8 bits of rage.

Today, reading Dooce led me here.

Which led me here.

And then here.

Which ultimately led to here.

And I have to say, Luvbeat makes me cackle with glee, even if they are on myspace.

EFF PSA.

i love myself because...

..I actually tell people things like,

"Any advice I have to offer has nothing to do with (subject), and everything to do with an impolite spatial suggestion relative to areas of your personal geography and the potentiality of foreign objects to be encountered therein."

apparently i'm an authority now.

I was cited as a source on spastay.com, regarding eyelash crap.

How surreal.

rude things.

I'm not entirely sure whether Cricket pestering me whilst I am asleep in the wee-hours looking for attention is her way of getting back at me for scritching her head when she's in the litter box making concentrate-y faces and can't really do much else, or if the scritching is my way of paying her attentions back at a time that she finds terribly inconvenient and irritating.

a parable, if you will.

(inspired by a conversation on Matty's site)

I hired a new stylist this last week, and he is very sweet. He is an incredibly professionally experienced, 48-year old Puerto Rican stylist and make-up artist that not only performs in drag, but also professionally styles other drag queens. He is also very gay, and very Christian.

Friday, the two of us were talking about the differences in people, which went on a tangent about people's belief systems. To illustrate some point he was making, he told me a version of a parable concerning two young eagles and a bunch of turkeys. Another version of the parable, presumably the more religious of the two can be found here.

The version I was told:

Two young eagles -- a boy and a girl, fell out of a nest, and were found by a bunch of turkeys, who took them in as a part of the group.

Being young, the eagles didn't know what made them different, and tried to fit in the best they could.

The first rule of being a turkey that the two were taught was that you should only eat the berries from the bush, and never from the ground.

When asked why, the turkeys told them that they had always only eaten from the bush, because that is what had always be done.

After a while of living as a turkey, the male eagle expressed to the head turkey that he wanted to learn to fly, and was told that turkeys don't need to fly.

Dissatisfied with this answer, the male eagle told the female eagle that he wanted to leave and find a better way.

She resisted because she felt comfortable only eating berries off the bush, and never trying to fly, so he went out on his own to find the truth.

After a while, he came across another group of turkeys, who again took him in as one of their own.

And the first rule of being a turkey in their group that he was taught was that you only eat the berries from the ground, and never from the bush.

When asked why, the turkeys told him that they had always only eaten from the ground, because the berries on the ground are definitely ripe, but the ones on the bush aren't guaranteed to be so.

And again after living with the turkeys for a while, the male eagle expressed to the head turkey that he wanted to learn to fly.

This time, he was told that while turkeys didn't need to fly, they could teach him to sort of jump and flap furiously, but that they didn't know how to really fly.

And it was suggested that maybe he should visit the wise old owl, because he flew every night.

When the male eagle told the owl that he was a turkey, but wanted to learn to fly, the owl laughed at him.

The owl told him that he wasn't a turkey, but was in fact an eagle, and that he could already fly -- he just needed to spread his wings and go.

So the eagle did.

And the entire time I was being told this parable, I kept thinking over and over and over again about the following quote from the movie Heathers:

"If you want to fuck with the eagles, you better learn to fly.*"

Which I didn't mention, mostly because it was neither germane to the conversation, nor particularly work appropriate.

I also wanted to ask if the eagle went on to hunt the turkeys and eat them, but I didn't have the heart, because he was being so sincere.

I just nodded my head a lot and said, "Uh-huh." a great many times.
____________________

*The entire quote is actually:

"Dear Diary: Heather says she teaches people real life, she says "real life sucks losers dry. If you wanna fuck with the eagles, you better learn to fly." I said, "So you teach people to spread their wings and fly?" She said, "Yes." I said, "You're beautiful.""

this doesn't sound anything like me at all...

Portrait of an ISFP - Introverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving
(Introverted Feeling with Extraverted Sensing)
The Artist

As an ISFP, your primary mode of living is focused internally, where you deal with things according to how you feel about them, or how they fit into your value system. Your secondary mode is external, where you take things in via your five sense in a literal, concrete fashion.

ISFPs live in the world of sensation possibilities. They are keenly in tune with the way things look, taste, sound, feel and smell. They have a strong aesthetic appreciation for art, and are likely to be artists in some form, because they are unusually gifted at creating and composing things which will strongly affect the senses. They have a strong set of values, which they strive to consistently meet in their lives. They need to feel as if they're living their lives in accordance with what they feel is right, and will rebel against anything which conflicts with that goal. They're likely to choose jobs and careers which allow them the freedom of working towards the realization of their value-oriented personal goals.

