Fin.

Went to bed naked. Woke up with missing pants on.

Have had trouble walking up and down stairs.

What the ever living fuck went down last night?

I'm going to level with you guys. I went to bed with pants on last night. I really did. They were my maroon UPS sweats, because if I sleep completely naked my ass gets cold, okay. IT DOES.

This morning I wake up groggy with a sore left leg and ass muscles. I am also ass naked, and my sweatpants are nowhere to be found.

This leaves me with two questions:

1. What happened?
2. Where the fuck are my pants?

Failed Children's Shows

"Barf-eater the Asscat."

Math is good for you.

Let me tell you about the Fucked-to-Fine Quotient. FFQ is a complex representation of a number of factors that can help a person determine just how much he or she has to worry about an Other having designs* on them.

Social Situations
Q(Social)=Fucked/Fine

Fucked= number of times Other makes physical contact (knuckle taps count) + number of interested glances from Other + number of times conversation with Other makes other people awkward+ number of compliments + number of alcoholic drinks you've both had + how many times someone else asks "so, what do you think of Other?"

Fine= number of times Other makes physical contact with someone not you + number of glances that scan entire party + number of times Other makes conversation awkward on his/her own + number of compliments given to rest of party + number of people not you or Other at gathering

For example, my current FFQ(social) is:
(8 + 7 + 3 + 1 + 4 +2)/(1 + 3 + 0 + 0 + 5)
Q= 2.5

The greater the number from 1, the more fucked you are.

---

One-on-One
This one takes a bit more thought, and since it has fewer variables, is generally considered less accurate.

Q(solitary)= Fucked/Fine

Fucked= number of times Other brushes against you while sitting/walking and does NOT pull away (knuckle taps STILL count) + number of times Other compliments you + number of times Other remembers seemingly minute details of previous encounter + number of times Other suggests hanging out again

Fine=Number of times Other brushes against you while sitting/walking and DOES shift away + number of times Other mentions attractiveness of someone else + number of times Other suggests hanging out with general group of friends + number of hours willingly spent in one another's company

The greater the number from 1, the more fucked you are. (DRAFT 2: Allan pointed out that previously it would be possible to divide by zero.)

---

The handy new section of the sidebar will keep you updated on my current FFQ as the semester progresses.

*Designs: Any attraction that will lead to some sort of attachment (crush, desire for a date, drunken pawings). Generally unwanted, hence presence of attraction being labeled "fucked," but rarely it can be considered a good thing. Whether or not you consider yourself fucked is entirely interpretation.

::EDIT::
If he offers to buy you lunch/dinner, add five points to the FFQ.
If you go out to lunch/dinner and he ninjas the check, add ten.

Moment of creepy.

My most popular, highest-ranked Flickr photo is this one.



150 photos of rats, some that have actual artistic merit, and the general populace chooses this!

This is your brain on grave shift.

I is a human
they not a human
I has a food
om nom nom nom!

(The rats were bitching about being hungry.)

Hmm.

I think I'm ready to go back to being a brunette.

Huh.

I got a text at two AM from my *takes breath* high-school-ex-boyfriend's-best-friend's-younger-brother. It says:

"Funny story. My girlfriend and I broke up for real and you and I never hung out over Winter Break."

I've been sitting here trying to figure out how those two statements are related.

I forgot the first half thanks to the meds

Maddo: *hits Wren's right arm, probably with justification."
Arm: *goes numb!*
Wren: "AAH!"
Wren: "AAAAAAAAAAAAGH."
Arm: "<3!"
Maddo: ^-^
Wren: "Stop getting rid of my arms on the highway!"

Please do not kill me for downloading Indian Hip-Hop.

Blame the Hinduism exam.

Happy Birthday to me!

10:00 AM. Total birthday calls from family: zero. Total birthday calls dreading from family: two. Total birthday calls expecting from family: one. Cards from family: one, signed with no message. Presents from family: zero. Expected presents from family: -2. (The call and the card are negative presents.)

