Dim, faint, shaky... not gone.
Quiet gamers' party.
I need to spell it out to everyone -- roommates especially -- I need, need my alone-time with him. Which means clear everybody out for a bit.
Too little. Too tired. Too late.
I need sleep. I need him to remind me that I'm not any less sane than usual, but that when I'm tired, I'm never sane.
If he didn't care, he wouldn't come over, wouldn't stay late, wouldn't let me hug him. At all.
And my little cat is hiding in the west bedroom, which is now locked for the night.
Ahh, showers are good.
Yes, there were assorted IMs today. No, most of them got junked, because they were nearly content-free and I didn't feel like preserving them.
Also, there was a depression on Tuesday. Please mark it on the calendar.
Evidently in California a size 8 is a medium/large.
If I were a size 8, I would be dead. Or I wouldn't even be a size 8, and I would be dead.
When I was 16 or so, I discovered fencing. I also discovered the joy that is a nasty body image, and the ability to do something about it. I was nearing the end of my adolescent growth spurt, and getting a more-defined female body shape. I wore size 16 jeans.
I went on what seems, now, to resemble the Atkins diet, long before it was fashionable. I swam in the mornings, and had fencing twice a week in the evenings. I worked out on my own. I restricted myself to no more than 135 grams of carbohydrates a day, preferably 90. My fencing teacher got really pissed at me when I nearly collapsed in class because I'd not really eaten beforehand.
I was still a size 16, edging my way to near a size 14. My best friend ate my sandwiches at lunch, and my cookies. My hips are just not anything under a size 14. Perhaps if I didn't eat anything at all, I might make a 14 or 12. I would also be unhealthy, unable to sustain any amount of activity, and all the rest of the things that full-blown anorexia brings. I was 190 pounds, and I was starting to pass out if I stood up too fast.
In California, I would still be extra-large.
Get 6 yards of yellow raincoat fabric from Walmart where it's on sale for a dollar a yard.
Sew 4 yards of it into a gigantiferous poncho.
Hang it from the shower curtain. Borrow roommate's acrylic paint and paintbrush, and paint black spots on one side.
Take empty cardboard box from portable floor-scrubber thingy. Paint yellow with other roommate's acrylic paint. Borrow black paint again to make spots on back. Cut styrofoam plate into little tuft-thing. Paint on mouth.
Let dry. Realize that mouth has run. Re-do with black nail polish.
Find round black sunglasses.
(Optionally, paint face yellow, with black lipstick for mouth and a circle-thingy on chin. ) (I didn't.)
Watch 7-year-old flip out of his mind with joy. Hear him insist on borrowing it. Watch him fall over when he trips on the layers. Have him borrow belt. Put sunglasses on him and have him go show Mommy.
Bush probably should have made this "Freedom from Unwanted Porn" week, instead of straight-out Protection From Pornography Week.
Where I do want porn: in the privacy of my own home, freely available to me in stores upon proof of age, on designated television channels, and well-marked on the internet, sorted by subject and quality. And plot.
Where I do not want porn: in my inbox, when accidently mistyping a net address, in easy-for-kids-to-access TV, and mixed in with other, innoccuous media. This includes softcore and hardcore romance novels in the supermarket, mind you. It's still porn. (I don't count it as erotica unless it's done well.)
I do not want accidental adult ad banners on a juvenile site. I do not want ads for raunchy lesbian porn featuring barely legal teens e-mailed to me unless I asked for it, explicitly, with a valid option to opt out at any time. I do not want to grab a book in the grocery store and find that it is a little saltier reading than I'd been looking for. If I want something like that, I'll by George be looking for it, and doing so by name.
Give us our high-quality porn, where and when we want it, and no other places. If I want something like that, I want real feeling in it. I do not want to watch a poor-quality video with an unenthusiastic cast doing unnatural acts unto each other, and getting nothing out of it. Please to have tasteful or no plastic surgery, please to have PLOT, damn it, please to have good cienematography. And please to have it well-labeled so that people who don't want it know what it is and how to avoid it.