ISFPs tend to be quiet and reserved, and difficult to get to know well. They hold back their ideas and opinions except from those who they are closest to. They are likely to be kind, gentle and sensitive in their dealings with others. They are interested in contributing to people's sense of well-being and happiness, and will put a great deal of effort and energy into tasks which they believe in.

ISFPs have a strong affinity for aesthetics and beauty. They're likely to be animal lovers, and to have a true appreciation for the beauties of nature. They're original and independent, and need to have personal space. They value people who take the time to understand the ISFP, and who support the ISFP in pursuing their goals in their own, unique way. People who don't know them well may see their unique way of life as a sign of carefree light-heartedness, but the ISFP actually takes life very seriously, constantly gathering specific information and shifting it through their value systems, in search for clarification and underlying meaning.

ISFPs are action-oriented individuals. They are "doers", and are usually uncomfortable with theorizing concepts and ideas, unless they see a practical application. They learn best in a "hands-on" environment, and consequently may become easily bored with the traditional teaching methods, which emphasize abstract thinking. They do not like impersonal analysis, and are uncomfortable with the idea of making decisions based strictly on logic. Their strong value systems demand that decisions are evaluated against their subjective beliefs, rather than against some objective rules or laws.

ISFPs are extremely perceptive and aware of others. They constantly gather specific information about people, and seek to discover what it means. They are usually penetratingly accurate in their perceptions of others.

ISFPs are warm and sympathetic. They genuinely care about people, and are strongly service-oriented in their desire to please. They have an unusually deep well of caring for those who are close to them, and are likely to show their love through actions, rather than words.

ISFPs have no desire to lead or control others, just as they have no desire to be led or controlled by others. They need space and time alone to evaluate the circumstances of their life against their value system, and are likely to respect other people's needs for the same.

The ISFP is likely to not give themself enough credit for the things which they do extremely well. Their strong value systems can lead them to be intensely perfectionist, and cause them to judge themselves with unneccesary harshness.

The ISFP has many special gifts for the world, especially in the areas of creating artistic sensation, and selflessly serving others. Life is not likely to be extremely easy for the ISFP, because they take life so seriously, but they have the tools to make their lives and the lives of those close to them richly rewarding experiences.

my birthday activities.

1. Many times during the hours between 4:30 am & 8:30 am, I was mauled with noisy love-seeking from Cricket.
2. At 9:30 am, I got up, & I made the bed.
   
3. I abluted and popped my handful of pills.
4. I changed my ringtone to Super Mario Bros.
   
5. I was well-wished by my family.
6. I finally received a package of birthday goodness from Matty.
   
7. I puttered around on junkbbs.
8. I got dressed and gussied up my general appearance.
9. I drove to Lincolnwood, and had lunch at Olive Garden. I ate the zuppa toscana and salad, and drank a raspberry lemonade. I also felt a little lame.
10. I drove to Best Buy and used my Reward Zone certificates to purchase Spirited Away, which I have never actually seen all the way through without constant commercial interruptions.
11. I drove to Target and bought new 4 new pillows. I also bought 3 Sterilite under-bed storage boxes, 2 kitchen fatigue mats with roosters on them, 3 bowls of microwave brownies, and a 3-pack of cinnamint Orbit gum.
12. I purchased a strawberry mango smoothie and a bottle of nectarine white tea snapple at the concession stand.
    
13. I then went out to the car, where I realized that I was missing the bag with the brownies and the gum, and went back in for it, only to discover the weirdo in line behind me had apparently made off with it, probably by accident, but you never know.
    
14. I got 3 more brownie mixes and a pack of gum, and was checked out.
15. I drove home, where I ended up having a long conversation with my landlord, Mike, about how the city made him get rid of the stuff piled up behind the building as storage, and bemoaned the lack of general storage in the building.
    
16. I put the new pillows in cases and threw away the old pillows. I also put everything else away where it belongs.
17. I changed into pajamas.
    
18. I rearranged some underbed storage.
19. I ate half a medium bag of almond m&ms.
20. I rearranged furniture.
    
21. I watered the plants.
22. I watched a lot of Discovery Channel about the activities in KV-63, and how they relate to KV-54.
    
23. I shredded half of the shredding that I've been stockpiling.
24. I waved a feathery toy thing on a string and a stick for a long time whilst Posey happily chased it around like a little crazy person.
    
