Just got the comp of my new skin, y'all, and can I just tell you how FUCKING COOL IT IS!?!? I am totally SHVITZING with glee. Too fun.

That is all. For now.

It has to be YOUR way. When it isn't, you panic, but hold your ground. You keep your gun pointed and trigger finger ready, but you'd never really hurt anyone. Though you like being tough, feeling control, you often enjoy blending in and being part of the ordinary human race. Take the What Pulp Fiction Character Are You? quiz.

After all, if you could spend the better part of the last year checking in on me, it hardly seems fair that I can't return the courtesy. I mean, what are you going to do if you ever sell a novel or screenplay? Make sure it's not sold anywhere you think I might buy it?

Yes, I'm talking to you. Happy? You're acknowledged, although I gotta tell you, it's not because you've "angered me"; it's because you've brought out in me the obnoxious high-schooler who wants to pick on the weird kid. Seriously, moving your whole blog for the second time in a year because I'm reading it!? And what's up with the Ewan McGregor? Death sticks? Don't be so dramatic. You look like a dork.

So what do you want from me, anyway? You don't want to be friends and you think I'm a hack, and you're in one of the greatest cities in the world. There HAS to be something better for you to do than either concern yourself about what I might have to say about stuff that happened 13 -- 13! -- years ago or derive pleasure from any of my drama. No, really. Dig deep. Or does it really mean that much to you to hear how I remember things? Well, here, then: There's no question that 13 years ago, I was a total basketcase who most likely needed medication, and I did some pretty retarded things -- none of which involved sticking a gun to your head and making you do a damn one of them. So do yourself a favor and stop making me the scapegoat of everything that went wrong in your life

Leave it to Oprah to get me all teary eyed and shit tonight -- did y'all see it today? She featured Carolyn Thomas, the woman who's ex pigfucker murdered her mother and then shot off half her face. By some miracle, she lived to tell the tale and is currently going through a ton of reconstructive surgery to restore something resembling a face. The part that got me? When the EMT who saved her life by digging bone and tissue out of the wound so she could breathe came out to meet her. That was rough. Also really upsetting is the fact that many of her friends abandoned her because ultimately, they can't deal with the severity of her injuries. God, we humans are a crappy bunch, ain't it?

So. I started writing a month or so ago about a breakfast talk I covered; it was sponsored by the Lake County Sheriff's Department, and it was all about woman beating from a recovering woman beater's POV. Waymon Brown is the guy's name -- he's out of Ft. Wayne, and he was a phenomenal speaker if you ever need someone to cover the topic. Anyway, among all the things he said, this one thing stuck out for me:

I know -- simple, right? But how profound is that? Totally blew me away, because I sure as hell never looked at it like that. But I don't think I've ever heard truer words about the subject.

Now that I've totally ruined your buzz, remind me to tell you about how I discovered today that peanut butter does in fact go bad after awhile. I'd tell you tonight, but I (finally) finished giving birth to that 68 (!!) inch story I've been working on all week. Lump that in with the 30-incher with which I gave Tara a heart attack by turning in today and two dailies, and this Broad needs to pass out.

So today, Kaffy and I were chatting whilst I took a break from the story that WILL NOT END, and we got on something I've been pondering the past couple nights: appearances -- specifically, what my posts sound like. (Ok, I've been navel gazing. Like you don't.) And Kaffy, who pulls few punches with me, said that if she didn't know me and started reading me, she would think I was pessimistic. I was like, "Really?" and she said, "Yeah."

"REALLY!?"
"Um, yeah."
"Huh. No, really!?"
"Yeeesss."

I'm still a little perplexed by that. I mean, sunshine and kittens I ain't, I realize (unless, of course, I'm in the presence of sunshine and kittens), but a bonafide pessimist to me would also have to be miserable with their life and everything in it, and that I'm not. In fact, family bullshit aside, I'd say I'm the happiest I've ever been, so I kinda wonder why that doesn't show through more. Not that I'm particularly worried about it; it's just kinda curious to me in that thinking-aloud kinda way.

But here's something to ponder: If someone feels the need to tell you how well they do something, what does that say? I know someone like that -- we'll call her "Trainwreck" for our purposes here. And we'd start talking about work and stuff, and at least once a month, she'd have to tell me how good a writer she is. Which she was, if a little wordy for her chosen profession. But I just remember being like, "Yeah, and if you keep telling yourself that ..."

Meanwhile, I'm seriously digging the new Daft Punk tune that Apple's using for its latest iPod commercial. They used it on The OC a few weeks ago, too, and that's when I started digging it. Quite sexual, or maybe it was just all the chicks in the teeny bikinis. Anyone got a copy they want to send my way?

Kalisah talked about this load of bullshit yesterday, but since Inside Edition just replayed it, all I gots to say is, "Nicole, be GLAD you got yourself out of that mess, because your ex? Is a fucking fruitbat." Do you even HEAR yourself when you open your mouth, Tom? Because exactly what point of reference do you have that you can tell a woman how she should treat her postpartum depression? Seriously. Until you start crapping out babies and have to deal with fucked-estrogen levels, shush.

