When I make a resolution, I like to keep it. So I'm not shooting for the stars. In fact, I probably won't even have to check this list.

Heather's New Year's Resolutions

1. Attend and study for all my classes (because I'm not compulsive enough about this)
2. Consume no higher a number of alcoholic drinks in one evening than the number of people with whom I am drinking (for instance, if there are 90 people in the bar, I cannot have more than 90 drinks)
3. Take time out of my busy schedule for a certain retailer's Semi-Annual Sale
4. Play SSX 3 until my hands are horribly blistered at least once
5. Take my ADD medication at least 1/4 of the time without being reminded
6. Chat and AIM under the influence no less than once per quarter, to keep myself humble
7. Start studying for the MCAT at least a week before I take it
8. Avoid talking to my parents
9. Change my hair color
10. Link to sexy Latin film stars from my blog at least once per month

Yeah, I think that's pretty doable.

I'm BUI tonight, so forgive me if I ramble on about wines. In fact, I need to see an I.D. before I let you read the rest of this post.

Well, that looked pretty fake if you ask me, but then again we're in Oklahoma, where cheesy laminate is king.

So I'm not really a oenophile. I'm more of a bourbophile, a Longislandicedteaophile, an Irishcoffeeophile, a Cranapple bootlegophile, and on rare occasions, none of which I actually remember, an Everclearophile.

What I'm trying to say here is, my tastes in adult refreshments are less than sophisticated. As I told my pals when I screamed at an inappropriate, pre-actual-scary-parts moment in "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre," you can't take me anywhere. (And sad to say, when I screamed at the flitting shadow I was stone-sober.)

However, at events such as weddings, formal dinners and the afternoon (rather than the evening) of college graduation, it is good to have some kind of fallback drink so you won't be doing shots of hard liquor in front of grandma, the dean of academic affairs, or in the noonday sun. Also, the buzz you get from wine is warm and friendly, as opposed to the buzz from Everclear, which is outrageous and naked.

In 1999 or so, after much trial and error in my efforts to drink beverages that aren't consumed while kissing one's cousin barefoot at a hoedown or at a high-school kegger out in the woods, I hit upon a miraculous discovery: White wine doesn't taste like shit. Much.

After experimenting with various white wines, I discovered a few years ago that Chateau Ste. Michelle, situated in the very lovely state of Washington, makes an excellent Riesling which can be swallowed with minimal wincing. Delighted, I bought every bottle of a certain year's vintage at Edmond Wine Shop. (No, I'm not going to tell what year. It's mine! All mine!)

Recently, having an unprecedented amount of holiday time thanks to not working for slave drivers anymore, I dined at one of Oklahoma City's more interesting restaurants, The Keller in the Kastle. Not only is it situated in a building that strongly resembles a castle, but it serves the yummiest wine I have savored to date, which I sampled at Oktoberfest but had forgotten the name of, owing to unforeseen overindulgence.

To ensure that I would remember the name of the wine this time, I brought a bottle home with me. This delicious concoction is created by the fine people at Schmitt-Söhne, and I can assure you that both the Kabinett and the Spatlese are not only palatable; they are downright delicious.

So delicious, in fact, that I had three glasses while watching Morvern Callar, which made understanding the heavy Scottish dialect even more of a task.

Anyway, if you are more of a Captainmorganophile than a oenophile, but wish to be classy like me (ha!) whilst at chichi-froufrou affairs, do yourself a favor and order a nice Schmitt-Sohne Riesling. It probably doesn't matter which one, as both of the wines I tried were great. The Germans historically suck ass at things like human rights and multilateralism, but like the similarly war-prone Irish, they're excellent at bringing us delicious, nutritious booze.

Now, put down that bottle of Jack Daniels, and go out and get yourself some palatable wine before I sober up and delete my drunken ramblings!

My little brother is one of the funnest people you will ever meet. He's cute, sweet, generous, a great conversationalist, and makes people laugh until they lose control over bodily functions. Everyone I know has only good things to say about him.