25. I watched Venture Bros. & Family Guy.
26. I cleaned out the litter box.
    
27. I did this.
28. I abluted and went to bed, where I intend to work on a crossword puzzle and then sleep.

i've now officially outlived jesus.

And me, I'm rocking some super serious pizza face.

My skin looks like I'm 15 again, and not in a nice way.

i'm not exactly certain why...

but for some strange reason, it makes me feel old to see Dermot Mulroney playing middle-aged roles.

I still see him as the guy that gets passed over for someone more mature, and now he's playing the role of the guys that get the girls that he didn't used to get.

It's all very perplexing.

something i tried once...

Once upon a time, I came up with the idea of " The Pixiemartin Lifestyle Fund," the premise of which was the following:

As far as ways to spend money, might I suggest participating in a new organization in the spirit of groups like The Christian Children's Fund, or the Adopt-A-Whale Program? I like to call it "The Pixiemartin Lifestyle Fund." For a certain donation each month, you can sponsor an important part of my lifestyle, and in return each month, you will receive pictures and letters from your sponsored item.

Examples?

• For $15/mo, you can help provide cellular support via the Pink Barbie Phone.
• For $25/mo, you can help provide hours of entertainment through the Big Talking Picture Box.
• And more!

For a larger, one-time donation, you can adopt and name a larger item, like the car or a piece of furniture, and receive a special certificate in recognition of your support.

Sadly, it did not fly, much less take off in any way shape or form.

And then this morning, I was thinking of all the thousands of dollars that I owe -- or would like to owe -- various medical establishments, and I was reconsidering the viability of the fund.

For less than $1 a day, you could help maintain a reasonable air temperature in this studio!
Think about the kitties and their little fur coats!

For less than $2 a day, you could make it possible for me to talk to people that aren't on the television or that happen to be cats, all without leaving the confines of this studio!

For about $5 a day, you can help keep it possible for me to coordinate online bill payments, entertain others as I mock strangers, or even help expand my intellect through the order and purchase of books from Amazon!

For a one-time, non-tax deductible donation of $1000, you could be awarded the status of Porcelain Crown Patron, and have a bridge and a crown named for you or a loved one!

commentary

Today, because I had the day off and had some errands to run where I should look nice, I wore a pretty cream, pink- and orange-flowered above the knee sundress.

That manages to reveal more real estate than has ever been seen by the people at the place where I work, what with all my pasty arms, legs, and upper torso visible to the public.

At work, I was asked if it was laundry day.

At Target, after I walked past them, I overheard one black woman say to another, "Whoo-oo! That girl need to get some sun."

Can't a girl just be extra girly sometimes? I have lots of dresses and pretty jewelry and darling shoes and handbags that are all sitting in their respective storage spaces, collecting dust and cat hair...

And dude, if it's good enough for Nicole Kidman to be pasty-ass white, it's good enough for me.

Zardoz (1974)

Channel surfing, I came across this movie as it was starting, and seeing that it had both Sean Connery and Charlotte Rampling in it, and it was about an Outlander shaking up the order of an immortal people, I thought what the hell.

And in the first five minutes of the movie I heard this giant floating statue head on the screen utter the following words, which I wasn't sure I had heard correctly and had to look up online:

Zardoz: "The penis is evil. The penis shoots seeds, and makes new life, and poisons the earth with a plague of men, as once it was. But the gun shoots death, and purifies the earth of the filth of brutals. Go forth and kill!"

Lo and behold, I did hear it properly, and it still makes me snicker. I can't wait for the rest of the movie.

Update: the giant floating statue head resembles Janus, and is apparently some sort of modern ship. Sean Connery is wearing a red bandolier and a red pair of speedos with a really short pareo that ties in the front in a big red bow, he had a long black ponytail, and a big handlebar moustache. And also, there are shrink-wrapped nekkid women. You even see boobs.

Update: He's also got burgundy thigh-high boots. And found/took a big honking ring that is holographic, voice-reactive, and educational. Oh, and big-ass mutton chops.

Update: He passed through some sort of portal between Zardoz and one of several places referred to as Vortex, where the immortals live. It's an idyllic society where everyone is snotty and genetically grown in big bubbles, so there's no need for sex. There are thought crimes and punishment is being aged. Oh, and everyone's got their own big ass shiny rings.

