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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.