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skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com

Friday, 30 January
Buh. Muh? Snuh.

Sorry about the lack of recent posts; it might have something to do with the boatload of viscous ooze I've been carrying around in my skull this week. I'll try and come back on Monday with some more brain-waddling prose for your non-enjoyment and derision.

In the meantime, may I suggest porn? I understand that the internet has some, somewhere.

Tuesday, 27 January
Lost Weekend

What a wretched weekend. But it's all my own damn fault. Let me explain.

It all started with pay-per-view, but again I say, it's my own fault. I need only say four words as clarification: League of Extraordinary Gentleman.

[For those who care, the next paragraph contains spoilers. However, the term "spoiler" is a woefully inadequate term here, as LXG comes thoroughly pre-spoiled. It's like trying to spoil six-month-old yogurt. Sure, you can dunk a dead rat into it, but who cares?]

I knew I would end up seeing this movie at some point, so I figured, Why not? It'll be a dumb romp!

I was half right. It certainly was dumb. A "romp" it was not; I have had what I would classify as "romps;" this wasn't one of those. Romps involve goofy fun, or deliberate ironic distance, or even just what-the-fuck nudity. I got none of these. It was a definite non-romp. What could be the linguistic opposite of "romp"? How about "pung"? That's a pretty unappealing word that seems quite unlike "romp." This movie was a total pung.

I don't want to get too much into this, but I should say that I was a fan of the comic book (but word to the wise: The second volume of the comic really licks), and it pretty much betrayed its source material at every turn. Even the wife--assuredly not a comic fan--noted that the Mina Harker character was something like 19 when she got vampired in the literature: the movie featured an admittedly toothsome gal as Mina, but she also was vaguely reminiscent of someone who would buy you beer at a rest stop in Missoula.

I ended up paying the price for watching this debacle (I'll let this go in a minute, I promise, but for Christ's sake, even Nemo's submarine looked like some hideous, discarded Victorian silver comb): I woke up the next morning deliriously ill. Swollen glands, achy limbs, screaming hair, phosphoric bladder, the works. And parched mouth, the worrisome kind: when I went to go gorge myself on lovely water, my stomach immediately groaned, and spoke to me kinaesthetically: If you drink more than five mouthfuls, I'm going to send it all back up, stupid.

Awful. This was made even worse by the remembrance that I had already been ass-tastically sick a month ago, laid low by the goddamn flu virus that had levelled everyone we knew. Sick twice--horribly--in one season? Fuck that. To top things off, I couldn't unwatch League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. I spent most of the day shuffling around like Jim Backus, hunched and palsied, nasally foghorning my wretched plaints. "Please don't put on the Food Channel," I whined. "They're going to show that commercial where they melt Velveeta with salsa." Just what I needed to see: Crushed tomatoes with bait.

By Sunday, I felt rather more human: I was actually not only able to view actual food, but to miraculously consume it. I ate a baked potato. Huzzah! Puny potato! I thought, You will die screaming in my listless gastric tract! This is perhaps not the most stirring tale of gustatory triumph you've ever heard, but it was a big deal to me.

And I lived through today, and I even made it to work. I may be immunocompromised, but that won't stop me from burning paid time off to potentially infect all of my coworkers! Oh no.

May they all get sick. And stay home. And watch League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. I shouldn't be the only one who suffers.

Thursday, 22 January
You're Lost, Little Boys

You're going to hate yourself if you don't check out my friend Johnny talking about how he used to torture his siblings.

Car Talk, But Crappier

Yesterday the wife took the creaking, aging car (an '83 Honda for those who haven't been playing at home) in for an ostensible simple tune. It is a finicky little beast in the best of circumstances, but the recent cold weather had left it with a troubling case of the gout. Also, I'm pretty sure it's coming down with both Parkinson's and Alzheimer's: it shudders and lunges erratically, and the odometer has simply given up counting and now just reads Fuck, pick a number.

So she took it in to our trusty, uh, car-place (we gauge their trustworthiness by their ongoing track record of not spectacularly boning us, as far as we can tell, which isn't far at all, but hey), and their report was pretty gloomy.

"Needs oil change. Needs new belts. Needs left axle adjustment or something. (I may be paraphrasing.) East trans-linkage is faulty and may result in extensive passenger scabbing if left unattended. Possible nuclear failure." The whole document was very stareworthy, especially for a rig that we had paid $450 in the first place: they were now saying the whole burrito would be around $800. This was almost cosmically hilarous.