The immortals decide to study him, referring to him as a creature, a beast, a thing, or a monster,
they keep him in a cage, and seem particularly interested in his sexuality. His name is Zed, and he is being studied by Meg and Consuela.

There is a segment of the movie where he is shown erotic stimuli, in an attempt to give him a chubby. None of it works, but he looks at Consuela and pitches a tent.

The immortals are all apparently capable of merging all consciousnesses with each other on some "second level." When one of them Friend refuses, he is aged, cast out of the Vortex, and they take away his big shiny ring.

Friend is exiled to a dance hall full of old people in tuxedos and evening dresses, which is apparently what hell is like. Dancing with the Renegades.

And apparently after gaining entrance to Zardoz but before entering the Vortex, Zed killed some immortal named Arthur, who was in charge of Zardoz.

Update: In his former existence, Zed was an Executioner, responsible for hunting down and killing the regular old grubby mortals outside the Vortex, with a group of other Executioners.

On a raid, he stumbled upon books, and taught himself to read. When he read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, he had a little breakdown, realized Zardoz was only a man behind a curtain, which made him decide to enter Zardoz and fuck with the order of things.

Update: Meg's name is actually May. I got that wrong before.

Zed manages to whip up the normally very stoic immortals into a mob frenzy, and he is forced to run or be hunted down and massacred by the masses.

He ends up hiding with the Apathetic -- immortals with severe ennui -- who all lick and kiss him and like a bunch of psychic vampires, sap his energy and make it theirs.

Zed is told by a super-ancient Renegade that May holds the key to their immortality, called the Tabernacle, and with its help, they can actually die.

Thanks to the thrill of the hunt, since the Apathetic joined in chasing him once they all got an energy jolt, a big ol' orgy ensued, disgusting the rest of the immortals.

Zed, of course gets the Tabernacle from May, has a ego battle with it, and ends up being able to rewind time. Consuela confesses her love, and he, Consuela, and a small band of like-minded immortals break away, with the small band leaving Vortex, and everyone becoming mortal, most wanting to die.

You can tell Consuela loves him because she kissed him and gave him a big ass shiny ring of his own.

It is revealed that Arthur and Friend conspired together to bring about the end of Vortex, and Arthur actually used his time and energy to selectively breed the unwashed masses into their savior and chosen one, Zed. Arthur was in fact the person that led Zed to the library, and the Oz book specifically.

May asks Zed to kill her, but he can't. However, the hordes of invading Executioners have no issue with slaughtering all remaining members of Vortex.

Zed and Consuela escape, then live a normal mortal life, with her having a kid. And they eventually die.

The end.

Plotwise, it's straight 1974 sexploitation. Tits ahoy and all that. You can tell that from the fact that every single female wore tiny flutter tops, wardrobe malfunctions a near-constant state of existence.

Oh, and the fact that Sean Connery is mutton-chopped, mustachioed, ponytailed, bandoliered and wearing a speedo with a big bow on the front, with thigh-high burgundy boots, and wielding a pistol.

Because bare furry man chests and guns are all sexy and the like.

Plus the boobies.

And the pansexual kissing and groping phenomenon. Girls on girls, girls on boys, boys on boys, boys on girls, etc.

It's all very scandalous for 32 years ago, you know.

And if you're keeping any sort of countdown, my birthday is in 2 weeks.

my trip to las vegas.

see here.

can't wait until next sunday...

The Trial of the Monarch

The Monarch: This all started soon after 'The Flight of the Monarch' was published. A mean little tell-all-book filled with nothing but lies and pictures of also lies.

(Cutscene to The Monarch's Floating Cocoon)

The Monarch: WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!

#24: A book?

The Monarch: No, but you would think it was right? You can read it like a book, here I'll show you:

The Monarch reading:'...riffiling through his pockets for change, the Monarch accidentily launches a sodium-pentathol tipped dart deep into his own thigh. Upon hearing a girlish symphony of shrill wails, a waitress comes to his aid..'

#24: Told you!

#21: You told me he wouldn't find out.

#24: You're such a d*ck, you put his face on the cover!

The Monarch reading: *there she was subjected to a lecture concerning her weight problem and the evils of over* '...plucking her eyebrows.'

The Monarch: Oh, it's almost exactly like a book. There's even some pictures, here's one of me a Danceteria making out with Stiv Bators and Lydia Lunch. (closes book) But this is not a book, this is a suicide note. Good news! The euthanasia will be carried out by me. The author has twenty minutes to seek my aid before I just KILL all of you. You'll find me in my room... crying!

...

