You know, Gentle Reader, a few weeks ago someone said I looked like one Jamie Oliver.
I let it go, only ever having seen Mr Oliver on the cover of his book The Naked Chef.

Of course this person -- unidentified here because of his eyesight and/or mental problems -- is quite wrong.
I look nothing like the Naked Chef.
I wish I were a) that cute and b) able to cook that well.
I can only wish he thought I was that nice.
Judging from pictures of the event this could be true [fantasy, fantasy but I'm at rock bottom Reader: seriously] as there is one of him leering at my backside. And no, you can't see it or any other pictures because they are all Stunningly Bad. One wonders what affected the Dorothy Parker* fan to post them. They'll blind the innocent who'll view them.

I made gingerbread men today and it was scarring.
I felt like an evil god, culling the weak, sick and deformed gingerbread men to be reformed as new, perfect gingerbread men. And of course they all came out funky after baking anyway. They had swollen limbs and conjoined heads. It was like a little gingerbread freakshow.
And Gentle Reader, you don't even want to know what the icing was like. I thought "Ah yes, I'll use a bit of grenadine to turn the icing from white to pink." Turns out the icing was blood red.

*Does that make her a DP fan? Or a fan of DPs?

Have you seen the light?

Sometimes I wish I had Religion. Speaking in tongues, snake handling, proslytizing the masses.
Actually, in some weird moments, I want to belong to a black baptist church. And sing and dance at church and have Soul.
But let's face it -- in reality, if I went to one, I'd be scared shiftless.
Though sometimes I think it would be nice to have the religious version of faith.

The way I see it, "There's a press to shape our ends, rough-hew them how we will."
And that's a rip off of Shakespeare.

I lost my job today.
More specifically, I was fired.
Out of the blue.
I went in to get lunch, and this manager Micah pulled me over to Table 3 and fired me.
I was surpised.
I ate lunch there, anyway.
They all knew there how very poor I am. I'm glad that that my rent is paid and all by bills are paid for this month.
Micah cried. This made me very mad. It seemed the height of disingenuousness. If it made her feel that bad, she wouldn't have done it. After she fired me, am I supposed to feel sorry for her? I don't. I hope she fuckin' regrets it for weeks. Like anybody else there brings in cakes and pies and cookies.
I'm beginning to get scared.
What sucks is that I now have no money. Well, okay, $3. Friday I can go in and get my last check, but since I make -- made -- tips, I don't have cash to hand till then. Monday, I can go to the Unemployment Office and hopefully get on the Dole. (oh yay...).
I geuss I can look at this as an opportunity, but now I'm just pissed and scared.

Oh yes... I'm getting married. Have I mentioned that? I have to do the whole Formal Asking deal and settle the dowry (like I have anything to give... "For the priviledge of your daughter, sir, I shall give you this video copy of Time Lash, Seven Plays by Sam Sheperd, and the original sound track album to The Sound of Music.") but the outcome is secure.
My only concern: the vicious fight for dominance that will not doubt occur between Murphy the Wonder Cat and Miss Flannery. If Murph had opposable thumbs, I swear he'd learn to twirl his whiskers like a moustache. Flann strikes me as one of those demure Suthan Lahdies who can be trusted to kick ass as needed, but still, maybe I should consider a pillowcase and the Haw River for ol'Murph in the cause of connubial bliss.
*shudders* The evil ghost of Murph? Scar -ry.

Ahhh... The weather.
It's been lovely of late. It's almost, Gentle Reader, as if the burning heat of summer has gently segued into more mellow time of Autumn.
As if. We all know that it will rocket back to an 100 degrees and the humidity shall return. It could be recompense for the Week of No Sun last week.
There was nigh to a chill last night, that reminded me of roaming campus alone after midnight, as I used to do. Brick paths, street lamps, owls, colonial architecture, drunken student stumbling and weaving back from Franklin Street...
What's needed is a mountian walk to see the changing leaves. I'll prolly not get around to it though.
It'll soon be Hallowe'en as well, when tens of thousands of folk will roll in, get drunk and dress in drag. And we all know why Frat boys dress in drag. (They want to: all Fraternities exist for the purpose of guilt-free gay sex. Oh yes. Why else would they be called Greeks?) Last year, I went as a mobster: blavk suit and tie, black hat, trench coat, violin case. This year I'm thinking: Noel Coward. "Mad dogs and Englishmen..." Especially after the book.
(A Dr. Who book this year -- the BBC's 100th Dr Who novel -- was called Mad Dogs and Englishmen. It was Completely Bizarre: Noel Coward was changing history because it was boring and also to aid the Empress of the Planet of Talking Poodles. There was also a parody of Lord of the Rings and Star Wars. I just like the idea of Noel changing history 'cause it's too dull.)