But it was also scientifically very exciting: what they were telling me was, We owned Schrodinger's Car. When they put it in the garage, it was both alive and dead at the same time. The observation of the mechanics should have collapsed the various quantum states and resulted in an observable single response, but then again, these were auto mechanics, so I'm not sure physics recognized their feeble tap-tappings as actual observations. I mean, these guys watch "The King of Queens." Plus, I'm pretty sure our car is blasting out electron pairs with identical spin measurements, and I'm certain that one can measure both its position and momentum pretty reliably--"It's at Pike and Boylston, doing fifteen!"--so basically, our car is destroying quantum physics as we know it. When people come to gape at our car and ask if it addresses the double-slit experiment, I can confidently tell them, "No. There is a pigeon stuck in the AC." Can your car do that?

For all of that, we basically signed the equivalent of a "Do Not Resuscitate" order on the car. Let the thing die. The only worrisome issue now is: we'll probably have to buy a new (read: used) car. And I don't want to do that. I never have done that. I can barely buy radishes.

I'm a terrible adult. You want some anemic radishes? I locked them in the car.

Monday, 19 January
I Have Strangely Insignificant Psychic Powers

Happily, this was the most exciting thing that happened all weekend:

Today, around 4:00, the wife called me (she had to work), wondering if it was OK if she brought her friend C. around so we could go out for a drink together. I said that was fine.

As soon as I hung up the phone, I was struck by the strangest thought. I said to myself, I'll just bet you that C. will want to use the bathroom when she gets here. I know it. C. seems like the kind of girl who just pisses all the time. And don't get me wrong--I like C. very much. I just had the sneaking suspicion that she has doglike pee habits, and marks her presence with a kind of canine determinedness.

So I went to survey the bathroom, which was in its usual Superfund state. (The wife and I are persnickety about some things, but cleaning the bathroom is, sadly, not one of them.) So in a paroxysm of weirdly urocentric precognition, I set about cleaning the toilet, which is pretty much just humbling as hell. Nobody can possibly look dignified cleaning a toilet. In fact, next time you pick up a toilet brush, go over and look at yourself in the mirror. I did. I stood in front of the mirror and held up the toilet brush as if it were an enchanted sword, posing grandly, Lord of the Rings-style. Terrible. I was far from Tolkeinesque. I wasn't even Lynchian. I was, however, vaguely Ken Russell material.

Anyway. Shortly after I finished murdering millions of slime molds, the wife and C. showed up. We exchanged greetings; coats were doffed. And C. said, "I'm going to use your bathroom!" (Not said in response: "See if you can spot the cameras!")

I smiled inwardly. These uncanny powers must only be used for good.

Friday, 16 January

The wife and I are getting serious about finding a new place. And I'm starting to get a little serious about getting a dog. As I've written before, I love dogs. And I'm starting to miss having one around.

Because, just like many of you, I once had the best dog on earth. For a lot of people, they all had the best dog on earth. Dogs are just that way: they're the best.

Mine was named Andy.

I think I was in second grade when we got him; we were in Idaho, and we went to some redneck domicile where the guy had like fifteen damn pups all running around madly in a pen, and I peered excitedly through the chainlink: We were getting a dog! It was impossible for me to choose; the mutts (and they were total mutts) were all so very adorable, these unremarkable greyish muttpups all lunging around theatrically, screaming with every cell, "Curse this metal barrier! I want to play with the tiny pink person!"

My parents, as parents should be, were much more clear-eyed. They spotted the weirdo of the group, who occasionally peered out worriedly from the much-chewed doghouse in the pen. That was Andy (though he had yet to be named): forever cautious, forever peering. I barely registered him. Fuck the weenie dog! I've got capering masses of gray doglets who are killing themselves to lick my beknighted fingers! I'm surprised I didn't lose a digit.

My good folks bought (and named, despite my urgent requests that he be named "Jet") Andy. And, as a single child, Andy was my fairly constant companion for years and years. Not that there weren't growing pains.

When he was a mere pup--with ominously gigantic feet--he started snuffling around a jigsaw puzzle I was failing to work on. I whacked him on the nose. "What the hell was that for?" my dad demanded. "He was sniffing my stuff!" I explained. He stared at me like I was a foreign microbe invading the family body. "Jesus, don't be an asshole. He's just a puppy."