Hank: And they kill clean, don't let dames get in the way.

Brock: Honestly, Hank, where do you pick that stuff up? I never see you read.

Dean: It's weird, right.

Brock: It's like he channels dead crazy people.

Hank: You think it's a cry for help?

Are You There God? It's Me, Dean

#24: Come on! They have one female servicing a large group of males. That implies a species that lays eggs.

#21: Oh my God, you're crazy! They're so obviously mammals!

#24: Please! She'd be in estrus 24/7 if she didn't lay eggs.

#21: Smurfs don't lay eggs! I won't tell you this again! Papa Smurf has a fucking beard! They're mammals!

Tag Sale -- You're It!

#21: Here is where you are wrong, my friend. This woman has killed before.

#24: Allegedly.

#21: Okay, whatever. But she was a big girl. We are talking about a large, healthy woman of questionable stability.

#24: Oh, you are totally underestimating the never-say-die scrappiness of a survivor.

The Monarch: Hey, guess what? Nobody cares who would win in a crazy fantasy fist-fight between Anne Frank and Lizzie Borden.

someone i noticed on flickr...

she's almost like a euro-dana...

but just not quite.

cricket martin's new arch-rival.

Meet Posey Martin.

She is Cricket's "wicked stepsister."


And by wicked, I of course mean sweet, loving, adorable, cute and playful.

Particularly evil, note her stumpy tail.

That she wags.

Like a dog.

Which is even cuter.


Quite the opposite from Cricket's general sunshine-y disposition of grumpiness, whining, hiding, and the stinkeye.


Although, she does give a pretty good stinkeye if given the proper motivation.


Like the automatic flash.

a hypothetical job thing

So, let's say there's this KID who LIKES BANANAS.

KID actually says he LIKES BANANAS, he smells like BANANAS, dresses and acts like the atypical BANANA-LIKER, and mentions that he SHARES BANANAS with his COHABITATOR.

KID has multiple VISITS for JOB, coming across as being PERKY and LIVELY each VISIT. And BANANA-y. Very very BANANA-y.

So KID gets JOB at PLACE.

On KID's first day, he is supposed to ORIENTATE all day, PAPERWORKING, then VIEWING, and QUIZZING about VIEW, using paper TOOL with same info as VIEW.

And KID PAPERWORKS, VIEWS and QUIZZES.

During ORIENTATION, it becomes rapidly apparent that KID is not so much PERKY or LIVELY, but is instead ADD. (an abbreviation)

Also on that first day, KID manages to NO-NO the DON'T-BE-BAD -- that he has just PAPERWORKED -- three times, with three OTHER PEOPLE.

He also NO-NO's the HUSH that he has also just PAPERWORKED.

And he manages to NO-NO the four times RUDELY.

Now, each of these NO-NOs can independently RESULT, especially in an at-will state.

However, PEOPLE each don't report the NO-NOs to BOSSES until the next day, so the LOTS of NO-NOs isn't immediately apparent.

On KID's second day of JOB, KID immediately NO-NO's and semi-SNITS to de-NO-NO. When he returns, BOSSES INFORM OTHER BOSSES that KID is OFFICED, where BOSSES INFORM KID that NO-NO's of HUSH and DON'T-BE-BAD will most likely cause RESULT.

BOSSES also mention OTHER DEEDS that KID NO-NO'd.

OTHER DEEDS like QUIZ doesn't match VIEW, which KID claims is VIEWING DISABILITY.

KID never INFORMED BOSSES of DISABILITY until OFFICING.

KID is also reminded that TOOL with VIEWING answers QUIZ.

KID then INFORMS BOSSES of TOOL-USING DISABILITY.

KID denies and refutes the NO-NO's, CRIES WOLF, and eventually TANTRUMs.

Then KID stops OFFICING, and SNITS before RESULT or RESPONSE can occur.

Later, KID CONTACTS BOSSES at PLACE, and INFORMS BOSSES about OVERREACTIVE intent, to get BOSSES RESULTED because BOSSES RESULTED him for LIKING BANANAS, and he's going to OVERREACT PLACE and COMPANY, and maybe even BOSSES and PEOPLE.

KID is told that LOTS of COMPANY and SOME of PLACE happen to LIKE BANANAS, because COMPANY is part of an extremely BANANA-FRIENDLY industry. Ironically, SOME of PEOPLE happen to LIKE BANANAS, and all BOSSES and PEOPLE have LOTS of CIVILIANS that LIKE BANANAS.