Vitamins. Yeah, because the natural route worked so well with Andrea fucking Yates. Dipshit.

Here's the part of the job that annoys me: I've got two major stories I'm working on -- one a Biz centerpiece for Sunday and the other a Lifestyle centerpiece for next Sunday -- and yesterday, it was all calls, all afternoon, and I was getting everything I needed. Today? Zippo. So now, I'm chained to my desk waiting for people to call. Not that I had anything major to do today, but what'll inevitably happen is I'll start decompressing, and THAT'S when people will start calling, and I'll be all, like, "Why did I call you again?" thus looking like a retard.

Although, I suppose now would be a good time as any to get me a club chalupa ... aiyeeee yee yeee!

Caught this via Gawker today -- wasn't previously familiar with the case, but it's a really well-done article on it.

In the meantime, I could've sworn I saw my brother's car circling outside. I'd have peeked out the window, but I was topless at the time.

Ok, so after giving Snidgey the lowdown on what prompted my lesson in dirty e-mailing, we've decided that to further help out the male population, we would start a new feature, tentatively titled "What not to say in a dirty e-mail" -- you know, like "What not to wear," only with dirty e-mail. So ladies, please feel free to contribute* the stupidest things you've ever heard a dude say to get you going, and here they shall be featured.

Since we've already discussed the whole "intrauterine" fiasco, I'll get the ball rolling with "I want to f' your clit" (physically impossible, so AGAIN, learn your anatomy, por favor) and from Snidgey, "I want to lick your labia," which just sounds plain WRONG.

For the boys out there (and one in particular) who want to spice up their foreplay with a little dirty e-talkin': It is never, EVER Ok to use the word "intrauterine" in your shtick. NOT EVER. Instead of making you seem erudite and well-read, as you're no doubt going for, you look like a big retard who doesn't know how a woman's innards work. Do you understand me? Seriously, just stick to the easy ones, like "pussy" or "cunt," and you'll be fine.

Doing my morning reading today (read: Wasting time before I have to jump into the shower because damn, broadband is just THAT COOL) and I venture on over to Romenesko, the reporter gossip blog, to catch up on all the reading I hadn't gotten done yesterday. And I come across probably the most disturbing thing I have in awhile: Lookit. Seriously, read what this woman said and then the reaction she got because of it.

I don't get it. How could anyone have gotten, "The military is systematically eliminating journalists in Iraq," from what she said. More importantly, when did people stop listening? Yeah, Ok, dumb question, but I mean ... God. That's just over-the-top.

-- Mer on her upcoming trip to the Balkans, where she will be taking a class in intermediate Serbian at the University of Belgrade

So the cable guy got here at a little after 1-ish, and since a little after 2-ish, I've been zipping along at break-neck, broadband speed. Woo! It's freakin' fantastic! Of course, now I really ought to do the RAM upgrades I've been talking about doing for about six months, now, but Ima need to pay off this installation bill before I think about that. ($159 bones, y'all!) Still, broadband! And I can use Firefox along with my Thunderbird now, so take THAT, you spammers who try to slip code through Web sites! You won't have the Broad to kick around any more!

So yesterday was Mother's 70th birthday, and we went out to Red Lobster and came back here to watch The OC, but not before filling her birthday present with Dad's ashes. Dad's ashes, you say? Why, yes -- I bought her one of these and had his name engraved on it. It was funny, because as we opened the box -- as I think I've mentioned before, Dad hangs out with me on top of the entertainment center, because she just wasn't ready to keep him -- she was kinda perplexed that the ashes aren't black, like we (Catholics) get on Ash Wednesday. (Aww, look, I called myself a Catholic.) And I was like, "Well, on Ash Wednesday, they burn PALMS, not people, so that's the difference." I don't think she quite got it, but that was Ok, because she dug the gift. I may eventually get myself one, too, but I'd get a claddagh.

Speaking of death, Greta's beloved uncle died Thursday of esophageal cancer, and so she, her sister and I were talking about urn necklaces last night. Her sister thought it was an Ok idea, but Greta was a bit squicked out. On one hand, I guess I'm kinda squicked, too; I mean, Mother keeps talking about how she wants to spread some of his ashes on her parents' graves, and I'm all like, "Abolutely NOT. Like, what if you're leaving body parts that he might need in the afterlife?" But, you know, ashes to ashes and so on and so forth, so my objection probably has more to do with being his keeper, because my plan is to eventually go up to the Boundary Waters in Canada and release them there. It's where he wanted to be more than any place in this world.

In the meantime, Christina and I have chosen the artwork for the new skin, and it is de-LICIOUS! She loved it!

Was anyone EVER going to tell me how fucking funny The Sneeze is!?!? Ohmigod, people! I'm, like, peeing with laughter! "Steve, Don't Eat It!"!?!? TiTANIUM! Pure Titanium! I mean, where else can you get this:

It seems that the wisdom of The Mighty Wad is good and true: A friend of mine (who has asked not to be named for our purposes here) to whom I described some of his techniques has apparently used them on her loaver to excellent success.

Perhaps we can persude the Wad to impart with more of his sekrets ...