Everybody, that is, except The Queers.

Now, I am not personally acquainted with the members of this band, but it has come to my attention that these guys kicked the living shit out of my baby brother at their concert at the Hi-Tone in Memphis last month, forcing him to wear an eyepatch for the second time in two years.

Now granted he may have called the band "Blink 187" and mocked them as pathetic pop-idol sellout posers, and perhaps he vandalized their equipment with his paint pen. But that does not mean it's OK for three guys to beat up one 130-pound kid, and it's really not OK to kick a guy in the balls. Although I'm sure the loser fans ate it up. I'm sure they thought it was really punk RAAWWWK.

But, members of The Queers (and I think the fact that there's only one original member left is testament to the fact that you're assholes), you have just fucked with the wrong baby brother. I propose that everyone who thinks it sucks for three band members to beat on a lone little guy link the word cowardice to The Queers' web site on their blogs.

And lest one drunken night of heckling damage my brother's reputation as a fan, I'd like to point out that The Offspring thought he was cool and partied with him back in '97 (although to their credit, he likes them and did not damage their drum set with art supplies). And although he moved away six years ago, people still come up to me in bars and tell me how much they loved my brother.

Despite being an occasional asshole, he's really thoughtful and a good listener, and is one of those people who has honed to an art form the skill of making everyone around him feel special. And for any of you who happen to know him, I'd like to proudly announce that he has started his own art studio and gallery with a few friends and has had a few showings already, and has been featured in the independent paper in Memphis.

So today's post is dedicated to my baby brother, and the Google-bombing of a band that embodies the utmost cowardice. Oh, and yes, if anyone wants to date a guy who starts brawls with punk-pop bands, my brother said all he wanted for Christmas was a girlfriend. He's thinking about relocating, so now's the time to let me know. Email me at heather at whatsyourdamage.com or AIM me at HeatherDamage if you are into short, funny artist/baristas who aren't afraid to tell bands they suck.

Sometimes I wonder why I continue to visit my folks, year after year. My family is insane, in a completely different way from my own special brand of crazy. When you get the extended fam together, there's endless drama -- who was insensitive to whom, whose I.Q. is highest, whose rendition of the old family recipes is the best.

This Christmas, I endured my aunt's first attempt at sauerkraut soup, the joys of attending a Christmas party at which people are supposed to have gifts when one hasn't brought any, my Nazi stepgrandmother's bitchy comments and general embodiment of pure evil, Dad's unrepentant dorkiness, my brother's flakiness, my baby sister's ... well ... babyish ways, and Mom's endless hypochondria, her trash-talking of other family members, and her telling me in the same breath that I looked great with a little fat on my bones and that she was planning to diet down to about 10 pounds less than I currently weigh. Oh, and the entire clan's incapability of doing anything in a remotely timely manner.

Then I remember why I put up with all the crap. Mom is the best cook in the world, and her brothers aren't too shabby either. In three days, I managed to pack away at least six enormous helpings of Swedish meatballs and spätzle, three bowls of kapustnica, too many kolacki to count, half a plate of petit fours, a quarter-loaf of homemade bread, pots upon pots of delicious coffee, butter cookies, chocolate-chip cookies, and enough gingerbread to build a house (but Mom forgot my fruktsoppa! Why skip that, but serve pickled herring? Who the fuck eats goddamn pickled herring????!!!!!!!).

Fruktsoppa tragedy aside, I feasted like a fat little princess. In fact, I seriously considered filling my purse with a little spätzle for the road, since they don't serve dinner on planes much anymore. But then I came to my senses and realized I should just eat it all while it was hot and buttery.

Anyway, I survived my three days of family without any overwhelming urge to kill myself or others, and Mom made almost everything I asked her to cook, so I suppose it was a success.

So now I've got pics to download, but first, I've got to do the holidays with Mr. WYD's family of much saner people, who also cook but whose recipes don't call for two dozen eggs and a pound of butter, and consequently don't taste quite as delicious. Sometimes I wonder whether sanity and good cooking are mutually exclusive. I hope so. I'm a terrible cook.

