Always something there to remind me

For the last year and a half, I'd been planning to get a tattoo on Thursday. Somehow, permanently embossing a reminder of Michael on my body seemed like the right thing to do, and that was the right day to do it.

I'd been uncertain of exactly what I wanted to get, or exactly where on my body to put it. Up to the last minute, I was torn between two ideas. I finally decided on a small, stylized version of the number 8, inspired by the autograph I received from Cloud Cult's Craig Minowa back in April. (I'm not a groupie, I swear. Not that much of a groupie, anyway. Wikipedia has a pretty good entry detailing the significance of the number 8. Read it. Learn yerself something.)

Special thanks to the lovely and talented (and married, bitches) Steven Huie of Brooklyn's legendary Flyrite Tattoo for doing such a girly little piece, and for letting me pick on him for an hour without crying. Good times.

My boss...on the conservative side, he is... is gonna shit when he sees it. (I'll post photos of that, too.)

Today in Ninth Circle history

Eighteen years ago today, my cousin Michael died of AIDS-related complications at the age of 34.

While the memories of that day and the horrors of his illness are obviously difficult to think about, all of my other recollections of him are full of joy and hilarity and music and wonderful ridiculousness. He was and is my favorite person ever. It's strange to think that my life has already lasted a month longer than his did.

Three years ago today, I started this blog. These two events are not unrelated; were it not for Mike's influence, I doubt I'd be writing at all. He did everything he could to encourage my creativity, and continues to inspire most of it.

So thank you, Michael, for everything you were and are. And thank you, all you swell folks who keep showing up here and being so damned nice to me and whatnot. I've met some seriously incredible people, both virtually and in person, as a result of this forum's creation, and each one has given me one more reason to be happy that Michael lived rather than sad that he died.

Block #01361 of The Quilt.

Nerd Alert

It's not the buying of the Marvel Comics stamps that makes me a dork princess. No, not at all.

The buying of a second sheet, framing it, and hanging it on my wall, though...yeah, that pretty well does it.

Or maybe it was the X-Men tattoo that branded me Dorkz 4 Life all those years ago. Crap.

Whatever. I can still get laid.

The easy way out

The thing that sucks the most about coming back to work is having to, you know, work.

Good thing I have a kitten to fall back on for easy blog fodder, huh?





I might have to get a dog soon, just to keep you people happy. Christ.

More substantive content pending. Please stand by.

Pussy vs. Pussy

So many of you have asked how I'm doing. Very kind of you. Rather than expound on the topic, I'll tell you a little story that ought to sum it up fairly well:

Wednesday was to have been my first day back at work, effectively concluding my stint on not-so-short-term disability. I rose early that morning, got gussied up in a new dress and kitten-heeled sandals, strapped on my painfully heavy backpack, and set out, anticipating a reasonably triumphant return to the workforce.

Exactly five hours later I stumbled back into my apartment, completely dishevelled, new dress soaked through with sweat, feet blistered and screaming, having succeeded in travelling no more than three miles from home. The profound and riduculous failure of New York City's mass transit system left me stranded in Brooklyn with no chance of getting to the office.

Bedraggled and disgusted, I stripped off my smelly clothes to let the blessedly conditioned air dry my dripping skin. Five hours of carrying a 15-pound backpack all over hell had left my newly repaired neck extremely sore and uncomfortable. And so it was that, in deference to my condition, I squatted down to pick up a letter I'd dropped on the floor, rather than simply bending from the waist to retrieve it.

Grady immediately barrelled toward me, crossing the room in a stripey orange flash. I was charmed, thinking that he was just happy I was home. How adorable!

In fact, he was attacking my unfortunately exposed tampon string. Rather viciously, too.

We struggled over it for a few moments, Grady clawing and biting with all the joyful force a four-pound kitten can muster, me pulling and clenching and swearing and trying desperately to protect my genitalia.

You may or may not be pleased to know that I emerged victorious, thanks to Kegel exercises and Grady's limited tampon-wrangling experience.

I only wish I were starting school this fall. I'm fairly certain that my "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" essay would win some sort of fucking prize.