The past few nights, the moon has been this beautifully-sculpted marble fist in the sky, so pristine and shimmering bone-white that it makes your heart pound, and last night I actually sat out and watched it move across the sky. Actually SAW it moving. It was amazing, and for some reason it got me thinking about what it must've been like to be the first person who ever saw a mushroom blossomed like an ugly knuckle on the forest floor and decided to pluck it and place it on their tongue, what that first loamy bite must have been like, the first bite ever taken of a mushroom, the first time its white foam graced human lips. How amazing that must've been.

This morning, my mind kept coming back to that vision of the moon and the thought of that mushroom.

And then quietly, ever so quietly, it turned to the thought of the Spider Pig song and whether or not Chef Ramsey from Hell's Kitchen is kinda foxy.

Spider pig! Spider pig! Does whatever... a spider pig does!

And of course the moon. That blissful opulescent moon.

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Quotes I Like from People I Don't So Much Like

"he didn't know what he was doing. there was a certain way of doing things, of fighting bulls of making love of frying eggs of drinking water and wine, and if you didn't do them right you choked on them, they could kill you."

(from "Cunt and Kant and a Happy Home" by Charles Bukowski)

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Ah weddings.

A few weeks ago, my best friend from high school got married, and I attended the wedding and reception with E.

It was a lovely wedding, it was a lovely reception. She was beautiful and glowing like all brides are supposed to be, and I was truly happy for her. Despite all my anti-marriage talk, I *do* enjoy weddings (I just have no desire to throw my own). And yet, I always feel slightly out of place at them, kind of like a jellyfish at Toys in Babeland or something. And her wedding was one such instance.

Picture this:

Me. And E. Sitting at a table of people from my hometown. One of whom is the mom of a boy I went to junior prom with. All the rest of which are either spooky, pure-glowing Christians and/or white upper-middle-class Stepford Wives and Husbands.

I turn down the salad being passed around because it looks like it has cheese in it. Stepford Wife Extraordinaire (SWE) leans over and says, You're not having any salad? (as though I just defecated on the table). I say, No, I can't--I think it has cheese in it and I'm vegan. SWE (in an uber-affected, excruciatingly feigned-ignorance airheadiness): You're *HERBAL*? Everyone looks confusedly at one another. Prom Mom says, Not *HERBAL*. Vegan. Like vegetarian but stricter. What the heck would "herbal" even BE? SWE looks at me like I've just stripped down butt-nekkid, rubbed peanut-butter all over my body, and commenced to eviscerating a small baby with my rock-hard nipples while singing the Star Spangled Banner.

Later, SWE and SHE (Stepford HUSBAND Extraordinaire, who looks kind of like Mr. Brady) swing it out on the dance floor as the DJ hosts a dance to see who's been married the longest. SWE and SHE are the second-to-last people on the dance floor, and upon realizing that they've been beat out by a couple that's been married a couple years long, she trudges disappointedly from the dance floor, and mutters to her husband, "That's ok. We'll win it at Home Days. I'm sure of it."

Cue up a whole bunch of Christians getting down to Justin Timberlake singing about "Them other fuckers not knowing how to act" and you have about the gist of it.

Surrealism at its best.

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I only just noticed that the word "menstruation" has the word "men" in it. (Yeah, I'm slow.)

What kind of fucked up shit is that?

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*BOO!*

It's been nearly a month since I've posted, and it's been kinda freeing. Like walking around with no underwear on.

But the underwear has returned (though it might be a bit saggy and lax with how long it stays on my ass--so be forewarned).

Anyways, strange things:

• I've dreamt about fooling around with *both* of my back neighbors, on two separate days.


• I woke myself up last night by choking on my own spit. I seriously thought I might die.


• My gas gauge has stopped working on my car. In light of the recent gas-prices, it infuses your week with a certain warm optimism to never appear to be anything short of a full-tank.


• My vegan article has received minor edits by the editors-in-the-know and should be up in the next issue.


• I haven't seen Old Guy Neighbor in days--I've been finding it easier to just stay inside now that I have sweet-ass screendoors. He still meows at my cats though, despite their indifference. And he's now taken to conversing with them loudly about topics he usually discusses with *me*, presumably in an attempt to flush me out. Unsuccessful, I say.


• I recently swam at a Chicago beach while all the neighboring beaches were closed due to e. coli. My theory: it was a gay-ass beach (as my sister likes to say), and Chicago's out to ween down the gay population.


• I'm not quite sure you can "ween down" something, but I'm sticking with it nonetheless.


• My cats like throwing up lately. I think they've started plotting their upchuck sessions so that they both do it during the same afternoon. Yesterday: one pile was moist food, the other was dry.


• The word feces just popped into my head. One of my favorite moments from Donnie Darko:

Emily Bates: Mom said the school is closed today because it's flooded, and there's feces everywhere!
Susie Bates: What are feces?
Emily Bates: Baby mice.
Susie Bates: Aww.

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