As I may have mentioned before, Ginger Rogers I am not. I have all the grace and rhythm of an outdated toy robot with a short circuit. When I hit the dance floor, people flee not out of intimidation by my mad skillz, but in sheer terror of having an eye put out.

Oh, sure, I did a dance solo in my school play when I was 5. But it consisted entirely of spinning around and around with a big smile on my face, which is pretty much what I did as a cheerleader in high school and pretty much what I did along with my "social service club" (read sorority) in my alma mater's annual spring extravaganza, and pretty much what I do in the event that I get drunk off my ass and wind up in the Wreck Room, to the horror of all.

The mind-boggling awfulness of my dancing, sadly enough, is paralleled only by my enthusiasm for making an idiot of myself by putting on my dancing shoes. Being a sane and rational person who knows her dance moves are at best nonexistent, I am not one to climb atop the bar and put on a show. But if even one friend is willing to get out on the floor and boogie, I'll be shaking my groove thing like an English nanny does a baby. Much to everyone's chagrin. The chants of "Dear God, please make it stop!" resonate for days (and I dance to that beautiful music, too). I say, if it's good enough for the mosh pit, it's good enough for Electro Lounge. (Just kidding. The last thing I need is a flashing disco floor illuminating my spastic flailings.)

So, what kind of Christmas present does one get for such a terrible yet persistent dancer?

You've seen this stuff in video arcades. It's spawned freestyle competitions and been featured on "King of the Hill," and the Playstation version has been around for awhile. Introducing, brand-new for Xbox, Dance Dance Revolution. Yes, Virginia, there is an at-home version of those touch-sensitive arcade dance pads that score how well you bust a move. And guess who's the proud new owner of such a system?

That's right. Your uncoordinated pal Heather. This new game will serve the dual purpose of providing me with infinite, footloose fun while entertaining those who enjoy watching traffic accidents, gleefully follow shows such as "The Simple Life" and "Newlyweds," and are fond of pulling the legs off one side of a grasshopper and watching it try to hop. Which is basically just about everyone except Mother Mary and the Sweet Baby Jesus, when you get right down to it. If Schadenfreude wasn't so pervasive, it wouldn't be a word, now would it?

So now that I have a new, 24/7 outlet for my dance fever, one of two things will happen. Either I or someone in the general vicinity of my limbs will wind up in a body cast, or I will suddenly become an amazing dancer, and blow away the folks at Shittywalk with my fancy footwork.

Yeah. You might want to stock up on padding, mouthguards and/or felt-tip markers.

Today I have to apologize to poor Eric. Yes, fate is cruel. Even though I told him exactly what was in the beautifully wrapped package, and even though he did his best to avoid it initially, the cruel arms of destiny pushed my hideous $4.95 Dale Earnhardt ornament Eric's way. I suppose it is karma's way of telling him that, no, most people in Oklahoma wouldn't find it funny if he bought the custom leather racing suit and then put a lighter to it and ran over it a few times before wearing it. So now the spirit of NASCAR's finest can look down benevolently upon Eric's living room each yuletide, shining bright from among the Christmas lights, like a fiery car crash from which you just can't look away.

In other news, visit blog celebrity Tony Pierce. Not only did he link to me, but he is also a fan and friend of the extremely cool (and now old enough to drink) Madpony Kristin, who besides being another of blogdom's superstars is also sort of my neighbor, by way of her family's horse.

Christmas is the season of giving. Which means, of course, that it’s the season of shopping. Sometimes, as in the case of Mr. WYD’s fantabulous “big present,” I know what I’m buying before I hit the stores. Other times, I wander the aisles, waiting for something to leap off the shelf and dazzle me.

Shopping for Saturday night’s Dirty Santa gift exchange was one of those times. For one thing, there was a five-dollar limit, which makes shopping extra tricky. For another, I had no idea who was going to wind up with the gift. Not to mention the fact that I wanted to pick a gift that people would remember for a long time.

