Compelled.

I read a lot. A lot.

Mostly it's fluffy fiction. So I don't have to think. I can just enjoy the narrative. Escapism? Yes, please.

I finished a book today around 2pm. 8 and a half hours later and I'm still thinking about it.

I went back and read the epilogue twice. Because the first time I read it, I was too disturbed by my interpretation. So I went back and bent the words into something more acceptable. I'm not sure I've ever done that before. My investment in the characters is such that I can't be at peace with my first reading. Too upsetting. Perfectly in line with the story, yes, but personally unacceptable to me.

I'm not really sure why I am so affected by this story. It's rough-edged and sometimes winding, but, goddamnit, I can't get it out of my mind. My heart aches for Sam and Deanie (Jesus.). It doesn't help that Deanie is like every abused, neglected kid that comes into my office. I've ordered the rest of the books in this world.

Tabitha King has put a vapor lock on my consciousness right now. I'll be around later.

Juvenile Humour Alert

But it's punctuation! and teh sex!!

Best of all, you can buy this on a t-shirt for less than $10.

even mermen sing his praises

I'm not entirely sure this will work but I hope it does...

"I thought that little swimsuit had you written all over it"



I did think of putting in either Fanny or my picture but Mr. Firth works much better, I reckon!

when football is just not enough

So, I ended up at a Happy Hour gig yesterday with a mate who writes reviews for an online site, her friend who is a regular blogger (but about cool non Colin Firth Penis stuff), and a few other people, all involved in creative endeavours such as writing, journalisting and theatre-ing.

I don't remember much of the two hours I spent there except:
a) I was told I was "very cheerful. Not like you"
b) I patted a bloke on his arm a few times (no, I'd not met the bloke before)
c) I asked about wedding etiquette, we discussed shaving bits and pieces (consensus=boys shouldn't do it),
d) I recall someone taking their top off to show a (shaved) nipple.
e) I shamelessly pimped out Chiwetel Ejiofor, even though his new film is about grown men beating each other up.

All this was the result of my having spent the previous 3 hours, watching Liverpool lose in the most annoying style (oh WHY did they play like they had huge concrete blocks on their feet throughout the first half? WHY?) and now having to face the prospect of a Chelsea-Man Utd Champions League final.

Gah.

Poll, supernatural creature edition.

Bum and I have an ongoing...I don't know...debate? Amicable difference of opinion? Blistering war of hateful fury?

Bum likes vampires. I know. And I still like her.

Where I am a werewolf/shifter fan. Because I am obviously much more sensible.

So I'm curious. Do other people have this sharp divide which clearly delineates what kind of person you are. Corpse-mongering necrophiliac or bestiality-tolerant zoophiliac?

more at twiigs.com...

Huh (part deux).

When did this blog turn into a Colin Firth's penis-centric blog?

Not that I have any problem with that.

Insidious.

I hate Facebook.



I hate Facebook because it lulls me into thinking that I'm actually keeping in contact with friends.



I hate Facebook because I am, in actuality, not keeping in touch with friends, but merely reading one line "updates."



I hate Facebook because rather than showing up with a cupcake, or hug, or hatching egg, I push some buttons and voila!, no actual effort needed.



I hate Facebook because my 50+ year old supervisor is on Facebook and I think he may be the type to search me.



I hate Facebook because there are patients on Facebook (who I have searched) and I can post limited amounts of information.



I hate Facebook because, really, I wouldn't actually put anything very salacious up.



I hate Facebook because this reminds me that I don't have anything very salacious to put up.



I hate Facebook because I am addicted to Facebook.



And what the fuck is with the new IM-feature?

it's a good thing Mr. Firth's not in the Congo

for dodgy deeds are afoot over there.

Now for a non-Colin Firth's penis post.

Am in love with Engineer #1. Damn my cat allergies.

List of things on my desk at work. Right now.

Diary of a patient.
Caddy of office crap.
Purell.
Business cards (that I have to hand print my name and number on).
Travel mug of stale, overly sweetened coffee.
Paper cup of overly sweetened Crystal Light (Pomegranate Cherry with B-vitamins. Am obviously a health nut).
Datebook.
Cell phone (with Internet access, so I can look at sites my office computer blocks. Am obviously a subversive revolutionary).
Ceramic pen container with an Asian character on it, that was made in Denmark that I think just toes the line of being racist, but it's over thirty years old and my parents bought it, so I don't care very much.
Hunk of hematite. To "ground" me. Whatever the fuck that means.
Phone (that seems vaguely dirty).
To-Do lists miles and miles long.

I'm pretty sure this makes me the most boring-est person ever. But that's okay. Because Bum has managed to bring up Colin Firth's penis, which makes me think of the story that Mr. Firth told of when he was making Pride and Prejudice. He was told, allegedly, to pretend he had an enormous erection whenever he looked at Elizabeth.

Worked for me.