Andy grew. Christ, did he grow. It turned out that he was an ubermutt: he had elements of collie (coloring), German shepherd (muzzle), St. Bernard (unbelievable size; I think he weighed in at one point around 140), and malamute (upcurved tail). In fact, I used to ride on his back. Despite his immense size, Andy remained, for lack of a better comparison, a total pussycat. He feared the vacuum unreasonably, as if it were a motorized dog guillotine, and would hide from it under your legs. This was pretty cute when he was a puppy, but when he was full-grown, it got kind of disconcerting to suddenly have an enormous mammal trying to seek refuge under your straining knees, which, whoops, were now three feet in the air.

Andy was energetic as hell for years. At one weird, unexplainable point in my family's history, my mom got on a jogging kick. My mom, you should understand, is 5'5", and weighs perhaps 118 pounds if she's got full pockets. But for a time, she wanted to jog. Andy would "helpfully" go with her on the trips, and would habitually race ahead of her for around a hundred yards. Then he'd stop and look back at my mother, gamely trotting along, with a look on his face that basically said, "Jesus, what's your problem?" Then, perplexed, he'd race back to her at around the speed of light, and greet her with a look that said, "Uh, say, why not run faster, like I do?" Then he'd blast off for another hundred yards to repeat the process. I'm sure this was really heartening for Mom.

Not quite as heartening: during this time of eerie jogging-love, my father enjoyed furthuring his Eternal Bastard reputation, and would occasionally shadow my mom with the car. There would be Mom, jogging with gritted teeth, while my father drove alongside her in the car, doing a breezy five miles an hour while calling out fake encouragement: "You're doing great, Sue! Oh, no! Looks like a big hill coming up!" Then he'd ostentatiously take a drink of beer, and speed up the hill, and then back down to my mother, still running. "I checked out the top of the hill for you," he'd say, my mother still panting away gamely on the road, "there's still nothing there."

Andy could confirm this. He'd already run the route up and down six time before my mom had gone fifty feet. He was crazy fast, and seemingly tireless. When dogs are young and healthy, it doesn't seem like there's anything they can't do.

We all got older, of course. I remember once, going out late at night to put the chickens to bed (we lived on a ranch, and the chickens were my responsibility), Andy stopped at the barn door that led to the chicken path down to the coop. He just stood there, growling and not moving. "What's up, buddy?" I said. Andy growled some more and looked spooked. I was too stupid to figure anything out, and remarked, "You're a weird old dog." I was tired. I went down to the coop, and everything seemed cool; I swung the coop door shut and latched it, my nightly duty. I turned away to go back home.

There was then a fantastic CRUNCH! and I spun around. The half-inch plywood door had been rent from its hinges, and there was a tremendous hole in the half-assed door. Running from the scene was this awful hairy shambling thing, fast as hell for its size: my dad identified it for me the next day. I had inadvertantly locked a fucking badger inside the coop, and he made a jailbreak. The goddamn fucking thing had gone nuts and busted out the door--badgers are just bad news.

When I wobbled around to go back to the house, there was Andy standing there, looking pretty queasy, but also pretty fearsome, the big fucker. But badgers aren't anything you diddle around with. He knew what was around--Andy was no dummy--but Andy also looked after my ass.

Some years later--many years--I was doing my morning routine. I always took care of myself in the AM, and took a shower, dressed, got ready for school, and left the house to go catch the bus. Andy was on the lawn, lying down.

He didn't get up. And there was some terrible green slime coming out of his muzzle. He whined, a little. He was having trouble breathing.

I stopped cold. This was my damned dog: he grew up with me! He watched me be Spider-Man and the Hulk. I used to ride this dog! He warned me of badgers. This dog--this protector, this fearful creature who ran from vacuum cleaners--oh hell.

I stopped to pet him, and he made snuffling noises. He wasn't well at all; he was terribly sick, I knew. I was a teenager, and I knew. I don't know why I did what I did, then. I scratched his wonderful ears, that I used to sometimes turn inside-out, because it made me laugh, even when I knew that it embarrassed him, because I could see the reproach on his long-muzzled face. I said goodbye, without a damned word to anyone.

I went to school. And then I went home. And my parents were there, looking very stricken. "We have some bad news," they said. "Andy died, " I said back. They exchanged glances. "How did you know that?" they said. "I knew this morning, when I left." My mom looked a little sick. "Why didn't you wake us up?" she asked. I didn't have an answer, and to their credit, they didn't press me. I still don't have an answer. Maybe it was just because he was my fucking dog. I was the kid; the dog got to die on my say so.