All my problems were solved when the perfect gift glinted at me flirtatiously from a shelf in Target, the fluorescent lights bathing it in a heavenly glow. I laughed loudly at the sheer perfection of this magical find, attracting stares from other shoppers as I hid the item from their curious eyes.

I called the party’s host to make sure it was OK to bring an object of such extravagant beauty to a Dirty Santa party. He assured me that if it fell within the price cap, I could bring whatever I desired. And what do you know, it was $4.95.

Humming merrily to myself, I purchased the supernaturally flawless item and brought it home, where I wrapped it lovingly in the finest of wrapping papers and decorated the package with luxurious golden craft ribbon.

Swathed elegantly in velvety loveliness, the perfect gift awaits the Dirty Santa festivities like a blushing debutante.

What object, you ask, could possibly be so glorious, so perfect for a five-dollar gift exchange? Behold its shining glory, but avert your eyes lest they be dazzled by its effulgent splendor and lose their sight forevermore.

My Lovingly Wrapped Gift

My imagined winter break involved:

Long hours of playing SSX 3
Going out every night
Doing some cleaning
Hitting the gym daily

My actual winter break has so far involved:

Battling evil soccer moms at Penn Square Mall
Developing blisters after hours of walking
Writing dozens and dozens of Christmas cards
Waiting in line at The UPS Store with the entire senior population of the southeast Oklahoma City area, three-quarters of whom realized at the counter that they didn't know the addresses of the people to whom they were shipping packages

Not to mention:

No video games whatsoever
Falling into bed exhausted and sore of foot at 11
Having to walk around a pile of clothes to leave the bedroom
Continuing to be about 15 pounds more, um, well-rounded than I was last year before I started working two jobs and/or going to school. (Dear, darling WYD friend Eric kindly told me that these things happen as people age. Dear, darling WYD friend Eric is getting a new pair of shoes for Christmas. Cement is all the rage this year.)

Anyway, I've finished shopping and mailing. Now all that's left is wrapping presents that aren't going in the mail. Then I can relax and do all the stuff I planned on doing, rather than racking up enormous bills, braving malls filled with cutthroat moms and shrieking toddlers, and waiting for seniors to count out their coupons. Woohoo!

Found this on Becky's blog. I promise I'm not really this slutty. TheSpark.com is just mad because I wouldn't put out, and it's spreading vicious rumors. Oh, and also I'm married, which totally skews the results.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas in Chez WYD. Normally, it begins to look a lot like Christmas immediately after my last bite of Thanksgiving dinner. And that's only because Mr. WYD doesn't like it so much when I start humming "Winter Wonderland" in June. However, every iota of spare time this fall was devoted to surviving my work and school schedules. That (and a couple inches of snow on the ground) made my Christmas-decorating day that much sweeter.
Now, seeing as how I'm an atheist, one might ask what exactly do I think I'm doing. My reply is that it's not a celebration of Jesus' birthday, it's a celebration of giving to friends and family. And of eating gingerbread, fruktsoppa, and those mouthwatering tinned butter cookies you can only find during the holidays. And of drinking generously spiked eggnog whilst skiing and hurling hard-packed balls of slush at one another. And of glorious, glorious Christmas music!
Between its pagan origins and its thorough commercialization, most people can agree that Christmas is not the property of the Christians alone. It's about love and food and giving and forming traditions, all of which transcend religious boundaries. And it's about decorating, dammit! And being someone who loves food, giving and decorating, I love Christmas like the fat man likes milk and cookies.
I'm not really about glittery knicknacks. My decor is spare and modern. I burn candles only on occasion. I often forget we have a sound system, other than the super acoustics in the karaoke stand shower. And normally, my microwaving ramen is quite the red-letter occasion. But at Christmastime, expect me to stick a 9-foot tree in the living room and meticulously string it with lights and ornaments, throw greenery and berries on the mantel, light a billion pine-scented candles, crank up the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, and, perhaps, if I'm particularly moved by the holiday spirit, cook up some Swedish meatballs or bake gingerbread with orange sauce.
So this weekend was a big event for me. Decorating, playing of Christmas CDs, burning of candles. And, in a very un-Oklahoma-like occurrence, there is even snow on the ground. Merry Christmas Season, blogdom! And (insert higher power here, or just roll your eyes like I do) bless us, every one!

