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Ursula Hitler

[ website | Inside Ursula Hitler's Head - my online cartoon series ]
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Mr. Sadhead [30 Jan 2018|07:14pm]
I just learned today that Mark Campos took his own life this month. We were online friends for a long time and I find myself grieving a person I never met in person. I only ever knew him as words on a screen. But God, what words.

Oh, Mark. Oh, honey. I wish you hadn't done this thing. You will be missed.
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A godawful small affair [21 May 2016|02:57am]
The other day I did a good deed, and came away feeling awful.

I was getting a turkey wrap at Carl's Jr., eating in my car, and I went inside to refill my soda. I heard this little rasp beside me, an old homeless black guy in a wheelchair. He asked if I could push him to the bus stop. I got kind of a crazy vibe off the guy, he had one of of those wheelchairs all piled up with crazy people stuff. But was I gonna say no?

I said OK. I'd literally expected this to be a 20-second trip into Carl's, and I still had half a turkey wrap in my car, the door was unlocked and I think the window was down. I left my cup beside the soda machine and got behind the guy's chair.

My first trouble was figuring out how to get him out of the restaurant's double doors. He anticipated my ignorance and said backwards, so I did that. Then I had to wrangle him down the wheelchair walkways, and his chair was really heavy and the poor old fellow came perilously close to tipping right out! I've had my own health troubles recently, my ongoing heart stuff and now rubbery legs too (it's being investigated) so I really wasn't in any shape for the little  adventure this trip turned out to be. But now I was in it, and there was no turning back.

As I'm pushing him along he's muttering about Jesus or some crazy thing, the passing cars are loud and he's quiet. We come to a clump of toughs and he asks if anybody can give him a smoke. Fuck you, one of the toughs snarls, I gave you a smoke already. I just wheel the old guy past fast.

I got to the bus stop and he said, No, the other one. I was pretty tired by now and a little resentful this trip was taking this long, but I smiled and pushed on. Then we got to the next corner and he said, No, across the street. It's a very busy intersection, rush hour. The light takes a good while and I feel myself fading. Jesus Christ, I think but of course do not say.

The light changes and I find myself pushing the old man across a VERY bumpy street, thinking he's gonna tip right out and won't that be a fine mess. He's muttering something about how he can't even hold a cigarette in his right hand, it just falls out. I think about not so long ago, when my hands were numb and it was getting hard to type. How absolutely terrifying that was, the prospect of losing the use of my hands. There are many things worse than death. For me, I think that would be one.

A ways from the next curb we get stuck, badly, and the stoplight changes on us. I keep thinking the cars are gonna start honking but I guess people saw me pushing this poor old crazy man and they had a rare moment of collective commuter compassion. As I'm struggling I guess I must have grunted, because the old guy asks if it's a bit much for me. I'm fine, I lie. Almost got it! But I'm starting to wonder, What if I don't got it? What if I can't ever get it, and we're just stuck here in the damn street forever?

Finally, I got him up the curb and rolled him to his stop. I knew I only had a buck in my wallet. (Just what I had at the time, I'm not so broke these days.) I thought about offering it to him, but I had a sudden attack of the middle class and felt like it'd be weird and possibly offensive to just offer him a buck. Besides, it was only a buck and I didn't know how much good it'd do him. So I wished him well, left him at his stop to catch his bus back to no home, and I went back to my lukewarm turkey wrap.

I soon felt awful, wishing I'd just offered him the dollar. Then I realized I'd just done this good deed and come away from it hating myself, and I felt proud of myself for not feeling proud and feeling guilty instead. What a nice person I must be, to do something like that and then not feel proud. Then I realized I was feeling proud of not feeling proud, and thought about how that poor man had no home and he was in a wheelchair and there I was with my car and my turkey wrap, and I felt so guilty. Then I thought about my cancer and all the other stuff wrong with my life, and I realized that if that old guy had the chance to trade lives, he might not take it. I mean, I wouldn't trade my life for his. But if he knew about everything I've got going on, he might just say, No thanks. That was something to realize. But feeling like that seemed so self-pitying, it made me feel guilty.

I thought all of that stuff and felt all of those feels in the span of about two minutes. This is me on happy pills.