Due to popular demand (or, having been asked twice in two days...)
What I find dreamy...
Tallish, darkish. Thin, possibly lithe (not skinny) build. Wavy or slightly curly hair is best. *Brown eyes*
I like normal guys... Not exceedingly butch (see below) or terribly femme.
I like nerds. Perfect people make me nervous. It's also a matter of aesthetics: a little geekiness balances out the other various perfections to make a pleasing whole (think Hegele).
Knowledge of music and literature is absolutely essential. In no necessary order you must (at least) recognize (perferably quote): Byron, Belle and Sebastian, Tennessee Williams, Shakespeare, the Smiths, Mary Shelley, Marlowe, the Moldy Peaches, Vivaldi, Edith Piaf, and Vince Gauraldi.
Knowledge of art is also swell.
Ability to dress well a must.

Anyone fitting this may promptly fall into my arms. Or take me to dinner. I am quite entertaining. It has been rumored -- though I'm sure absolutely no-one could testify to it -- I kiss well.
Failing that, you can email via the shiny link above.

Today was may day off, but I had to go in for New Computer System Training.
*imagine, if you will, ironic trumpet fanfare*
Yes indeedy, was I lucky: I met the Man With No Respect For My Personal Space.
I went in with three managers for training. As the system has yet to be installed, the demo was set up in the basement office. There is no air-conditioning there. We all sat down in front of the screen and, gentle reader, the MWNRFMPS put his hand on my knee to get closer to us.
Not in a 'hey, hey' way that hinted of further travel (not that I'd recognize that) but in this mensch-y butch way that hinted at fraternity pledging, full contact sport and memorization of Golf swings.
Soon after he says "Well, Jay, why don't you give it a spin?"
I wanted to say, "I shall, sir, upon the removal of your digits from my knee." I really said "Umm, sure."
As I leaned in to learn the proper way to ring in a small Spinach salad, he moved his hand to my shoulder. I turned around to glare at him. He smiled back in this po-faced attempt at male bonding.
This man has obvious failed to achieve his calling of elementary school photographer or upper middle management.
Bleech.

Hmphf.
*I* don't have any kind of boyfriend, let alone one in an ad I feel obligated to hawk on a blog.
Even if I did have one who didn't inflate, I wouldn't praise him as a coporate stooge. Not even with an adorable little kiss curl.
'I said my Gap-whoring* days are over;
threw my headset down and retired from the sales floor...'

*Random rant over. Please return to your normal routines.*

*Oh yes indeedy. It's true. Sales associate, store 4917 (Gap Outlet, Nag's Head, NC); Sales supervisor, store 6007 (Chapel Hill). Maximum payrate achieved in 2 1/2 years: $6.15 an hour.

So I had to get up mondo early this morning. I had to laundry (how I hate, hate, hate washing clothes) before work and see my parents as they stopped by on their way to the airport.
I saw the sun at 8 am.
I did not burst into flames.
Much to my surprise.

My parents rock. They brought me food. A lot. They think I'm starving myself, because of incidents in the dim past, and not out of poverty. Lots of it actually is stuff I won't eat: Teddy Grahams, apple sauce, hamburger casserole. But still, how cool was that.
There was of course a price. The Questions. To sum up:

Mater: What about that girl in South Carolina you went to see?
Me (thought): I told them about that?!
Me (actual): Laura?
Mater: You should see more of her. You're supposed to be married at your age. Or at least serious with
someone. Do you like her?
Me (thought): Yes, but...
Me (actual): Yes, but not...
Pater: Why is this Abercrombie and Fitch ad hanging on your icebox?
*conversation ends*

I'm not sure why, really. It's not like they didn't bring me Strawberry-Kiwi wine coolers.
They won't be drunk.
Not even I am that queer.

Murph the Wonder Cat savaged me today. He was hiding around a corner and pounced on me as I walked by. He sank his fangs into me and drew blood. He was, of course, kicked. Purely in self-defence. He ran to his closet and lurked like a 17 year old on Sinister.
I think all this being alone is making him weird, too.