KID eventually finds his way to COMPANY HR, where HR begins INQUIRY.

KID is offered JOB at OTHER PLACE by HR, because RESULT or RESPONSE never actually happened, and KID officially RESPONDS.

BOSSES and PEOPLE STATEMENT and CONTACT with HR about KID's NO-NO's and TANTRUMS and SNITS and LOTS of CONTACTS to assist INQUIRY.

However, KID CRIES WOLF and wants BOSSES RESULTED, and continuously CONTACTS BOSSES at PLACE to DEMAND, when he should only DEMAND to COMPANY HR.

BOSSES and PEOPLE STATEMENT and CONTACT HR LOTS about KID's CONTACT and DEMAND.

HR then INFORMS KID that CONTACTING BOSSES, PEOPLE or PLACE is NO-NO.

Which pretty much boils down to OVERREACTION never occuring, BOSSES and PEOPLE never RESULTING, and KID CONTACTING HR and DEMANDING about INQUIRY until the day KID dies, CRYING WOLF.

BECAUSE KID is a PETTY, VINDICTIVE BITCH.

And he makes a bad name for BANANA-EATERS everywhere.

As an aside, if BOSSES and PEOPLE actually got RESULT because of KID CRYING WOLF, OVERREACTION to KID and COMPANY would occur.

don't worry, cricket's okay.

To: comm-xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@craiglist.org
Re: I am moving and my black cat needs a new home

(5/18/2006)

Are you still looking for a home for your kitty?

I am a 33 y.o. hairdresser living in a nice-sized studio, and I'm a total homebody, so if I'm not at work, I'm at home.

I can definitely afford to get a cat regular medical care if needed, good toys, a cat condo, and quality foodstuffs. I've even been seen giving a cat water from the Brita pitcher.

The last cat I have had was very hands-off, and spent a lot of time skulking and hiding, and was only affectionate on her terms.

Someone lovey would be a nice change of pace.

Please let me know -- you can email me here, or you can call me at xxx-xxx-xxxx.

Thanks

pixie

Hi pixie,
He's still available for adoption. He's really sweet and playful. And LOVES attention. If you are interested, I will also provide you with all of his supplies (i.e. litterbox and food dishes). I've attached photos of him. Let me know what you think.... THanks!
S.

I am still definitely interested. And I'd love to meet him!

Great! You are more than welcome to come over and meet him. I work a regular 9 to 5 but, I am available in the evenings. I live in Wicker Park.
What works for you?

I could even meet him today, as I have the day off, or I could meet him sometime tomorrow after 7pm. Otherwise it'd have to be next week sometime.

Well, you are more than welcome to come over tonight if you like. Please call me at xxx-xxx-xxxx. Thanks!

Just to let you know,

We made it home okay, and Max's first official act was to bite through my nail, acrylic and all (just deep enough to bleed a bunch, but no real trauma), and then go hide under my bed, where he remains.

He finally stopped growling, so that's good sign.

I'm just gonna leave him be, and let him work it out on his own, until he wants my involvement.

I think we'll both survive, so no worries.

pixie

Hi pixie,
Thanks for the update.... yeah, give him some time. It took him a little
bit to warm up to me.
But he should be okay by the weekend.
Take care!
S.
..........

(6/3/06)

Hi pixie,
How are things going with Max? Let me know when you get a chance... thanks!

S.

(6/4/06)

S.,

After Max bit me and went to hide under the bed, he proceeded to growl, hiss, spit, and make some of the ugliest noises I've ever heard come out of a cat.

Later he came out and growled at me in person, hissing and swatting at me, while I was watching television, unprovokedly from several yards away.

He pretty much scared the crap out of me, and considering the damage he did to my finger, I was even more terrified when he leapt upon me in the middle of the night and started growling, hissing, swatting and spitting at me, before racing back under the bed, where he proceeded to growl and make very angry cat noises any time he heard the slightest noise, or seemed to think he'd heard a noise. I pretty much didn't get any sleep at all.

Friday morning, greeted by more growls, noises, and hissing, I decided it was a good time to start carrying around a yard stick, just in case he decided to take another bite out of me.

I left food and water, went to work, forced to wear a vinyl glove on my left hand all day because the bite wound would not stop bleeding. It also felt like I was being stabbed by a thousand needles every time the finger touched or bumped something. I did quite a bit of hair that day, so I went through about a dozen or so bandaids and a couple of gloves, before I noted the red streak tracing up the side of my finger.