In other news, David Bowie is dead. I heard Moonage Daydream on the radio today and it ripped open the scar. So many good ones gone.

But I'm not dead yet, as of this writing.
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Extraordinary how potent cheap music is [23 Feb 2015|05:37pm]

Some songs just kill me, every damn time. This is one. I don't know why it's so powerful for me. I mean, it's some 2007 band that nobody ever heard from again, and it kind of sounds like one of those no-hit-wonder acts that used to show up at the Bronze on Buffy. This song is best known for being in a freaking Dentene commercial.

And yet. Hearing it today was like having ice-cold water poured right on my feels. It's been, it's been, it's been, such-a such-a such-a long time, long time, long time...
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[15 Feb 2015|02:38am]
So, I didn't keel over dead on Friday. I suppose it must seem terribly drama-queen-y of me when I post something like that, but all's I can say is that I really was scared I was going to die. Things were not good.

See you the next time I think I'm dying.
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[13 Feb 2015|06:16am]
I'm having one of those mornings when I'm kind of scared I might suddenly die. It's a long story, and a silly one. I'm probably OK. But maybe not. You'd be scared too, and you'd feel silly about it.

So, just in case I suddenly keel over and die today, I feel like I should say something.

Um. Thanks for having me, Earth. You really suck sometimes, but you're pretty great too. When you don't suck, you can be so great.

And humans! Don't get me started about you guys! What a bunch of lovable knuckle-heads.

If I do die, it'll feel like way too soon. But I suppose that's inevitable, really. I'm not a good die-er, and any age will probably feel like way too soon. Or, maybe not.

I kind of love you. I wish we'd known each other better. I mean, not necessarily you personally, but... I kind of wish I'd known everybody better.

Yeah. So. This is getting awkward.

See you again, sometime. I hope.

It's been real. God damn, has it been real.
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What doesn't kill you, doesn't kill you [08 Jan 2015|03:22am]
(I posted this as a comment on Metafilter, with a joke that it had kind of turned into a Livejournal entry. Then it hit me: Oh, yeah, I have a Livejournal. So, here you go.)

2014 was an astonishingly horrible, God Said, "Ha!" kind of year for me. In a year that included losing a good chunk of my colon to cancer, my career imploding yet again and lots of dental horror, the hardest thing was watching my cat die. His health failed slowly and then he got very sick and old in a hurry, and over the course of a few days it became obvious he would only get worse and it was time to put him down.

I remember sitting with him on the day that the euthanasia folks were scheduled to come, knowing that my little boy was going to die in 5 hours, 4 hours, 3 hours. Watching him sit there on my lap, so very very still and quiet, almost a ghost already.

I remember thinking, over and over again, that it was unbearable. The pain I was feeling was simply beyond what I could bear. I had been through some awful shit in my life, but this was some whole other deal. I couldn't bear it.

And yet... the minutes ticked by, and he was still there on my lap, still not dead, not quite yet.

Putting him down was so awful that even now, going on a year later, I can fall apart when I remember it. But I got through it, because there was no other option. It was a grim lesson to learn, but there is some solace in it too: you can bear the unbearable. You have to. We all have to, eventually.

I look at the future, at burying my parents and the possibility of my cancer coming back and all of the other things that can or will go wrong, and I remind myself that I watched my boy die and I'm still here. I had a hunk of my guts hacked out, and I'm still here. I've had days when it felt like I was on fire, and I'm still here. And that's not me boasting about my resilience or anything of the sort, it's just how life works: unbearable things happen, and you bear them and go on because the alternative is to just go crazy forever or fall over and die or something.

Maybe some people figure that out when they're 9 years old, but it took me decades of hard livin' to learn it. So, if anybody reading this hasn't experienced their own unbearable day yet, I'm here to tell you that it is at least as awful as you think, like being on fire... but eventually the fire goes out. You may be left with some scars, but that fire goes out. And you're still there.
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Overfed [02 Dec 2014|10:21pm]
I read Buzzfeed semi-daily, even though there are a lot of things I don't like about it.

