No Smut For You!

I feel like the Church Lady or something. Could it be... SATAN?

Job interviews, tutoring, trying to be a normal human being, yada, yada. No writing tonight, my friends.

Just thought I'd check in. Saturday, I have the WHOLE DAMNED DAY to myself! Score! Which means all y'all get a little somethin' of me, too.

Today is not your day, and tomorrow isn't looking good either, as that cliched sign always says in fish'n'tackle shops and such. Not that I've ever gone to a fish'n'tackle shop. Could you imagine? Me in hip-waders with a fly-line? Here, fishie, fishie, fishie... I got a little somethin' fer ya to nibble on, big boy.

Yeah. That's gonna happen. Right. Check back Friday. Meanwhile, go entertain yourself.

ADDENDUM / AN HOUR LATER: I keep getting these messages from people who are trying to be my buddy on My(fuckingwasteof)Space.com. I have it pretty clear and to the point that:

a) I have a boyfriend, not looking for come-ons (yet get them incessantly... "do you write poetry?" NO, I write about SEX. How do ya like me NOW?) I ignore them. They're too stupid, it seems, to follow the fucking URL to here. Someone sign'em up for remedial math, all right?

Which brings us to b), that I'm on there solely to whore my blog. I'm shameless, and proud of it.

I'm sorry, I don't get the whole "why, let's rendesvouz in cyberspace and then become BESTFRIENDSEVER! bullshit, all right? If you see me on there and want to be buddies? STOP YOURSELF. DO NOT HIT SEND. Send me a fucking email through here. Don't waste my time. Email rocks. MySpace annoys the shit out of me. If I go to one more page that auto-cues some lame-ass fucking song from the '80s (Flock of Seagulls, anyone?), I'm going to flog myself to death with a Go-Gos 8-track, all right? Death by Belinda Carlisle! It ain't some empty threat. I will do it, and THEN who ya gonna read, HUH? End rant. Bath time. I'll soak my angst away. Okay, that's an empty threat. I love my angst. ;)