Have you seen this show on Comedy Central called Contest Searchlight or some such? I've not seen it, of course, but the previews I've seen have a tres dishy director type. Dunno why I mention it, but I do.

You know, sometimes I hate my job: the customers are all hicks, my co-workers are bitchy slackers and the managers are too cheap to keep the air conditioning on.
Then I saw it. I was wandering alone through the lanes of the Internet (Caitlin Pigtails' blog, I think) when I came to a link to Favorit.
It seemed soooo cool and hip and urban and trendy. All the things Elmo's isn't. How I want to work there.
You can just seen the hipsters there sipping their espresso after midnight.
I want to work the late shift there, waiting tables and making coffee drinks.
*sighs*
Go and visit it. Right now. That's Favorit. Two locations in Edinburgh.
But I've never been to Edinburgh. Or even Scotland. And I want to know why take away food costs more there. How weird.

Last night, at the gym, I was watching MTV's Undressed. It was so very hysterical. Eventually, I put on a CD rather than listen to it. That was trippy: mellow Belle and Sebastian over perfect sorority girl sex stories. It blew my mind. It was all Just Wrong. I was forced to turn off the B&S so as not to flip out.
It leads me to my public service announcement:
Straight boys do not approach their gay friends for "just once, just to see what it's like" sex. Ever. Oh no. Oh no indeed.

Today's reason Laura Llew rocks: not only did she name drop me on Sinister, but even on her blog.
Apparently, I almost made her wet.
(Sorry Llew, buy you *had* to know that one was comin... In the cards)

Dr Who of the (past few) Day: The Mysterious Planet, parts 1 -3. You know, after 1980, John Nathan-Turner, the producer, made all the actors wear the same costumes. That sucked. It leaves little to comment on. The plot of MP is okay-ish: Glitz and Dibber make a gear team (it is a Robert Holmes script) and Katryca is OTT. A queen in more than one way, luvvie.

I bought The Reptile Room today. Yay! I finished The Bad Beginning. The Pickwick Papers is on hold for right now.
I wish I had a friend in town to go get coffee with.
I wish I had the money to go get coffee.
Damn poverty. I spent my $10 this week for my new book. I haven't gotten a new CD in weeks. Not since The Flaming Lips. Ahhhh! I want new music.
How lovely would a new mix tape or CD be! I mean, especially one that someone worked hard for and would savagely and viciously defend.

Peace out, yo.

There was a boy today at work with a Belle and Sebastian t-shirt. I didn't realize till he walked out. When I did, I wanted to run out and talk to him or at least say hello. But he was on his little bike pedalling of to Chapel Hill. This is a trope of my life of late.

I had an odd dream last night -- and it was in colour. I especially remember the blues.
I driving with someone over this really tall bridge (taller than the Baum Bridge onto Body Island, so more than 4 or 5 stories) into Miami. There was toll, so I was getting quarters out...
Then we were in the Florida Keys. No Miami suburbs, no post Miami mango swamp. Just turqouise water and white sand. Then we were going on foot. On this weird wooden track with hadrails and halls. Then we came across this person in a bathroom, crying. It was a girl and her parents were trying to get a hold of a cardiologist to re-set her pace maker. She was embarrassed and wouldn't come out.

It was a pity I didn't see Aruni last night. I was cute. I had a black oxford shirt with a black silk tie, a black V-neck jumper and grey jeans with my black boots. Very corrupted English school boy. Oh yeah.
I'll have to wear that outfit again.

Oh yes, gentle reader:
I suck.
Muchly.

I was supposed to meet Aruni at a bar called The Basement in Durham tonight.
Of course, I got lost. Majorly lost. I couldn't even find the first street I needed, Tower Drive. I could see a sign for it, but I couldn't get on the right road that had the sign. I tried for over an hour. Finally, the little car hydroplaned through a stoplight onto a busy street. *brakes squeal* The little car was missed by a couple of inches. I screamed like Mrs White in 'Clue.' Ten minutes later I freaked out and went home.
I bet Aruni hates me.
She shouldn't of course...

Ooohh. Sod, Sod, Sod, Sod, Sod.
I'm going to drink beer and read.

Oh nothing else interesting has happened of late.
Oh, there was this woman today at work. She looked like one of those heads, cryrogenically frozen in the 60s, had been thawed and stuck on somebody. Her beehive and polyester collar were that perfect. She was prolly wondering if that nice Mr Johnson was still president.