I've spent a lot of time the last few years kind of flailing, trying to figure out what the hell to do for a living after my career as a journalist imploded. I've tried a couple of careers that didn't suit me one bit, and more than once I've had the awkward feeling of being middle-aged and brand new at the same time, desperately trying to catch up with people who were just younger, stronger and more naturally adept at the job than I was. I was in the wrong job, surrounded by the wrong people, but I was stuck and had to try and make this shit work.

A few years ago I busted my ass trying to make it as a dental assistant. It was a fiasco, but I put about a year into it and worked damn fucking hard. Dental school was hell, every single second of it, because I am not technically minded and I have health problems that make it hard to be on my feet and I am a night person and the school was all about getting up at 5 AM so you could spend your mornings running back and forth while remembering nine thousand things about teeth and equipment and health regulations and insurance codes. (GOD FUCKING DAMN IT, did I hate dentistry.)

Anyway, one morning we were learning how to do digital x-rays, and it was basically torture for me. Super technical, super fast pace, running from room to room, all on like 3 hours of sleep. You had to look at somebody's head and try to magically work out where to aim the invisible raygun beam so it will hit them inside of their head at exactly the right angle. While the teacher keeps using you as an example of what not to do. And every time you get it wrong, your fellow students (who are like 19 years old) kind of shake their heads wondering why you just don't get it already because this shit is so easy.

So, all that was going on, and I was partnered up with this girl who was kind of a happy, pretty idiot. That sounds mean, but I don't think anybody in the class would have disagreed with that assessment. She was nice to look at and generally very cheerful and sociable, but ditzy as hell. Like, whenever anybody made a pun in class, they'd then have to explain it to her because she just could not figure out the kind of jokes you were making in 3rd grade. (She was also way, way better at the class than I was, and let me tell ya, watching somebody that dopey smoke your ass every single day will do a real number on you.)

We were supposed to be partners and I was having a really bad time of it, starting to have a stress meltdown because I had to pass this class and everything about it was like that scene in the movie where they have to defuse a ticking bomb and they have to either cut the red wire or the green wire but they don't know which one to cut. And I remember at some point she basically shrugged, walked away and left me to it. I was obviously in a bad, bad way, but she was done with her part so she went to go gab with her friends and she left me to me crash and burn without so much as a glance back.

Now, I can say with certainty that I would not have done what she did. I can say that, because in the last few years my mettle has been tested many times and I have found myself giving sick strangers pep talks at 4 AM. That's not to say I am a great person and I don't have flaws, because in many ways I am a shitty person and I have plenty of flaws. But if I am in a room with somebody and that person is basically dying of stress right that instant, and I can help them a lot just by listening to them and telling them that they don't totally suck and the world doesn't totally suck and maybe things will get better, or by saying, Hey, this thing keeps shorting out because you've been trying to plug this in there when it actually plugs in over here, and it's such an easy mistake to make and I made it myself plenty of times before somebody explained it to me, you bet your ass I am going to help them.

But she didn't help me, and she walked away and went back to her young, pretty idiot life, laughing with her friends about Real Housewives or some shit while I sweated and wept and failed. I still kind of hate her for it, even though she was just a young pretty person and life probably hadn't kicked her ass enough for her to even know what compassion was. I hate her for it because I have been on both sides of that moment, and I know what it is to be the one who desperately needs help and I know what it is to be the one who helps. And fuck her.

The last few years I've seen both sides of that, a lot. The ugly, sad people who stop and help each other and deal with the real, bad shit that's happening, and the pretty, happy people who throw up their hands and are like, Whatever not my prob lol.

Buzzfeed is written by, and for, the lol people. The Beyonce fanatics who think the highest compliment you can give somebody is to say that she doesn't give a fuck. It's not like everything they post is bad. Most of it is OK, and some of it is very good. But the people who write for that site are younger than I've been for a long time, and prettier than I will ever be, and behind all of the cute pictures and listicles and quizzes, they are totally the kind of people who would leave you twisting in the wind if you were having some totally icky meltdown. They'd probably text their friends while you were bleeding out. And if you're reading the site, they assume you're that same kind of person. The stuff they LOL at, the stuff they celebrate, it all adds up to paint a picture of somebody I know wouldn't like me, and I sure don't like them very much either.

Man, I have got to stop reading Buzzfeed. It's like eavesdropping on the popular kids, it makes me feel like the yucky trenchcoat kid, and I haven't been in high school since before some of those callous little fucks were even born.
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Nimrod Bodfish [25 Jun 2014|03:37am]
Well, I survived that. So much for the easy way out.

