my throat from now on. I have an aversion to cough syrup that I won't easily get over.

I'll admit that I've done my share of experimenting with the darker side of altering my state of consciousness, but it never held much appeal to me. The risks an after effects never seemed to be worth the high. My one experience with acid was scarring, my one experience with ecstasy embarrassing, and the only time I got drunk I'm told I hogged the karaoke machine. I can't sing. Then I threw up. I'll stick with my blhang tea and a beer on the weekends and leave the rest to those who don't mind waking up without clothes and the taste of dead cat in their mouths.

But Beck's music really is brilliant.

And Now For Something Completely Different

Apparently, without my knowledge or any effort on my part whatsoever, I became a mother last month. This was quite a surprise to me, what with never being pregnant or coming in contact with sperm.

I never would have known if my Health Insurance hadn't just sent me my updated information, a new bill, and new insurance cards for me and my one month old son. Along with a little congratulations card.

This isn't the first time my insurance has screwed up - not by a long shot. But it's the first time the screw up has been quite so hilarious. I got the whole mess straightened out quickly - it was a minor error in ID numbers - but I'm still laughing. And I imagine I will be laughing for sometime about this. It isn't everyday I have an imaginary son, after all!

There's nothing quite like seeing 'Baby Boy My Last Name' and the little card with 'congratulations on your new baby!' on the inside. Apparently the little bugger doesn't even have a name yet. I ought to get around to doing that.

Suggestions, anyone? I was thinking Hohenheim Balthazar.

When Did We Fall So Far?

So many times I find myself with words and ideas in my head, all jostling and straining to burst forth - only to realize everything I want to say has been said before, and far better than I ever could.

Sometimes, though, I just wonder what the hell is wrong with the world. There's a pointless war going on, there 's genocide in foreign countries, America is on the brink of an economic disaster, and all that's on the news are stories about celebrities going out without panties on and who's lost or gained weight. And I use the term 'celebrity' loosely. When did the term celebrity come to mean 'whiny spoiled rich brats who are promiscuous'? Because it seems that's all that's out there these days.

I hate the news. I can't watch it without grinding my teeth and yelling, because it's not news. It's pandering to some media-brainwashed mass. I hate discussing politics because that's just as depressing. And somewhere along the line, 'talking about politics' became 'making lame Bush jokes' or 'rabidly defending Bush no matter what's said'. Bush and dumb starlets, that's all that's out there these days. And it's hard to be funny about all this. It's damn hard. Better people than me have tried and failed.

I just don't know anymore. Lost in the sea of stupidity that has become America's reporting media, I find myself clinging to but one clear thought:

I miss Marylin Monroe.

I'm A Bad Lesbian

I've been out as a lesbian for about five years now and I still don't understand 'gay culture'. I've tried. I've tried my little dyke heart out. But I still find myself bewildered and distraught.

I've never been much for gay pride. I don't go to Gay Pride Parades. The same way I don't go to Blue Eyed Pride Parades, or Born In April Pride Parades or Tall Pride Parades or any other Insignificant Detail About Me Pride Parades. My lesbianism just doesn't have enough impact on my life to have any cultural influence on me. All it means is I find chicks hot. This isn't anything remarkable to me. This isn't anything entirely special, it just gives me something to ramble on about in here. I don't live my life a certain way because I'm a lesbian. I don't dress or act differently just because I'm a lesbian. Lesbianism is one small facet of the things that make up me.

But it's automatically assumed that because I am a lesbian, I am a part of 'gay culture'. As far as I can tell, this means I need to do lots of drugs and have regular orgies. Well, I take a lot of prescription medication and I have indeed spent a good deal of time in the company of seven other people not wearing shoes. But I don't think that quite counts.

I remember I was chatting with some girl once, and it came up that I was a lesbian. She got all wide eyed and exclaimed 'Oh! You're gay!'. Much in the same way teenage girls exclaim 'Oh! You have a puppy!'. It was mildly disturbing. And then she shocked me by telling me 'I bet you have lots of wild sex and do all kinds of cool drugs!'.

I was rather floored. It took me a few moments to gather myself together and form a response. I told her that I drank blhang tea for my seizures and I did just last week have a rather nice threesome with my vibrator and a bootleg copy of Naughty Nurses 3.

I think I disappointed her.