It seems pretty stupid right now, but it's still pretty sad. I miss my good dog. There's a picture of me above the stove with him.

I really miss my good dog.

But they're all good dogs. What we need are good owners. Maybe it's time I tried that again.

Wednesday, 14 January
Clothes Unmake The Woman

The wife discovered the dark side of online shopping tonight. See, her folks, bless 'em, were kind of befuddled as to what to get us for Jesusmas, so one of their presents to each of us were gift cards to J.C. Penney's. Poor lowly J.C. Penney's. They are, plainly, The Store Your Parents Shop At. Is there anything less hip than Penney's?

Okay, sit down, TJ Maxx, I see you.

Anyway. The wife sat down a week ago and started poking around the Penney's site, hopelessly looking for clothes. (I haven't used mine yet, but I'm reasonably sure I'm going to just buy a blender or something. Yes, I am all man. I'm fucking Doc Savage with a gift card! Rrrrrrr!) She found some pants she liked, and a couple shirts and a sweater, I think.

They came today, wrapped attractively in a shapeless mass of grey plastic. It's this sort of thing that maybe indicates that Penney's is not so much, ah, upscale. J.C. Penney's: We Eschew Boxes. It looked for all the world like a tiny body bag built for goth pixies. The wife proceeded to open the sad packagelet.

She brought out a pair of brown pants. An enormous pair of brown pants. Titanic. These were Brobdingnagian pants: I hoped they had been autographed by Jonathan Swift. "These are huge!" cried the wife. Happily, she still tried them on: they were ridiculously tremendous on her, and made her walk stiffly and oddly erect. Basically, she looked like Puddleglum the Marsh-Wiggle. And the awful fabric of the pants made terrible shrrrrk-shrrrk sounds whenever she moved--the mating call of wild burlap. "Boy, that looks and sounds really comfortable!" I said helpfully. She laughed and went into the bedroom to get them off, and as she changed, I still heard the malevolent susurrations of the fabric. Chilling.

She tried on a turtleneck sweater, of a rather violently Pepsoesque hue, which also looked on the gigantic side, but actually looked okay. The wife examined her now rare-beefishly-colored torso: "It didn't look this pink on the screen." I wondered briefly if anyone had ever thought the same thing about internet porn, and then decided that I would really have to stop thinking, you know, at all.

The wife tried on another shirt, this one a complicated floral print with a strange sort of textured fabric, and it was, well, funereal in almost every way. The cut was unsuited for the wife, and hung off of her horribly, like a shift fashioned out of dead children. The print was supposed to be, I think, representative of intertwined roses, but in this it failed terribly, and somehow managed to look rather sinister and deranged, as if it had been printed by lonely convicts, long ago driven mad from staring at their own tattoos. Basically, the shirt was a catastrophe: "This is horrible," declared the wife, tugging at it in a hopeless effort to make it look somehow less ghastly.

So that crap is going back (although a sick part of me kind of wants to keep that one shirt, if only for future experiments in black comedy). As for my part, after this experience, fuck man: those were some hilarious clothes. I may have to try this out myself. Maybe get myself some cut-rate Speedo knockoffs. I wonder if they have plaid.

I'm sure they do.

Monday, 12 January
Number Two! Engage!

Comment spam? NOT IN MY HOUSE! My last five commenters:

Ski Shop
Snowboarding Boots

I like to think of these people as party guests, which is pleasing, mental-image-wise. I think of Lesbians hanging out chatting with Snowboarding Boots.

But really, BASTARDS! What to do with these miscreants? Well, if you're like me, nothing, because I don't know what the hell I'm doing around here anyway. So I just went to the bathroom, filled with gastrointestinal wrath.

Which turned out to be another awful situation that I had to suffer through, because here's the thing: I have this pathological neurosis about making embarrassing toilet noises. And others, ah . . . well, they clearly don't. How I wish I were one of these people, but I'm not, so if I'm in the work bathroom and someone else walks in . . . well, I just sit there. Quietly. Clamping down on whatever awful freight is anxiously awaiting its release, in agony, until the bathroom is empty again.

I know this is my problem. But it causes me suffering.