Now I spend some time limping around, while I figure out What Is Next.

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Death May Be Your Santa Claus [18 Jun 2014|03:18pm]
So, I'm going in for cancer surgery. I felt like I should post something here, because... well, maybe I'll die.

This year has ripped me to shreds, stomped on the shreds and then backed a truck over the shreds a few times. 2014 wants me dead, so bad. I don't know what the fuck I did to 2014.

I'm afraid of dying. But I'm not so afraid of it. I'm less afraid than I ever thought I'd be.

Assuming I survive the surgery, and everything after, there's still a lot of shit I need to fix. My life is a dreadful mess, and frankly I am just tired. If I don't make it, that's maybe not the end of the world. Maybe that sounds despairing, but it's just where I'm at.

I want to live more than I want to die, and I'm sure when they're wheeling me into surgery that stupid monkey survival instinct will kick in and I'll be a shivering, panicky mess. But if you never hear from me again, know that on some level, I was kind of OK with dying now. Death (presumably) means no more fighting and no more hurting, and that really doesn't sound so bad.

I hate this world. I love this world. So much. So much.
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The love I took is equal to the love I mook [16 Jul 2013|04:52am]
It looks like I never got around to posting anything here about Xtranormal shutting down (and the resulting end of my Ursula Hitler's Head cartoons.) Here's what I posted about it a few weeks ago on Ursulahitler.com:

It looks like Xtranormal really is shutting down soon. They've had major, unfixed technical problems for months, they've abruptly stopped selling points, and I hear that a number of essential employees have suddenly departed the company. I don't want to go into more detail because I don't know how much of this stuff they want to keep private, but it really looks like the end is nigh.

If you have anything you want to do using Xtranormal, I would strongly suggest doing it immediately. It really saddens me to say it, but I would be surprised if Xtranormal is still around by the end of July.

What that means for this series is that I'm going to be forced to wrap things up faster than I expected. I already felt like the series was nearing the end, but being forced to quit so suddenly really sucks. It's possible I'll do a penultimate episode to clear some things up before I post the final one, but right now I think it's more likely I'll just post that last episode and be done with the whole thing.

I will always be grateful to the people who created Xtranormal and kept it running. I know I'm not the only person who will really miss the program. Here's hoping that somebody somewhere is working on an animation program that's even half that good.

To be honest, I am not taking this very well. Making these stupid cartoons has been a real sanity-saver the last few years, and being forced to suddenly give them up is scary as hell. I don't know what I'll do without that outlet, and I'm kind of worried about me.

At the same time, the cartoons scratched an itch without really treating the rash. There's so much I still want to do in life, with art, with my gender, and making the cartoons indulged that stuff just enough that it kept me from losing my mind. Maybe without the cartoons, I'll be forced to do more. Or maybe I'll just get suicidally depressed and Brando-fat. Time will tell.
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THE GLAMPIRE: AN XTRANORMAL ROCK OPERA - Part One [30 Sep 2012|06:45pm]

Just in time for the Halloween season, we debut this kinky, funny, scary, gender-bendy Xtranormal rock opera featuring a script, lyrics and animation by Ursula Hitler and music adapted from the rockin' (and public domain!) tunes of Kevin MacLeod. This is the first in a four-part saga, with the final episode planned to debut close to Halloween.

Follow this series at www.UrsulaHitler.com. And if you enjoy this series, please, please do whatever you can to help get the word out!
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Into the nowhere, out of the now [17 Aug 2012|03:21am]
When I re-posted that thing the other day about how the people on my friendslist suck warthog balls, I meant it as a joke. This blog is probably over, and I thought that was kind of a funny note to go out on, bitching one last time about the lack of comments. But I actually did get a couple of comments, and it seemed like people took it more seriously than I intended. So, this time for real.

I spent a decade doing this thing, trying so hard to be interesting and funny and worth knowing, trying to make some sort of lasting connection with people. But this blog was never popular, and now almost everybody I did get to know has either vanished from the web without explanation or they've pointedly "unfriended" me. My disappointment and anger are real, but my true feelings are so much more complicated than that.

