Kick 'er out o' bed

I really thought I wasn't going to make it to an actual entry today, what with all the clean-up I've been performing on my previous posts. That's right, it takes time for me to get these thingies to my liking. So while it may very well seem as though my contributions to the blog-o-sphere just kinda spontaneously combust from the end of my virtual pen, I can assure you that each word is carefully crafted and lovingly placed in its position proper.

I found a quite humorous concept in picture form today:


It's the prancing moose. Get it? Okay, I'll try to keep this under a thousand words, although I shouldn't proverbially be able to. Ferrari S.p.A., you see, has a prancing horse symbol. So now Swedish offerings such as Volvos and Koenigseggs and Saabs and ABBA have their own version of this iconic, um, well...icon.

Went to a going away party today for a girl who worked for me in '98. It really doesn't seem like 10 years ago, but then I've proved time and again not to be the best one to ask when someone needs to keep track of a decade. I'm always a year or two late for everything.

Y'know, it's amazing how differently people respond to me now that I am not fishing for their approval. I don't know (nor should I much care, I suppose) whether I come across as having more confidence or just a shorter fuse, but there's a definite decrease in the gibes and aspersions cast my way of late. This even holds for jerks I've known for years and who've always had nothing but active enmity for me.

All I know for sure, and I suspect this is really little more than a hunch, is that it's awfully ironic how accepting people are of you when you don't care whether or not they accept you.

It's also ironic how much time you find you have for that ironing you don't need to do when you take your clothes to the cleaners and don't have to worry about all that laundry. But then iron-y stuff is always pretty ironic, wouldn't you agree?

I've been debating telling you this, but since I've finally come to grips with the fact that there really isn't anyone out there anyway, here goes. I have low T. So low that it's off the scale. Sure, that's troubling, but the more urgent issue is which restroom to use.

I go tomorrow to my LSD PCP to see about getting my testosterone raised to a level that should have hair sprouting from my fingertips within a week. I don't know exactly why I thought to have it checked other than my tendency to associate more with the woman's side on Cosmo quizzes. That and my lack of body hair. Oh, and the fact that I can hit soprano C. Not really, but I am a tad concerned about how my upper register will react when I start taking those sexy hormones.

I mean, I don't want to just squeak by as Jesus in "Godspell" next February.