E! Channel’s been playing The Craft for the last few weeks, and I gotta say, I really dig that movie. To me, it’s a smarter, better version of Heathers, and I’m sure my angsty-cool card has been revoked for saying that, but seriously! Fairuza Balk BURIES Christian Slater in terms of over-the-top nutjobs. Just LOOK at her. Anyone who can have cockroaches crawling out her jacket arms? Is badass. Plus, she was hot in it, and all the other performances were nicely low-key for such a campy flick.

Those of you who still blog, do y’all still get spammed in your comments every so often? For as long as I can remember, I’ve been closing out my comments after 48 hours or so, but somehow they figure out how to get through and leave their droppings, or else the comment expire I put on expires or something, I don’t know. But anyway, I got a shit-ton of spam last week on entries I hadn’t thought about in forever, so I took a peek down Memory Lane as I zapped the spam. And as I was doing this, a particular entry grabbed my attention pdq:

That particular entry was about the e-mail the one guy sent me after Cat and I showed up at a party to which we were all invited; problem was, since the party was thrown by HIS friends (and God forbid I have anything to do with HIS friends because, well, they were HIS friends first), he was unhappy, and that was his response when I called him out on it (read: asked him nicely, like a sucker, why he was so rude to me at the party, because he not only didn’t talk to me the whole night, but he stayed directly across from me AT ALL TIMES, as if I smelled). Now normally, TOG doesn’t exist in any meaningful way for me anymore, but seeing that hed made my blood run cold.

But what REALLY kicked in the flop sweat was I wrote after it: I said I admired that he was able to protect his widdle feelings from my harshness (!) and that I would rather he be an asshole to me than ignore me, more or less. Just so I’m crystal here, let me break that down: I said in so many words that I was Ok with this guy treating me like shit—well, maybe not OK ok, but clearly Ok enough to not kick his stupid ass to the curb.

For all my bravada, that right there was—and still is in many ways—me. That scares me.

My issues with anxiety and depression aren’t exactly a secret to y’all, so it was about two weeks after my birthday that I fell into a sinkhole I haven’t experienced since after Dad died. Not sure if my meds stopped working or other external factors played into it, but it was bad enough that my peeps were begging me to get thy flat ass to the brain garage for a tune-up. The episode lasted a good month, month and a half, but for the moment I’m stable, in no small part because I’ve consciously started paying attention to and embracing the nurturing relationships I have and eschewing the ones that aren’t. The endeavor has and hasn’t been easy, but it is what it is, and I’m all right—horrified by what I’ve allowed myself to endure, but getting better.

In other news, Mother turned 75 this week. Do you believe that shit?

And thank God for Cipro, because man! is it nice not to piss fire. Just as good? A doctor who gives you a scrip with refills.

Yeah, I'm still prone to UTIs. Nothing's changed.

Alice over at finslippy posted the other day about weaning off her brain meds, which happen to be Effexor, just like I take. And lots of people wrote to comment that "weaning good, cold-turkey bad," especially with Effexor, which apparently has a hellacious withdrawal. "Apparently," I say? Well, I'm going to let y'all in on a little secret: I've never experienced it. That's not to say people don't, because obviously they do, or there wouldn't be board upon board talking about the "head sloshing" and other awfulness. I just don't have it. In fact, I can go a few days where I forget to take it, and I'm all right. Now, if I don't take it for longer than, say, a week, I start getting monster-crabby and more anxiety-ridden, but nothing seriously painful. I wonder what kind of freak that makes me? It always scares me, though, when people focus only on the withdrawal and thus judge the medicine by that and not its merits; if it weren't for Effexor, I don't know what would've become of me after Dad died. Or like B-Dubs when I saw him on the 4th of July and he asked what meds I was taking now (full disclosure: He and I are both ADHD, and we've both done the whole Ritalin/Adderall/Concerta gig). When I told him Effexor, he was like, "Oh," in that "Wow, you're seriously fucked up if you're on THAT" kind of way. And I was thinking, "Yeah, and you were on Haldol and Risperidol when you were coming down from your bullshit. What the fuck?" Anyway, my doctor says I can stay on it forever if I like, and with my propensity for anxiety and paranoia, I don't see any particular reason to ever come off.

Speaking of the gene-pool, got a call from the detective today: He's setting up an appointment to talk to Crackhead in jail Friday. This ought to be good.

Jamiel Terry recently penned an essay in OUT magazine about growing up gay in the house of Randall Terry, the notorious anti-abortion zealot who got himself kicked out of that racket as part of a court settlement and who's now taken up gay-bashing as his hobby. This is the response he posted about his son's essay.

Lemme get this straight: Here's a guy who took this boy into his own home, and now that said son -- the one HE TOOK IN AS HIS OWN -- has made a really painful revelation, he's more worried about what people think of HIM!?!!?!?

You know what, people? If you can't think beyond yourself and how you look to the world, do the rest of us a favor and do NOT procreate; do NOT adopt kids; and do NOT look up the kids you gave up for adoption. I know you like to think of yourselves as the Great White Hope, but you're NOT doing us any favors. No, seriously. Our lives are fine without your self-centered bullshit. Keep your delusions to yourself, please. Thanks.

Fer fuck's sake.

[Link courtesy of Wonkette]