A couple of hours later, it had creeped up the back of my hand to my wrist bone, when I decided it was in my best interest to cancel my last appointment and go to the hospital to have my hand looked at by a doctor.

I ended up staying in the hospital for a little over 25 hours, hooked up to an IV, woken and/or bothered every 2-3 hours to have my temperature and blood pressure taken, sharing a room with an insane, surly, screeching old woman, my only entertainment being Saturday afternoon television, which pretty uniformly sucks, and watching the catheter bag attached to the side of her bed drip urine on the floor.

I had to call work and have them cancel or reschedule all of my appointments for Saturday, which is my busiest day -- and I was booked solid the entire day, telling everyone that I was in the hospital being pumped full of antibiotics for a vicious cat bite.

Saturday afternoon, after the line widened and crept up to my elbow in a painful stripe of red, a team of doctors decided that after 3 horrible hospital meals, no sleep courtesy of the old lady snoring like a lumberjack during her frequent bouts of snoozing, and my constant begging and pleading to be allowed to stop being in the hospital, despite them wanting to keep me another day, it was safe for me to go home, as long as I promised to return if any complications should arise.

The concensus of the medical staff was also that I should return Max to you first thing on Monday, which I agreed with wholeheartedly.

I was then given a prescription for 10 days worth of ridiculously strong antibiotics, and eventually released back into the wild.

I don't know if you've seen Pet Sematary, but Max continued to bear a striking resemblance to Church, post-resurrection from the evil Indian burial ground.

My warm welcome home was snarls and growls and whatnot from under the bed.

I checked on the food and water situation, and then went to bed, yard stick at my side, cocooned in a protective layer of pillows, hopefully to make up some of the last couple of days worth of lost sleep.

Bright and early Sunday morning, I got up, yard stick in hand, and went to go use the facilities. As I started to flush, I noticed a large, bristling ball of angry in the hallway, immediately between me and freedom.

I carefully washed my hands, dried them on a towel, and as I turned to face the hallway, Max continued his noisy antics before hurling himself sideways into the closet door, popping it open.

He proceeded to knock over most of the stacked crates of clothing, as well as tear down some of the hanging ones, before jumping back out into the middle of the hallway, ears back, fur bristling even more menacingly, as he slowly advanced towards me, yowling angrily, pausing every couple of nanoseconds to spit and swat at the air between us.

Not quite sure exactly what to do, I decided to snag a pair of pants off of the floor and flip them over him, holding them in place with the stick while I ran the other direction. Which worked, and seemed to make Max even angier.

I guess that he was angrier only because the noises he was making as he shot past me and under the bed were at least twice as horrifying as the ones he made the first night, which until that point had been the scariest cat noises I'd heard.

We're talking trapped and caged wild big cat angry. Times at least 2.

I called my mom for advice, and she suggested getting the cat out of the house then and there, to which I reluctantly agreed.

I put on several layers of clothing and some gloves, and tried poking at Max to get him to flee the bed, but ended up having to climb under the bed after him, because he was out of the reach of my yard stick.

When I finally touched him with one hand, he made a noise that most closely resembled a person screaming bloody murder, at a volume that I am sure suprised the neighbors for several units above, below, and around me.

He then shot out from under the bed and ran into the kitchen, where I thought I had him cornered.

My original intent was to shoo him back into the carrier, but he didn't feel agreeable enough to assist me in that venture, so I followed him slowly into the kitchen.

When he saw me, he shot up straight into the air, landed in the sink, spun around, and launched himself at me, managing to hook one claw about a quarter inch below my lower lip, just a little to the left of center, the tip of when exited my lip just at the lip line, where the flesh starts to turn pink.

I managed to pin him against my torso, facing away from me, with my right arm, as I tried to carefully unhook his claw from my face, which took a couple of minutes. In the meantime, he scratched the hell out of both of my cheeks, clawed me so hard in some places that he left bruises along with scrapes, and sliced up my wrists between sleeves and gloves.

I somehow managed to wrangle him across the room and into the carrier, closing the door, and going into the bathroom to see what damage Max had wrought.

Most of the facial scratches were extremely bloody, but superficial, and I think that only one of the wrist wounds will scar significantly, but the claw through the lip left an oozing slit in my face that isl definitely healing into visible scar, with a small lump of scar tissue on the interior. It's gross and tactile.

When I came out of the bathroom, the carrier was shaking violently, much like the velociraptor crate and the beginning of Jurassic Park, to use another cinematic reference.