And it's not necessarily just butt-noise related (though it usually is). Having just returned from yet another psychologically shattering bathroom experience, I will simply say this: I can handle being at a urinal next to some guy. I can even handle said guy lamely attempting conversation (though I hate this). I can even handle--because it's pretty funny--those guys who do the two-hands-on-the-wall, lean-and-piss thing, who look like they're waiting to be frisked. But there are some things the mind is not prepared to accept, and one of them is standing next to some guy at a urinal, and he is whistling "Tiny Dancer."

This sort of thing is distressingly common in the public bathroom (and yes, this will probably get disgusting), especially for nutfucks like me who are neurotic about this to the point of frenzy. Is there anything more harrowing than The Grunter?

(Sounds of unzipping and pants flopping around ankles. Pause.)

HURM! HUUURRRM! Um. (Pause.)


[Terrible, earthshaking flatulence.]


At this point, I usually can be found in the next stall over, bursting into flames. Or there's also the unnameable horror known as The Sigher:

(Unzip, pantsflop, etc.)

Haaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh. Fooooooooo.

The Sigher always sounds very plaintive and sad, as if he's burying several young relatives.

I'm going to have to get over all this somehow. It's just too punishing for me. So if you happen to enter a public bathroom sometime soon, and there's a guy in there, farting merrily while singing the old Slade song "Run Runaway," that's me, just working through my issues.

Tuesday, 06 January
And The Weather Gods Said "Ha!"

Yesterday at work, when the snow talk started, the honchos rolled out their Byzantine work-avoidance procedures, and dourly began making honks about closing the office. So this morning when I woke up and I saw the piddling little inch and a half that had fallen by 7:00, I rolled my eyes and started trudging to work without even bothering to call in and check things out first. Not even a Seattle office is going to totally wimp out with this feeble effort, right?

I must try to remember how dumb I am. Of course they closed the office. I stuck around work for about an hour and experienced such adventures as Skot's Intrepid Hunt for the Lightswitches and also Skot's Totally Unheroic Chat with the Bosslady (who left the house too early to get the message and got trapped at work until her husband picked her up).

Me: Man, I feel kind of bad leaving when you're stuck here.

She: You're welcome to stick around.

Me: You're joking.

This pyrotechnic display of my legendary Won't-Do attitude is sure to make my stock soar with the higher-ups.

So, SNOW DAY! Since all of the public schools cravenly closed down in the face of Mother Nature's non-wrath, it was pretty unsurprising to find that the wife got the day off from her teaching. We lounged around for a while before setting out to take care of the essentials: Operation Procure Booze. So we walked up to 15th, passing all the way those timeless features of snow days--kids sledding and dogs flipping out.

Seattle, basically paralyzed by this hilarious little snowlet, responded by swiftly closing down every street that had better than a five percent grade, and the town's little bastards responded with the fierce glee of the annually deprived: we just don't get snow here, so they gotta get in on it when they can. And sure enough, they were out in force, employing sleds, saucers, trash can lids, cardboard boxes, and, in more than one case, nothing at all in their quest to SLIDE DOWN EVERYTHING! It's this sort of thing--closing down streets--that makes me sort of fantasize about the government we'd all like (and deserve). Instead of being the bunch of officious, grasping beatdown freaks they so clearly are all the time, it's nice to imagine them doing something for once just because it's cool.

"Mr. Mayor! The city has been lightly blanketed with snow! Should we declare martial law?"

"No. I have a better idea. Close down any remotely steep street."

"But why, sir?"

"My God, man! Out there, everywhere, there are children who are not flopping around in the snow! Out there are children who are not skidding into cars and hurting themselves! THIS WILL NOT STAND!"

"I love you, sir."

"I love you too, dammit. Now close those roads. AND GET ME SOME HOT RUM!"

It's a fantasy, I know, but it's one I like.

Anyway, it was fun watching the little bastards kamikaze all over the place, and of course the dogs who always look especially crazed in the snow, snurfling all over everything, and then, over and over, looking vaguely confused when their muzzles got packed with snow. Solution: pee on everything. I love dogs, and everyone who doesn't should be violently killed. I'm just saying.

There was also, naturally, some typically lo-fi attempts at snowman construction; we passed one that was about three feet high, with a jaunty scarf and a carrot nose that, due to the slight melt, had fallen out of his face and landed in the thing's hands, giving the little guy the look of an albino dwarf suddenly stunned with the discovery of advanced syphilis. It was delightful.