When I started this blog, I thought I was clawing my way up from a very dark place. That dark place now seems like the good old days. I thought I was starting my life over then, but I had no idea. I've spent the last couple of years really starting my life over, over and over again, and sometimes I hardly know who I am anymore. I look at the old pictures of myself as Ursula, and I get that same feeling I have when I look at pictures of so many of my old friends, all those people who have just vanished away without leaving a phone number or an address, all those people who don't show up in a Google search, who have been swallowed up by the past.

When there's nobody around to remember your past with you, it all starts to seem like a fiction, like a movie you saw or a book you read a long time ago. Those old pictures are like fragments of a dream. How young we were! How foolish and pretty and sad. I see the old pictures of Ursula, and I wonder, who was that girl, and where did she go?

I don't hate any of you. We shared something, whatever it was, and it mattered to me. Now it's time for me to start all over again, to sift through the wreckage for whatever I can salvage and cross my fingers and hope that this time, I'll make it work.

Maybe some fine day, you and me and Ursula will meet again. And if not... I will remember us.
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You and your warthog balls [15 Aug 2012|02:47am]
This was a post from 2009 that I recently decided to re-post as a fond farewell to/pissy rant about my friendslist. It was supposed to be funny, but I guess it came across as a little too bitchy. So I've done a proper farewell post now, with nary a mention of your noted propensity for orally servicing porcine mammals. Which you totally do.

I was going to tell you that you suck mule balls. But frankly mule balls are too good for you guys. You suck... warthog balls

Your diet is mainly warthog ball-based. You spread warthog balls on toast, like some grotesque, hammy jam. You sprinkle bits of warthog balls in your morning coffee, so you can start the day with the taste of the warthog balls you crave so.

You go to restaurants and ask if they serve warthog balls, and when they say no, you ask if they know of any places in the neighborhood that do serve warthog balls. And when you ask, you have this pathetic, hopeful expression, with a little tear of longing in your eye because you fucking love warthog balls so much. In a pinch, you'll go to a Mexican restaurant and order albondigas, then you'll eat it with your eyes closed, pretending it's warthog balls.

When you were a child, your family learned not to ask what you wanted for your birthday, for the answer was always the same. Now when your relatives ask you to visit, you tell them, "Sorry, but I'll be busy tonight... Busy sucking warthog balls, that is!" They just sigh and shake their heads wearily, wondering why they are so cursed as to be related to a warthog ball-sucker. Your poor old uncle, he cries himself to sleep each night. Over you. Over you!

You watch The Lion King like six times a week, vainly hoping that this time, you'll catch a glimpse of the cartoon warthog's balls. You buy all of the special editions, hoping that one will contain some deleted scenes featuring the warthog's balls.

When your mom asks you to grab two packs of Halls at the liquor store, you have a shrieking orgasm because "grab two Halls" is an anagram for "warthog balls". You actually cream for anagrams, you twisted fuck.

You got a job at the zoo, so you could be close to the warthogs and their balls. You wanted to believe you could keep your hungry lips to yourself, because you finally had your dream job and you didn't wanna fuck it up. But then you got fired - and we all know why - and now one of the warthogs has taken out a restraining order against you. In hindsight, it was all sadly inevitable, really.

You've registered warthogballs.com with Godaddy. You regularly post mpegs and erotic fiction, hundreds of megabytes every month, all of it warthog ball-related. You take photos of Salma Hayek and PhotoShop warthog balls over her face. You scan in pages from old Sears catalogs, and superimpose warthog balls on all the men with their bad '70s hair.

You will surely die in some warthog ball-related misadventure. And when you do they'll roast you up and put your ashes in an urn shaped like a warthog's balls, because that's just how you would've wanted it. You'll leave instructions saying so, in your video will. You'll finish the tape with a little poem of your own composition. It will be composed largely of anagrams - about warthog balls, of course. Your grave will feature a large, marble statue of a single warthog ball. It will stand as an eternal monument for your love of warthog balls.

I could happily carry on, insulting you like this well into the night. But I feel like I'm actually starting to work my way up to something amusing here, so I'll stop now. After all, why should I waste my withering disdain on you? You won't even notice, because you'll be too busy... busy doing you know what.

