And even more disturbing: this Link of Doom. How can you pass up an opportunity to be called by celebrities of the calibre of Todd Bridges or the Barbi Twins, at only $19.95 a pop? It's eerie when Mr. Show skits start coming true. Remember the 'thousands of supermodels will call you constantly!' bit?

In the dumb but fun category: the Personality Disorder test. I am, unfortunately, histrionic, dependent, borderline and paranoid in moderate amounts. Woo! I'm not sure whether to thank Joel or hit him for this one.

I feel ratty. ('...oh so ratty, I feel ratty, and batty, and buuuuuung...' Hee. I like *those* alternate lyrics.)

'I'm never gonna know you now/ but I am gonna love you anyhow'. Sigh. I keep re-editing this post, trying to say the right thing. I'm just... bummed out by his death. Been singing his songs in my head all day.

People are fucked up, man.

Lita and the Coach are coming to visit in January and we are planning to tour the South Island for a week or two. I was looking on the web for activities and remembered Fred and Myrtle's Paua Shell House, which rivals Houston's Orange Show for sheer kitsch wackiness. Even though they looked askance at me for coming from the dreaded Auckland, I feel privileged to have visited when Fred and Myrtle were still alive - despite what that link says, they've both gone on to the great iridescent abalone in the sky...

You know what sucks? A tyre mark on your dog, who is hiding, terrified, cut, and bruised, in the flax bushes at the bottom of the garden after being hit by a car because some little arseholes opened your gate and let her out.

Now we have padlocks on our gate. All our visitors will have to stand outside and yell to get in! How westie is that??

History-related quotation of the day: "You can't go around yelling at people, no matter how historical they might be." Thank you, Lorelai Gilmore.

Agatha Christie's novels were written as an explicit engagement with an outdated Burkean conservatism. Good article!

Queer Eye for the Straight Guy started here last night. I am filled with warmth and joy. 'I said walk, not march around like some weird little troll!'

This article, '112 Reasons to Lead a Barren, Childless Existence That Ends in Your Death', is just way too convincing.

Oh, and we have to build a new house. We can't move an old one because of my mother's protected trees, and a weird angle or something. I don't want new! I want charm, and inconvenience, and constant upkeep! Sigh. However, it must be said: there *was* a certain distinct charm to this showhome when we went through it. Blonde wood? Grey carpet? Scarlet accents? Perhaps a strategically placed vintage window or two? I can see it. Now let's hope the council lets us do it.

Aunt Wanda's mother, Miss Helen, died, and she is all sad. Plus my mother is being charged with careless driving (she hit the back of a police car pulling to the side of the road when she was sun-blinded. Terrible luck!). 2003: Bungest Year Ever.

Of course, you should never say that, in case 2004 turns out to be even worse. Sigh.

Brent and I met five years and one day ago. He made me a little card yesterday with an aerial photo of Baton Rouge and an 'x' marking the spot where my apartment was on Alaska Street. He says he remembers pulling into the parking lot with his bouquet of one dozen pink roses and thinking 'gee, I hope she likes me'. I did. And I still like him more than any other person I've ever met.

I wish to thank the Academy:

Brent for my lovely teacup and sandwich plate/CD/DVD/cheesecake/card complete with Enola Gay artwork!
Danni for the gorgeous handbag from the UK and a tear-inducing card *and* a text. What a lovely girl.
Siobhan for the text and the phone call and the email and the card *and* part of the aforementioned handbag - covering all bases!
My mother for my blonde tresses and the vouchers with which to buy 'expensive trousers!'
Aunt Diane for the food package. I've never had caviar before!
Cousin Rachelle for my triangular blue plate with the korus.
Grandad for the usual monetary contribution.
Rachael (of joy!) for Mr. Rourke.
Kat for bangles.
Greg and Carol for the beady bracelet.
Jacqui for the hilarious 'Life is fun when you're always off your tits' card.
Lauren for the teatowel.
Everyone generally for cards, wishes, shoutouts (thank you Carol and Marika and Alex and Sonnet and Marie!), appearances at various gatherings, and general beatific-ness.

Bless you all. :)

It's my birthday. But I haven't been able to eat anything the entire day because workmen have been laying lino in our kitchen. It's nearly 2pm and I'm starving. Sigh.

Congrats to Joel for getting a 'Mr' at his bank, and an 'M' on his driver's licence. Fancy!

Today, I received some spam entitled: 'an orgasm is just the beginning'. That's a grandiose promise, my bulk-emailing friend! How do you plan on keeping it?

Serious contender for Most Perfect Solo Paul McCartney Song: 'Every Night'. I just have to see a mention of it and I can't get it out of my head. '...believe me mama...'

They gave Beryl between a month and a year to live. My mother went to have a coffee with her and was making conversation about their jobs at Housing New Zealand. My mother said 'I hate it, I want to leave'. Beryl said 'I've found a way to do it. It's a little drastic, but...'

Bless her brave wee heart.

Ahahahahaha. I can't believe he published this practically unchanged. Pages from 12-30ish are all mine. Woo. I suppose.

Narcissism, thy name is Danielle. Take a test to see how well you know me!

I'm sorry, but it's just *embarrassing* to publish an article this retarded. There are so many ridiculous assertions in it that I'm at a loss to know where to begin. Sure, the patriarchy has collapsed! Sure, there are just as many faked clitoral orgasms as vaginal ones (she bases this on precisely *no* evidence). Sure, '[n]o one loses control, loses track of where they are, forgets that music is playing, screams, or weeps, when someone performs oral sex on them'. Speak for yourself, lady! (Apart from the weeping. That's just lame. :)) Sure, the poor itty bitty men are having a crisis because they no longer have any 'authority'. Diddums. I mean, *Jesus frigging Christ*. What the hell was the feminist movement *for* if forty years later we're left with garbage like *this*?

I likes me my lipstick. But I'm sure as shit not going down this postfeminist bullshit road. There are women in the world who still get their vaginas sewn up. They get stoned to death for touching some dude's hand. Millions of them don't have access to reproductive choice. Most women *still* get paid the worst and laid off first. And some idiotic middle class jerk is going to sell them out by bemoaning the sad state of sexual affairs for confused American manhood? Fuck you, lady. Seriously.

Yeah, I know. It's in the 'Sex' part of Salon, and it's just an opinion piece, and my whole life is based on similar ephemeral trivia and idiotic arguments. But the Perspective Fairy is a cruel mistress when you get her going. ;)