So we finally got to the wine shop and purchased four bottles--we could be here for days!--noticing our next-door neighbor there as well. Apparently shameless lushes all seek each others' orbits. And as if to prove this theorem, we stopped by a neighborhood bar for a snow day cocktail, and approximately everybody on Earth was there as well. The bartender looked like she was under Panzer attack, but eventually served us our drinks, and we sat and sipped them contentedly, watching the comedy routine of Seattle drivers totally failing to negotiate slightly slippery roads.

This was the perfect work day.

Ah, Just Some Crap

Hey there. Sorry it's been a while, but I'm glad you're still coming around. And by "you" I naturally mean "SexTrackerStatistics" and "Lickity Slit Lesbians," because you good folks are really leaving some great comments. It's not every day I get wished a merry Christmas by Lickity Slit Lesbians--oh, wait, yes it is--but I'm glad you're visiting and saying howdy. I can't wait for Valentine's Day. I expect pictures.

I did really intend to do some writing between the last post and this, but, ah . . . well, I didn't, because I had important things to do, like sleep in until noon and then watch football and then mollify the wife, who was less than enthused that football games follow one another, routinely, from morning until night, without respite, and if there is some respite, it is easily drowned with a bracing dose of ESPN and Chris Berman's brassy blats of "Da Rai-Dahs!" and whoops, another game is on! That she puts up with this at all is a real testament to her patience: if someone tried this shit on me--say, putting on a Woody Allen movie, and then following it up with a Woody Allen movie, and then saying, "You know what would be fun? A Woody Allen movie" I would make perfectly serious threats of violence. Then this someone might say, "But there's only three more weeks of nonstop Woody Allen movies!" and then they'd be wrapped up in a rug exploring the crab life at the bottom of Puget Sound.

This is only one of the reasons why I love the wife: she puts up with my terrible horseshit and crippling neuroses, which is probably why I detest Woody Allen so much (well, his late stuff): I'm not that far off from him.

Well, except that I'm not Jewish, and I don't make movies, and I don't suspect that he likes football. And I don't generally fail to convince audiences that I'm boning people like Mira Sorvino or Helen Hunt; I fail to convince audiences that I'm boning people you've never heard of. Other than that, we're exactly the same.

Up here in Seattle tonight we're huddling together under the miserable dog's haunch of some freakishly cold weather. Well, for us, anyway. To Northwesterners, anything below 40 is like Dante's Ninth Circle; I keep going outside to try and find Judas buried neck-deep in our lawn. It's kind of embarrassing, especially for a guy who was raised in coldest, shrivel-dickest Idaho that I am now such a weather puss: I used to take tennis practice in basically Nanookian temperatures, and now I moan whenever the temperature falls enough to penetrate microfiber.

On my way home, I passed a dad with kid, and the latter wailed, "Dad, I'm fweeezin'!" Complete with the adorable minor speech impediment. I was cheered by this charming bit of familial street theater, and thought, briefly, "Awww." Then the kid started screaming, "BLAT! BLAT! BLAT!" and stomped mysteriously on the sidewalk. "Cut it out, Eric," said the Dad. My urge to never have children was suddenly restored: At some point, they might get cold. Who needs that? I'm perfectly capable of complaining about the cold all by myself.

The wife is also susceptible to the cold, but I'm contractually obliged to care about her chilliness, and I do: I mean, you can choose your wife, but not your awful yammering offspring, and hey, it's part of my role. Plus, I'd like her to have sex with me on occasion. So when she latches on to me and says "I'm freezing!" I of course hold her back and try to rub some warmth back into the poor thing; it is very lucky that I'm basically a walking furnace. I may not feel very warm myself, and that is because, against all evolutionary logic, I am still cheerfully giving up all of my available body heat to the outside air or whatever desperate animal that cares to wander up and grab onto me. I think even at my cellular core, my body recognizes that I'm incredibly lucky to have this woman, and so my DNA screams at my bewildered capillaries: "Code Red! She wants our BTUs!" "Jesus Christ, give it up." "This woman is a vampire!" "So what? Give up the body heat, or she'll leave us to die. I can't face any more roast beef sandwich nights."

Earlier tonight, she grabbed onto me like a chimp on a soft-shell crab: she was very cold. "Warm up my nose!" she demanded. (This is sadly not the first time I've heard this request.) I felt her nose with my cheek, and it was positively Arctic: it felt like how Lara Flynn Boyle looks. Sort of knifelike and in the Kelvin range. I rubbed her nose companionably with my face until it warmed up a bit.

Up yours, Woody Allen. If you want, I can send you the address for Lickity Split Lesbians. I could do this forever.

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