Current Karmic accumulation rate: Exponential, with instantaneous interest.

---

This day is trying to tell me something.

I woke up this morning and found my hair standing at parallels to my head. I decided that instead of fixing it, I'd just put the Panda Hat on. Then I start walking to my first class and discover that I appear to have damaged my left leg in my sleep. Everything from my shin to my hamstring hurts inexplicably.

At the cafe, they have no orange bread, so I am forced to settle for a bagel. This is only interesting because I usually want a bagel and am forced to settle for orange bread. ._.

Then, in class, I am called upon three times in a row for the discussion paper we prepared. I am still unsure why. I was raising my hand and speaking voluntarily and paying attention. What more did he want? D:

Also, Hilary is on campus, across the street from my house. So my yard is flooded with masochistic Democrats.

Oh, the irony.

The one decent photo I have of my tongue stud, and it just happens to be the skankiest thing I have ever seen.

Seriously. Looking at it makes me feel dirty.

You're welcome.

Today has been a good day.

My sample review seems to have officially rocked my new boss' socks, because I got an e-mail this morning telling me I had been approved to be a reviewer for the site and won't I please fill out my profile and state my product preferences?

Okay! :D

One hour later I have my pen name, avatar, product list, no-no list, new e-mail, new AIM, and first product to review selected. I had no idea they let you choose what you wanted to review! First up on my list is "Lips Like Sugar," an anthology of women's erotica edited by Violet Blue. (Apparently she likes new talent, and I am currently wondering how I can get her attention given to my stories.)

Also, they asked if I wanted to do other things, such as write sex guides and "sensual stories." I checked yes on both, but the yes on the second one was far more emphatic. So who knows, this may end up being my "in" for the world of erotica, too. They let you link to a personal webpage, and I am considering making a blog specifically for my erotica short stories and linking to it. Couldn't hurt, right? I shall keep considering, because I need at least two more written and I really don't have time right now.

That's not all that went well today. Fam took me on a shopping spree that won me two new pairs of shoes, a sexy skirt, two new pairs of Levi's, black dress pants, grey pinstripe pants, smoke blue pinstripe plaid pants, two dress wrap tops (I seem to have finally developed the boobs to pull them off), two button-down dress tops, one green babydoll t, a set of turquoise lounge pants, and a new set of earrings. She also helped me mail off all my packages, told me to buy some Sketchers online and tell her how much they were so she could pay me back, and didn't mention money once. I tallied up my receipts, and she easily spent $800 on me today. I am thrilled because I now have several dressy outfits for job interviews (or working at a place that requires a graduate degree, or grad school, or dinner out...), and they're all really quality Ann Taylor and Liz Claiborne stuff that will age well and last forever.

After all that, we went out to lunch, and one of the employees at the Panera Bread kept wandering over to me when Fam was busy and chatting me up. Forcefully. Fam, after the third time he dropped by, looked at me and said "you know, I think he thinks you're cute."

"Oh, I am aware," I replied. Since all our conversations were about "how fucking amazing" my hair was, the concept had gotten across.

Then, at the package store, a lady with a thick Brooklyn accent asked me if my hair was "accidental."

ANGRY KITTY MUST BE SATED

(It's a conversation between me and Maddo. Don't ask. Alternate take.)

I have been given a prescription for Ambien.

THIS IS ME TONIGHT.

Letters, part two.

(A continuation of this post.)

---

FROM: "._." <"stomach@wrensbody.com">
TO: "-.-"<"brain@wrensbody.com">
SUBJECT: What.

Brain:
I swear, if I make it out of this alive, I am climbing up our esophagus and ripping you out of that skull of yours.

---

FROM: "i want to die" <"brain@wrensbody.com">
TO: "stfu"<"stomach@wrensbody.com">
SUBJECT: RE: Just stop.