I just don't understand putting so much of oneself into a sexuality. I don't particularly want to be known as just 'the lesbian'. I don't like being judged or measured based on one aspect of myself. And I can't understand anyone else wanting it, either. Call me 'that writer lesbian' or 'that lesbian who makes all those costumes'. Define me by what I do, not what I am or who's fun bits I like.

Other lesbians always try to get me more involved. Dinners, parades, special events... if we want so badly to be treated just like everyone else, why don't we stop separating ourselves from everyone else? Gay bars, sure! Gay nigthclubs? Definitely. Gay book clubs? Alright, I can kind of see it. Gay picnics? Gay bakeries? Gay grocery stores? Gay art shows? gay neighborhoods? Now we're being ridiculous.

And I know the arguments. "We don't want to deal with prejudice!" "We want safe places!". Alright, I get that. I have my safe places, and I need them. But we can't shut ourselves off from the world. We can't keep up this self-segregation and expect society to become used to us and stop thinking of us as different. Because we make ourselves different. This goes beyond having a safe place or a place to go to meet like minded people. This is going into self made leper colonies. Are we lepers? No. So why do we act like them?

I know my views aren't popular. I know that they're why I'm no longer allowed to hang out with certain 'cool gay people'. But I don't much care. I don't see them as gay people, I see them as jerks who can't deal with a differing opinion. And I don't want to keep that kind of company anyway.

I've given up on trying to understand gay culture. Otaku culture is bad enough, and I made the choice to throw my lot in there.

I'll just keep on being a bad lesbian. It works for me.

And the Naughty Nurses don't seem to mind.

Making Money While Sitting On My Ass

Disability services here are a joke. After a year of fighting with them, I gave up. I had no desire to hire a lawyer and engage in some court drama of epic proportions for a hundred or so bucks a month. It just wasn't worth it.

So that begs the question: what does a gimp in the middle of nowhere do for money?

I, like so many others, have turned to the internet. As you can see by the adverts on the side of my blog, I am whoring myself to the great god of Google. Not that the great god of Google favors me much. I imagine in a year or so I should see a check. Not that this surprises me. Who really clicks those ads?

I also whore myself out to Mylot. A massive forum of whackiness and insanity, full of every flavor of humanity to ever crawl the surface of this earth. From blithering idiots to erudite intellectuals, you'll find them all posting and chatting for a few bucks a day. But it pays off, I make about fifty extra dollars a month there. And here's where I whore myself to you: http://www.mylot.com/?ref=misskatonic . As with everything, I get rewards for referrals. It's like some great pyramid scheme that actually works. Who would have thought?

Agloco is something I'm also looking into. Paid for surfing the net? I'm constantly online, so I may as well. It goes live later this month, and I am waiting with bated breath. Only not, I'll most likely have forgotten all about it by that point. I have the attention span of a brain damaged gnat.

Only in this day and age can we possibly be paid for being lazy sods. I will readily admit I am a lazy sod, and I have little desire to slave away at some back breaking job for minimum wage. But I figure I worked my ass off since I was fourteen years old. I can afford to be a lazy sod for a bit.

All hail the internet age!

No, Really, The World Is Not About To End

People are uncomfortable seeing a young person in a wheelchair or using a walking aide.

It happens to me all the time. I get odd looks, I get people moving away from me in lines. I feel like a leper sometimes. Very rarely does anyone say anything about it. At least our society can still pretend to have some modicum of human decency.

I'm a reminder of the fragility of the human body. I am a giant blinking sign that says 'this could happen to you!'. I remind them that the body doesn't break down just due to old age, that no one is safe from the clammy hands of disaster. I'm not a photo in a newspaper or an image on the television, I am real and flesh and blood and cannot be easily ignored.

I imagine making myself a shirt. Something witty and clever, to bring all their fears and discomfort to light. To force them to admit that they aren't looking away and frowning because they pity me, but because they fear what I represent. I am disability. I am youth struck down. I am shattered hopes and dreams.

I want to whack them on the head and scream that really, it isn't a big deal. I'm not *really* broken hopes and dreams. I'm just somebody who can't walk all that great. There are worse things in this world than not being able to walk very good.

I once had an old homeless man make a comment. I was with Blond and Brainy, getting some beer. He was pan handling outside the liquor store. Classy. I was using a cane, hobbling about as I do, and he looked at me and said "aren't you a little too young to be using that thing?'