So, as is the Friday tradition, Mr. WYD, Eric and I went to Golden Palace for Mongolian barbecue. Usually I get crappy fortunes, ones that say insulting things like "Your unique talent will bring you wealth." But today I got a nice one. It said, "You are always welcome in any gathering." Isn't that nice? OK, it's a bit sleazy. But it's a lot better than "Unexpected gain and public honour," that's fa damn sure.

If you'd like your own bad fortune cookie (but bad in an entirely different way), check this out.

Flu season is upon us, and one very important question is on everyone's mind: "How do I throw up at work gracefully?"

That, unfortunately, is a question I have found I am dreadfully unqualified to answer. However, if you happen to be wondering how NOT to vomit on the job, you've come to the right grrl.

Don't try this at home, kids.

Getting Sick on the Job

1. In the mood for an early-morning snack? You decide that:
a.) Nothing tests your stomach status better than dairy. To see if you are ready to start your day chunky-style, make your breakfast a Snickers ice-cream bar.
b.) You should have something bland, like crackers.
I hope you answered a. Crackers are for wussies.

2. Feeling queasy now? Maybe having someone get you something else from the vending machine will help settle your stomach. You:
a.) Tell them you want crackers, dammit, or
b.) Make sure you're not very specific on what you want, so they will bring you something nauseating.
Well, you do want to barf, don't you? The correct answer is b.

3. Congratulations -- you're about to upchuck. There is:
a.) a trash can three feet away, and
b.) the rest room, about 30 yards down the hall.
Which do you choose? If you decided that the rest room would be a better place to release the steaming contents of your stomach, you picked the right answer.

4. You're halfway down the hallway to aforementioned rest room and realize that violent regurgitation is imminent. You:
a.) Decide that the convenient placement of a nearby trash can is the universe's way of trying to tell you that you won't make it to the toilet, or
b.) Walk faster, but cover your mouth with your hand.
If you chose b, you are well on your way to being a terrible workplace vomiter.

5. It's three seconds later, and you feel vomit coming up your throat. You can:
a.) throw up in your hand, or
b.) run to the trash can.
Everyone knows it's not nice to run in the office. The obvious answer is a, "throw up in your hand."

6. On your way into the bathroom, you bump into a co-worker from another department, who doesn't know you very well. You:
a.) Look sad and pathetic, as befits an individual who obviously just vomited chocolate ice cream and caramel into her hand, or
b.) Wave in a friendly manner with your free hand, hoping she won't notice what's oozing out from between the fingers of the other. Never underestimate the importance of networking. Now she will never forget you!
Clearly, the answer is b. As drunk girls at every party in college have taught us, throwup exists only if you acknowledge it.

7. Having finally reached the toilet (cue glorious Holy Grail music and golden light from above), you are about to project the rest of your Snickers ice cream bar into the toilet. You:
a.) vomit with carefree abandon, or
b.) remove your I.D. badge and absorbent cotton lanyard.
Who has time to remove anything? The answer is a. Throw up already, for goodness' sake! Get it out, get it all out. Don't worry. What the plastic sheath around your ID badge won't catch, the toilet will.

Yes, it may be difficult to remember all these tips, but with practice and some well-timed ice-cream breakfasts, you, too, can be known to people in other departments as that weird vomiting chick. Perhaps, once your ID badge has been corroded by residual stomach acid, you can get a new one made, and have the picture taken with your hand over your mouth so everyone at your place of employment will recognize you.

Happy Thursday ... I'm off to a long day of starvation and an evening final. If I'm lucky enough to get carsick on the way to school, I can make a similar impression on random people in the science building, too.

My suffering has paid off.