I decided that before I would go to the ER again to have my face patched up, I would get Max out of the apartment, and I didn't want to leave him in the car, because what if they wanted me to stay another night?

I initially took him to Anti-Cruelty, but was turned away because they wouldn't take a biter. I was instead referred to Animal Control, somewhere in the 27th block of South Western.

With much regret and many tears, I decided that it was best to take him to Animal Control, and let them deal with him.

After filling out all of the paperwork, and sadly telling him goodbye, I cried for10 minutes, waiting for the man that took him away to return with the carrier.

When he did, he asked me how long I'd had the cat, and when asked why, told me that he'd worked there a long time, and that in his experience, Max was the most vicious cat that he'd ever handled. He said it took TWO grown adult professional men to subdue him enough to get him from carrier to cage. And he said that I was extremely lucky that a few scrapes and a couple of future scars are the only thing I got out of it.

That Sunday, he was put on a ten-day rabies watch, after which he would most likely be humanely euthanised.

Which would have happened during the middle of this last week.

Let me say at this time, that I never in all of this blamed Max for the circumstances. I'm pretty sure that being given away to a stranger and taken to a new environment just snapped whatever final string of sanity in his adorable head that was holding him all together in one piece. Clearly, there was something fundamentally wrong there to start with, and I'm not sure exactly who is to blame for that, whether it was nature or nurture.

I made a very poor value judgement in agreeing to take him, considering that he was much larger of a cat than I really wanted, and that he was so particularly standoffish to me in the first place. I've never met a cat that didn't like me, and I suppose that like you, I just thought that he'd get used to me, and while never a lovey lap cat, he'd at least make a reliable companion.

And you made a very poor value judgement in giving him to me. You had to have some gut instinct that Max wasn't going to do well with a new owner, and you should have followed that instinct.

Never once in this entire experience did I ever witness your description of him as "He's really sweet and playful. And LOVES attention." to be at all accurate. Not even when I was at your apartment in the first place.

At first I didn't contact you to let you know what was going on because I was angry, and there was nothing you could have done to save him.

Max was broken. Maybe not all the way at first, but I think in retrospect, that somewhere between Wicker Park and Edgewater Beach, he snapped.

I didn't tell you at first because I was angry, but then I eventually decided it would be easier not to tell you, because that way you could continue to believe in your heart that he was okay. That he got to my house, settled in splendidly, and after I'm done typing this note to let you know that everything's great, we're going to go play with some wonderful new cat toy I got at Petsmart. Then you could enjoy your move to Seattle, and not worry about past things.

But I also decided that if you asked, I would tell you the truth.

The truth is, at the end of things, he was all wide-eyed and cowed, a circle of white completely surrounding his irises. He was mewling and butting his head against the carrier and I was scratching him on the side of his head, telling him he was a good boy, and that I was sorry it had to be this way. I scritched him under his chin, and I gave him away to a man I don't know, while I blubbered and snuffled like an idiot.

Then I drove to the ER and got patched up again.

The truth is, we're both sad, but I'm the one with the $1k in deductibles and co-pays that my insurance won't cover.

pixie

why the canadian girl deserved to lose.

Whilst channel surfing tonight, I stumbled across ABC's live broadcast of the Scripps Spelling Bee.

It was down to two girls, a girl named Katherine Close, from New Jersey, and a girl from Canada, whose name I never caught. Or maybe I did, but it wasn't mainstream enough for me to remember.

The rules are such that if you miss your word, not only must the remaining participant spell her word correctly, but she must then spell the word in the next round correctly.

In round 18, the Canadian girl was given the word, Welschmertz, which basically means "ironic pessimism," and is German in origin.

Okay, I've never heard of the damned word before, nor would I probably have gotten the spelling completely correct, but I definitely wouldn't have spelled it Velschmertz.

Because after saying the word over and over, asking a zillion times to have it repeated, and some furious hand scribbling, that's how she spelled it.

Even I know that in German, words that start with w are often pronounced v. Vagner didn't write the Ring Cycle. The Veimar days never happened.

Then Katharine Close got her two words correct, the last being Ursprache, which is "protolanguage: a language that is the recorded or hypothetical ancestor of another language or group of languages." Ursprache is also clearly Germanic in origin.

Go teen USA!

As an aside, I would also like to point out that kundalini is a pretty pussy word to have in a spelling bee. Yoga's pretty fucking popular these days, and that there's yoga terminology.