I bit back a retort of 'aren't you a little too drunk to be begging outside a booze shop?' and ignored him. Because of course, well all know crippling accidents only happen to old people. But they don't. And that scares people.

Rather than be scared of what could happen, wouldn't we all be happier if we didn't worry so much and just enjoyed what we had? As Hallmark-Card-Reject as it sounds, it's true. Stop worrying about all the shit that could potentially happen. Stop freaking out over mortality and getting everything done and all these horrible viruses that could exist in the future. Ignore anthrax and stop freaking out over the possibility of terrorists bombing your dinky little Podunk town.

We don't want to become a race of paranoid recluses.

Anymore than we already are, of course.

Maybe They're Just Old and Horny....

I seem to possess the uncanny ability to attract elderly women. Not only to attract them, but something about me screams 'grope me, please!'.

This is, as of now, a much documented phenomena. All instances occurred in the presence of at least one other person, an eye witness to my trials and tribulations.

It began on my first visit to Seattle, when I was immediately taken for lunch after stepping off of the plane. My friends brought me to a large Asian marketplace, enclosed, with a score of restaurants offering foreign delights! I felt as though I were in an old time marketplace - stands along either side of a great pathway full of tables where families and Asian culture geeks huddled round their food!

I don't remember what I dined on. But I do remember that while I and my soon-to-be girlfriend of the time were finishing, the rest of our group wandered off for shopping. I didn't mind. Soon-to-be-girlfriend (who I shall from this point on refer to as Blond and Brainy) and I could use some alone time, after all. But alone time was not to be had! While I sat, in no way blocking anyone's route to anywhere, an elderly woman in a red coat and bobble hat came up behind me.

"I just need to squeeze behind you, honey," she said. And placed her hands on my shoulders. I froze, as I often do when strangers touch me. I froze even as she slid her hands across my shoulders and through my hair, making a small sighing noise. I stared blankly when she winked at me and said 'thanks, sweet thing' and wandered off.

"What the hell was *that*?" Blond and Brainy exclaimed. A fluke, I thought. Just a strange fluke.

A few months later, I was living in Seattle with Blond and Brainy and a group of our friends. We were just a bunch of video game geeks and anime nerds, and it was a grand old time. My best friend - Bear - and I would wander all over the small suburb in which we lived. Bear and I both share a love of Crowley and rock opera, and so when we discovered a local theater group and put Crowley's 'The Rites of Luna' to music, we had to go. And go we did! We reveled in the lyrical workings of the Beast himself, an orgy of the senses! Erotic wording, bacchanal dancing, young maiden nymphs in gauze and oil-slicked men in nothing but leather trousers. Both Bear and I had much to look at.

And then came the end, and a sort of artistic mosh pit, the audience spilling forth onto the stage to join the actors in revelry. Now here, here was an environment where I was unafraid to display my jerky, limited movements! I danced, or as close to dancing as I could manage. And while we swayed and stomped on the little stage, I felt someone press up against me and grab my rear. I turn, and to my surprise, there is a little old lady behind me. She gives my rump another swat and saunters off, hips swaying like a feisty bar maid's.

There are other incidents, but in the sake of time I will skip to the last and most notable. This takes place two days before I left Seattle. On my last day where I could go out with our favorite housemate - Puppy, for your references, because she is indeed the human representation of a puppy - we decided to grab some sushi and do some shopping. After the sushi, I was in need of a restroom. I stopped off at the University bookstore to use theirs, and when I was finished with my business, there was an older woman, very butch, standing at the sink. She looked about sixty. She caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back.

"You're just as pretty up close as you are far away," she tells me. I blink, surprised.

"I watch you everyday from my window. You always take the same bus. You live in that big old house with the closed in porch, don't you?"

I am caught like a deer in the headlights. Has this woman just admitted to what I think she has? Yes, yes she has. Thank heavens I'm leaving! I nod, and am saved in the nick of time when Puppy pops her head into the restroom to see if I'm alright. I retell my story to her in the elevator, and she listens, wide eyed. I had a stalker of sorts! How long had this woman been watching me? Why did she watch me? Did she watch every young woman who took that bus?

Puppy and I headed home immediately, taking the long way. Just in case.