I wasn't so sure about Strattera at first. To start with, there was the whole springing-out-of-bed-at-5-a.m.-completely-wired thing. Then the evening drowsiness. There was that really unsexy barfing-on-myself-after-a-mere-three-drinks incident. And of course the slow-witted daze I'm in constantly. I was watching old videos a few weeks ago and I was kind of horrified by my old self, yet kind of wistful. My mind was always on overdrive and I had absolutely zero impulse control, which made for some insane impromptu comedy and more than a few interesting physical injuries. I haven't said or done anything spontaneously hilarious in months. Of course, I haven't said or done too many idiotic things without thinking, either.

But enough misty-eyed introspective bullshit. Having the personality doped out of me is wonderful, because now I can make As in algebra classes.

Yes, folks, you read that right. As of finals time, I had only to make an 86 percent on that last test to clinch a big, beautiful A. You may remember that, at the beginning of the semester, I thought if I was lucky I might get a B.

I went into my final a ball of nerves, having made the foolish mistake of studying. In that pursuit, I discovered I had forgotten vast amounts of information taught earlier in the semester. I spent hours agonizing over obscure formulae and memorizing how to solve sequences and find the factorial symbol on my calculator. I painstakingly calculated how many points I would need to score on the final in order to get a C, a B, an A. (True, I would have had to miss a large majority of the questions to get a C, but I was prepared for the bitter worst.)

But when I opened up the test, I found that instead of picking all the hardest and most obscure problems for the dreaded cumulative final, the professor had compiled Greatest Hits of Easy Math Problems. Lots of calculator stuff. Lots of systems of equations. Very few factoring problems. The token geometric sequencing problem was cake. Between a heavy dose of easy questions, my new drug-aided ability to look at an equation without fleeing in terror, and my super-duper (also drug-aided) attention powers, I'm 100 percent certain that I have at least a B. And I hardly dare think it, let alone blog it (for multiple-choice with no partial credit has screwed me over in math before), but there is a fairly good chance I could even make the elusive algebra A.

So what if I'm a shadow of my old self? I'm a really fucking smart shadow! Hooray for drugs!

Now I've just got to get through trig and physics, and then I can quit the dope and go back to being the crazy girl that jumps out of windows again, instead of someone who blogs about algebra.

In appreciation of Lord of the Rings, hot boys in general, and Orlando Bloom in particular:

His hair looks like Jackie O's bouffant and Jerry Seinfeld's mullet got together and had one butt-ugly baby hairdo, but I'd still hit that even so, he is not what I'd call an unattractive man. *

*I am required by contract to state that Mr. WYD is still the cutest boy in the whole, entire world. And he makes a mean beef curry too!

So apparently lowering taxes is supposed to somehow fund not only a long war, but also a full-time U.S. moon base? If Congress is spending taxpayer money like a drunken sailor, then Bush is spending like an alcoholic space cadet. Oh, wait. Bush is an alcoholic space cadet. (And also, according to Google, a miserable failure.)

In other news, thanks to my well-preserved little friend, Babe the lab pig, I pwned my practical, ensuring that I will make an A in zoology even if I fail the final.

Baaabe! Baaaabe saaaved our GPAAAAAA!

Requiem for a Pig

They say we're young and we don't know,
Won't find out until we grow.
Well I don't know, Babe, if that is true,
'Cause you got me
And baby, I got you
I got you, Babe

It's been good knowing you, Babe. When I picked you out of the lab sink and plopped you in my tray, I thought there couldn't be a cuter fetal pig. With barely any hair, and outweighed by every other pig in the class, you were the runt of the litter. Stephanie's and Jeremy's pig, Wilbur (or, as it turned out, Wilburina) had a good 10 ounces on you. But I knew you'd do just fine.

I would have liked to dress you up all pretty and put you in a wicker bassinet, but since you were dead and stank of formaldehyde (not to mention that my dissection grade is riding on your pink shoulders), I cut you up instead. That doesn't mean I don't love you, my little lab pig.