(Sucking warthog balls.)
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[03 Jul 2012|02:55pm]
It's reached the point where I'm not even angry about it anymore. If I post anything here, I have to remember that it's just a message in a bottle, it's going out there into the teemless sea and odds are that nobody will ever see it all. Spending time or emotional energy on writing something, as I did the other day, is an act of absolutely pointless self-indulgence. Whatever I once got out of doing this, it's over and it ain't coming back.

This thing isn't fun. It isn't helpful. It isn't healthy. It's a minor addiction, a pygmy marmoset on my back, and even the quick Googling I did for "world's smallest monkey" to help me add a little flavor into this sentence was totally wasted effort.

At this point this thing only serves to make me even more unhappy. And it must stop.
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Don't stop believing [02 Jul 2012|01:28am]
Saturday night I went to the Labyrinth ball with K. There were tears. Lots of drama, and tears. When it was bad, it was so very very bad. But it wasn't all bad.

We had a hell of a time getting ready to go, a hell of a time sneaking past the new neighbors (I did not want to be in drag the first time I ever meet these people) and a whatever-is-worse-than-hell of a time trying to find parking. Seriously, we circled the neighborhood like a dozen times and there was just nothing, and it was getting later and later and it was really starting to look like we were gonna have to eat the cost of our tickets (40 smackers each!) and just give up and go home. K has been having a really, really rough time of it lately and she was stressed and exhausted and all of her frustrations started to boil over and... Oh, people, it got grim. So, so grim. Like, Why the fuck am I even alive?! grim.

I feel weird even talking about it. I used to share everything online and not think twice, but... I don't know, it feels weird now. Well, anyway, it was awful, but then we magically found a parking space not far from the event and suddenly we were inside. We were still crackling with tension and there were all these people in devil suits and skeleton masks hopping around us acting out their geeky little masquerade ball personas, and we were so not in the mood. This one skeleton  dude started slinking around K in a little circle, trying to interact with her, and he was lucky she didn't slap the skull off his head. I mean, imagine you were sobbing three minutes ago, and suddenly you find yourself onstage in the middle of Cirque du Soleil and there's some fucking clown trying to incorporate you into his juggling act. This was like that.

Every year around 11 PM they play As the World Falls Down, and it's always very emotional for us. As we're dancing, the whole last year will kind of hit us at once. It's sort of like that New Year's Eve feeling, where the clock strikes midnight and suddenly everything is in slow motion, and in that long, strange moment you can feel the world shift around you in some weird way as the old year is dying and a new year takes it place. This is sort of like that, but this year it was a little too emotional. The song was performed by some band with sugar skulls painted on their faces, and as we were surrounded by all of these waltzing people in their ball gowns and Mardi Gras masks, it felt like the last scene of a terribly sad movie. We held each other tight and danced and cried a lot, and I wondered if this really would be the last time we'd ever go out like this. Would this be our last dance?

As the world falls down, I'll be there for you...

But then the rest of the evening went a lot better, and we actually ended up having a pretty good time. Seriously, if you can't have fun at the Labyrinth ball, just fucking slit your throat. We saw middle-aged lesbians in fairy costumes absolutely devouring each other on the dance floor, they were crazy-horny aunties and it was pretty sweet. And there was a fairy princess in a wheelchair, out there dancing (er, rolling with style) with a couple of her friends. She was so beautiful, just the sight of her got me weepy again.

The word inclusive sounds so gross and hippie, but that was the word that came to mind. The Labyrinth ball includes people, you can be some gorgeous young thing in a rubber dress or some ratty 60-year-old dude in a Peter Pan outfit, and it's all cool, baby. You see little kids running around, and furries, and hot girls wearing glitter and not much else, and  somehow it all seems sweet and good and not creepy. We noticed that one of the bands had left an open satchel full of cameras and iPhones and crap right out there in the middle of the ballroom, and we were talking about how easy it would be for somebody to steal all that stuff when it hit us: that was not going to happen. I'm not saying that everybody in the building was absolutely trustworthy, but... In a building packed to the very rafters with sweaty humans, it felt like you'd have to look long and hard to find any total jerks. (And why would you want to?)

