So.

Did y'all get a load of this yesterday? Lookit. If you didn't, go on and look -- the whole entry. I'll wait.



Ain't that some shit?

Now, based on an exchange that was had in the days surrounding the whole affair, the homies and I had some suspicions as to what went down, but we left it at, "Eh, leave it alone and give them the benefit of the doubt," so on and so forth. After all, everyone used to be close, so they couldn't possibly do them like that, right?

Well, I for one can't honestly say what happened and what didn't, because I wasn't there when the deal when down. What I can say with the utmost authority? It looks SPECTACULARLY BAD from where I'm sitting -- bad enough that they'll never see a dime of my money again. No, I don't spend a ton of money on skins because I can't, so I'm sure my money means dick in the grand scheme of things. But I do have the power of recommendation, so I leave y'all this: When choosing art for your design, you better make for damn sure you or your designer has permission to use the art, because you never know how badly it's going to bite you in the ass.

You know what I think? I think there are entirely too many people in this world who underestimate me.

Is it wrong that I felt absolutely no sympathy for Greta when, upon finding out her niece has lice, she went apeshit and on about how she was going to have to stay up all night to make sure all her clothes were washed!? And how, because they're all cold water washables, that her sister was going to have to pony up for new threads to replace the ones that shrink? And how she was going to have to call work (yeah, she's working now) and tell them she can't come in because she stayed up all night washing the nits out of all her earthly possesions? I don't know, it all seemed so dramatic when it didn't have to be.

It seems there's a bit of confusion about my thoughts on removing the unauthorized skin. Guess I need to break this down for everyone.

1. First of all, I'm a free-lancer. I get all about unauthorized usage, and I'm a big proponent of copyright. (See here, here and here.)
2. That being said, it was a huge mistake on my part -- NOT Christina's, so back off on her -- to assume that listing a credit to the artist's work (which I had) would be acceptable. I should've have asked him for permission at least, commissioned work from him at most.
3. When Snidgey and I talked to Christina, she was under the impression that someone with damage against Bonafide contacted the artist.
4. I contacted the artist as soon as I found out he contacted Bonafide to extend my apologies and to see if we could work something out.
5. Annoyed that someone would play Bonafide like that, I posted Tuesday's entry with them in mind, NOT THE ARTIST. I also mistakenly used the word "author" when I meant "artist." I didn't go back and change it, though, because I figured anyone reading it would understand what I meant.
6. I was wrong, because the artist himself also misunderstood what I was saying.
7. I've since explained the situation to the artist -- who, I'd like to stress, has been extremely gracious and fair during this whole mess -- with the hope that he'll understand that I meant no damage with him, but with the people who were being underhanded toward Bonafide.

So there you go, y'all. And to you who called yourself "what?" and posted anonymously: Although I appreciate what you said, there's no reason you couldn't have contacted me with your concerns privately if you didn't want anyone to know who you are; after all, the artist did. That's why I deleted your post.

The latest installment of the DtR chronicles has us trying to set up a second meeting. For the past few days, he's been quiet, saying he's up to his eyeballs in "personal issues." And then this afternoon, he drops it on me: He's asking his wife for a divorce and moving into his own crib this weekend. But don't tell anyone, because only his sister and boss know what's going on.

For anyone taking bets out there as to how long THAT was going to take, it was two weeks -- actually, not even. Sigh.

I mean, how stupid do you think I am!?! Do you honestly think I don't KNOW that guys tend to look up their old flames when the shit hits the fan with their current old ladies!?! Like you're the first dude that ever came up with this? Puh-LEEEZE. I may have been born in the morning, but it wasn't YESTERDAY MORNING. How much more contrived* can you BE, fer chrissakes.

$750 to go ... $750 to go ...

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

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?

That is all.

How horrible a person am I that when Mother calls all hysterical about little TIMMY, all I feel is annoyed?

I mean, there's certainly reason for concern: The doctors finally diagnosed him with p-monia last week, but somehow, the idiot doctor on call Saturday released him, even though he had big diarrhea and couldn't hold anything down with all the mucous packed in his lungs. Well, he's back in as of yesterday, but his electrolytes are all kinds of screwed up and he's lost weight from dehydration. So yeah, it's a pretty serious situation; still, I'm not convinced he's going to die or anything so drastic.

But drama queen that she is, every time she talks to my cousin, who's naturally upset and worn out by the whole thing, Mother calls me up all crying and tearing at her breast I'm sure, and it just. wears. on. my. NERVES. It's like, Ok, I get it that you're upset, but crying and getting all fucked up around my cousin probably isn't what SHE needs right now. Or maybe I'm just a bitter ol' unfeeling hag, but God! I just don't get it.

Is it just me, or could one mistake the little girl singing in that Duracell commerical for saying "Glory Hole" if you're kind of listening half-assed?

The world can breathe a collective sigh of relief that I? No longer look like a ridden-hard trucker broad; the great Emperor Warrior Kendar took pity on me last night and dyed my roots. It's now all coppery again, with lovely plum lowlights. Now, I just need a facial ...

Tonight while watching "Vanishing Twins" on Discovery Health (over at Greta's because, you know, I don't have cable), I kept singing the theme song from Jaws after they described how one identical twin will absorb the other if the second one doesn't divide equally. I'm such a card.

Greta's Lasik, in the meantime, went well, and no, I did NOT watch it, even though I could've; she was afraid she might hear me gasp in horror at what they were doing or say stuff like, "Is that supposed to look like that?" while they were doing it. And yes, yes I would do something like that, because it would amuse me. Hell, when I took Crazy Aunt to the orthopedic surgeon this summer, I reminded her to tell the nurse about her heroin habit ... while the nurse was taking her vitals.

Don't look at me like that; you think it's funny, too, and you're going to hell just like I am.

where nothing less than explosive diarrhea will make you feel better? No, seriously.

Either that, or y'all are tired of the "Ask me anything" meme, because no one? Wants to know anything else about me. Huh. Don't quite know how I should take that.

So, I'll hork another meme, this one from Mac: She asks that everyone pick the top five songs in their playlists that make them "cool" in the eyes of others, a la High Fidelity. So mine, in no particular order:

I'm going to be like the lovely Queen of Ass and throw open the Gallery du Peanut to y'all's questions. I'm up for anything, as long as you're not a smacked ass about it.

Answers tomorrow night, hopefully.

[CLARIFICATION: Since Kaffy and Og are being retarded, I MEANT questions about ME, ME, ME. Ergo, the only "swallow" anyone should be asking about is whether I do or not. mmmkay ...!?!?!? Sheesh.]

for things such as finding someone's underbundies on the lawn. For example, perhaps the person was in a mad rush to get dressed and get out to an assignment, and as they ran to the car, perhaps a pair of previously worn underbundies could've been hiding in said person's pantsleg, and the person didn't notice they were there. And then, while running to the car, the offending underbundies could've slid ever-so-unnoticeably out of the pantsleg, to be left in a fluffy little heap on the parkway in front of the building.

Not that that happened to me on my way out today, but it could happen. (cough)