How could I not love a piglet whose back I cradled as my partner Amy pried away copious amounts of thymus to reveal the veins and arteries of your neck? Or whose cecum I gently separated from the rest of the large intestine? Your body has revealed to us what textbooks couldn't, so it's only natural that a person would grow attached to you.

We cringed when the professor over came to our table and deftly sliced open your scrotum, manhandled your testis and yanked on your dainty inguinal canal. We worried that we were digging too deep when tweezing the flesh off your hindlimb with our forceps. We didn't want to fall in love, but your cute little face was too endearing, even after we sliced open your jaws to check out your nasopharynx and eustachian tubes. Even after yesterday, when I exposed your infraorbital foramen and maxillary nerve by scraping a portion of your snout to the bone, to us you are as adorable as the day you first lay dripping on the tray, looking as if, at any minute, you would open your wee eyes, jump off the table and go gamboling after a stray sheep.

Although I enjoyed seeing all your organs up close and personal, I feel bad that your life was sacrificed for my education, my dear little double-injected friend. If there was any way to repay you for your sacrifice, other than learning as much from you as I can, I would do it in a heartbeat. Since it would violate health codes and such, I can't give you a proper funeral and burial, but I want you to know that even though you'll end up in the lab trash, you will always hold a special place in my heart.

It will be difficult to say good-bye tonight after I've identified 150 or so of your parts in my lab practical. I named you after my favorite literary Sus scrofa; I held you in my hands; I learned from you. You've done a great job, and I'll miss you.

That'll do, pig. That'll do.

Congrats to Becky on her new domain name! Go visit her if you haven't already. She's a rhetoric and communication grad student, and as one might expect, her blog is interesting and well-written. She is one of my favorite mujeristas on the Web and in most of her posts she manages to include great links, like the church-sign generator. I'm not going to say what I put on my sign, lest lightning strike me while I slumber, but suffice it to say, you should visit her blog for the church-sign generator alone.

Okay, fine, it was something to the extent of "Jesus is coming, are you on your knees?" If I don't post tomorrow, that means there is a God and he or she smote me for my heresy. And the blame rests entirely on Becky, for leading me into temptation by offering a link with such great potential.

Anyway, visit grrlmeetsworld's new home and wish Becky happy blogging!

I'll admit that in my carefree single days, I answered my share of online personal ads. Maybe I was lucky or maybe I'm just good at reading between the lines, but none of my experiences with Internet dating were any more negative than regular dating.

Some people aren't so lucky, or so good at reading between the lines. I mean, who would have guessed that a guy who placed an ad seeking a "well-built male for slaughter" would slay and devour the man who responded to the ad?

Now, of course, the cannibal is on trial for murder, although the defense makes the very good point that the "victim" volunteered to be killed and eaten. Apparently, the pair enjoyed penis flambé together before the slaughter commenced. That would be the first sign that the guy who answered the ad wasn't so bright. Most guys who want to put their own willie in their mouth just get a rib removed.

Darwin Award nominations aside, however, the self-confessed killer and cannibal probably shouldn't be free to walk the streets. Just as sex doesn't lead to rape, killing volunteers might not escalate to killing people who don't want to die. But on the other hand, consensual sex is normal and healthy, while consensual slaughter of humans for food is just, well, really fucking disturbing.

Anyway, the moral of the story is, don't answer personal ads seeking people for slaughter if it's just run-of-the-mill S&M you're after. And no matter how good those German sausages look, you don't want to know what it is you're actually eating.

Yeah, I know there was a post here. But I deleted it, because Quizilla is too slow. And I'm not putting a new post in, because I'm sick and lazy.

Well, OK, I'm not too lazy to play with my new cam. As you can see, I really am sick.

Notice how my face is visibly whiter than the walls, the carpet, and even my lightest-hued highlights -- which, I assure you, are pretty light.

Oh, I'm sorry -- were you not carrying a cross or wearing garlic? Well, the only way you'll survive now is if I bite you. Please, somebody take my cam away before I kill again.

Yours truly,