A highlight: During a lull on the dance floor, an elegant werewolf in a tuxedo sat down at a piano and started to play Don't Stop Believing. Apparently he wasn't part of the official show, because a lady rushed over to him and STOPPED him, she shut his ass down. The crowd clapped for the guy, I think we all wanted to hear the wolfman play a song. We were near enough to give him a thumb's up, and the wolfman just sort of shrugged, as if to say, "Ah, well, I tried."

I hadn't shaved in months, and now I see that I suddenly have jowls. I don't know if that's a fat thing or an age thing. It better be a fat thing, because if I already have old people jowls I am gonna burn my face off with a blowtorch. (That'll teach it.) I think I looked OK in drag, though. We took some pictures, but I usually look like ass in pictures so I'll have to wait and see if they're worth posting.

I keep thinking I'm totally done with this damn blog, and then I find myself back at the keyboard. There are individuals on Livejournal I've stayed in touch with, but more and more this blog has felt like me talking to myself. I never imagined any one person reading this thing, there was just a "presence" or composite reader I was addressing, if that makes sense. And that presence feels like it's gone now. So it feels dopey to spend the time on this, it's like writing a long letter to a dead pen pal.

But I also kind of feel like I'm maybe violating K's trust, by writing about all this. She never tells me not to blog about stuff and she never reads anything I do write, but for some reason I just don't feel comfortable blabbing about her the way I used to. Things have been very hard and I don't know what's going to happen. But I do still love her, and I still want this to work. Sometimes it feels like this world is never gonna stop falling down, but despite it all, I never want to stop falling in love with that girl.
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Badlands [15 Jun 2012|02:18am]

I'm gonna miss the baby boomers.
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Not nothing [31 May 2012|03:20am]
On the other hand, my bones have hardly bothered me at all for quite a while. My heart is a major pain in the ass, but for a couple of years now my bones have hurt so much less than I ever dared to dream. Sometimes I kind of forget that I have arthritis, even. It's like forgetting you used to be on fire. I'd gladly forget it forever.

My bones were agonizing for several years, and then they mysteriously got better and my heart started beating too damn fast instead. I hate my stupid heart, but at least it doesn't make every single moment of my life hell, the way the bones did. My throbbing heart is a cakewalk, compared to living with a throbbing hip.

The bone pain could come back, at any moment. But it's not here, right now. And that absence is not nothing.

Oh, yeah. Meany and Sweetie interviewed Abby Travis the other day.

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Nowhere plans for nobody [29 May 2012|03:32am]
I started this blog 10 years ago this month. It's all too fitting that in a full decade, that first post has never gotten a single comment. (And please don't bother, now. I mean, talk about too little, too late.)

I can't say it was all a waste of time. But mostly, it was. So many of my old online "friends" are just gone. I gave up on them, or they gave up on me. Mostly, they gave up on me. I must be pretty dreadful. I mean, enough people give up on you, and eventually you get the point. Well, I've tried to change. Hey, I spend every day trying to be somebody I'm not.

Words are much harder for me, now. I don't know if it's depression, the drugs I'm taking for my heart, getting older or what the hell, but in recent years it's become much more of a struggle to put words together. When I used to write and write and write, I never realized that I was running out of words, that within a decade just putting down a coherent paragraph would be a struggle.

Things are tough, right now. They were tough 10 years ago, and now they are tough in ways that are both way too similar and very, very different from how they were tough 10 years ago. 10 years ago, I thought there was a point to posting all this crap online. I thought it would make a difference, somehow.

10 years and hundreds of thousands of words. I'm sorry for having (mostly) wasted your time. But frankly, I'm sorrier for having (mostly) wasted mine.

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Not assholes [05 Mar 2012|11:06pm]
In a mood, so to get my mind off a million shitty things I decided to make a list of famous people who, by nearly all accounts, aren't assholes in real life. They won't cut you off in traffic. They won't scream at you for bringing them the wrong kind of latte. They are not complicated, difficult men, and they will stop and pose for a picture with your grandma. 

Keanu Reeves
George Takei
Tony Danza
Ringo Starr
Michael Palin
Mark Hamill
Levar Burton
Stephen Colbert

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[05 Mar 2012|06:48am]
I read the comments following this article and then I wanted to punch the whole world in the face.
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