Bloggers are forever

I've always liked the word "hiatus." I'm pretty sure it's because it's another one of those words that kinds sounds dirty somehow, even though it isn't.

That said, the Ninth Circle is officially on hiatus as of today. On Thursday, I fly to Utah for spinal surgery. Woot? Unless the (hopefully awesome) drugs I get afterwards inspire me to regale you with my typically fantastic insights, I doubt I'll be doing much except sleeping, drooling, and torturing my parents for awhile.

Until I return, please enjoy these unspeakably adorable photos of The Gradyface, because he'll look totally different by the time you or I see him again.

Take care kids! Seeya when I seeya...

Spawn of Helen

Ladies, gentlemen, etc...please welcome Mr. Grady Damnation:

DOB: 5/1/07
Star Sign: Taurus
Height: 6.5 inches
Weight: 1.75 pounds

Any doubt that he was destined to be mine was quashed the moment he burped aloud and then sat looking proud of himself.

Clearly, the answer to all of the world's problems = kittens.
Or all of my problems, anyway. There's no way to be pissy when a seven-week old kitten is lying on his back purring while you rub his belly. No fucking way.

Very special thanks to Ms. R. Franklin, who rescued Grady's beautiful momma from the street right before she gave birth to him, and who took the above photo. Ms. Franklin is working diligently to find homes for the momma and two more kittens...please email me if you're interested in adopting and think you can pass the rigorous screening process.

Many, many more photos and annoying crazy cat lady stories to come. Lucky you.

Written in the stars, my ass

Dear Helen,
Here is your horoscope for Thursday, June 21:

The most difficult situations or people are often the best teachers. Can you push aside your ego and pay attention to the lesson the universe is trying to give you? Once you learn it, you'll be in on the joke.

-----------

Dear Universe,
This shit is no longer funny. Kindly enlighten me on this little joke of yours, before I punch you in the nuts. Assuming that you have nuts, that is.

But seriously...enough already. My back is fucking killing me, my apartment's a mess, my cat hates me, my hair is frizzing, my credit rating is all shot to shit, and I look like a scarecrow with tits. Ego, schmego. Hook a bitch up.

Love only slightly marred by bitter, deep-seated resentment,

Helen

Rules of engagement?

Is it morally and/or legally wrong to hump one's physical therapist in the same way that it's wrong to hump one's doctor? Anybody?

Not that it'll stop me if it is, mind you. I just want to have a leg up...pun so totally intended...on the potential consequences.

Given the fact that he's a physical therapist of the smolderingly sexy Latin variety, I personally think it'd be a far greater wrong not to. But that's just me. (Or maybe it's not. I know most of you are dirty too. Which explains why you're here.)

And yes, the fact that I'm thinking about hosing my physical therapist senseless does mean that I'm feeling a bit better. Thank you sincerely for asking.

Cinco de Helen

Today marks the fifth anniversary of my arrival in an unsuspecting New York City. I am astonished and more than a little disturbed at the speed with which five years of my life drained into the past.

My neck and back are still waaaay too fucked up for me to sit here and type for long, so I'll briefly sum up the last five years quite aptly by telling you this: Due to the appetite suppresant qualities of physical discomfort, I've dropped down to the weight of a healthy fifth grader. I know I'm a New Yorker, because I'm secretly thrilled that I live one of two cities on Earth (the other being L.A.) where this is considered a great personal achievement rather than a serious health concern.

It's sick and difficult and smelly and insane and wondrous and amazing, and I hate it as much as I adore it. I don't know how much longer I'll stay, but I'm fairly certain that I'll never regret the time I've spent here.