Stomach:
Quit your pansy-ass whining, or I'll drink this shit faster. I'm the one who's suffering here, NOT YOU. You can't SEE the way this stuff won't dissolve Crystal Light. You don't SEE how much of it we still have left to drink.

And Holy Shit. You can't TASTE it. You can't even FATHOM how sickeningly reminiscent this stuff is of wet baby powder, currently flavored with lemons in. You also can't FEEL the way it coats our mouth grittily and then just kind of sliiiiiides down our throat.

All you have to do is channel it on into our intestines. So please. Leave me to wallow in my misery. Or I may snap and kill us both so I don't have to order our hands to pick up the glass and our throat to swallow anymore.

I will be signing out of my e-mail account until further notice. Please do not try to contact me, as I have every intention of being comatose on the floor under a blanket.

The Brain.

---

...four glasses down. That's 24 oz. I think I am going to vomit.

WHAT.

My new phone tells me whenever I have e-mail. This means that, no matter where I go, I am now one with my inbox. It's at once comforting, daunting, and embarrassing that it is so clear I am a child of the information age. I mean really--does it have to be that obvious?

In other news, my stomach has been speaking to me for the first time in a month. Our exchange has been going something like this:

---

FROM: "Im in ur body, digestin ur foodz" <"stomach@wrensbody.com">
TO: "Vicodin has put me out of a job!"<"brain@wrensbody.com">
SUBJECT: HEY!

Dear Brain:
I've noticed a sudden lapse in food being sent down my way. What gives? Did someone beat you with a copy of Skinny Bitch or something? I'm all for self-improvement, but what you're doing here is war.

Please remedy this situation as soon as possible, or I will be contacting the proper authorities.

Regards,
Stomach.

---

FROM: "The Seat of Power" <"brain@wrensbody.com">
TO: "One of the Proles"<"stomach@wrensbody.com">
SUBJECT: RE: beg pardon?

Dear Stomach:
I must admit to being rather surprised at hearing from you at all. As far as I or the people at payroll are concerned, you have been AWOL for nearly a month now. I've been having to decide whether or not to feed this body arbitrarily, with absolutely no cues from you! What a disaster. And now you simply show back up and expect me to cave to your petty demands just because I am under orders to feed you nothing but broth and Jell-O until our friends the intestines finish being violated by a long, narrow camera with a hooky bit at the end?

Unacceptable. Do me a favor-for once- and go back to doing what you spent the past month on. Nothing! How hard can that be?

Sincerely,
The Brain.

---

FROM: "I knew I should have unionized" <"stomach@wrensbody.com">
TO: "derr-de-derr-derr-dur" <"brain@wrensbody.com">
SUBJECT: Re: It's on, bitch

Brain:
Look. You and I both know this broth sucks. Know why? Because it's chicken, and fat, and seasonings, MINUS THE CHICKEN AND THE FAT, AND THE SEASONINGS. You even gave me the low sodium kind! Which means that it smells like chicken, delectable, filling, nummy chicken, but there's not actually anything there to digest! You are basically filling me with chicken-flavored water and you expect me to be happy about this! What is it you DO up there in that skull all day? Huff glue?

Ooooh. You know what, though? It smells yummy. Reminds me of stuffing. A huge bowl of fluffy, moist stuffing just waiting to be fluffed with a fork and rammed into our body's slavering jaws. C'mon. Be a pal and eat that instead.

Ta!
Stomach

---

FROM: "Mother knows best" <"brain@wrensbody.com">
TO: "Who gave this prat access to the internet?"<"stomach@wrensbody.com">
SUBJECT: RE: I fucking hate you.

Stomach:
Look, you're just hurting us both here. I love stuffing just as much as you do, possibly more, since I am capable of enjoying the aesthetics of a dish far more than the organ that receives its masticated remains.

Unfortunately, the intestines have been feeling under the weather, and that means everyone is going to have to deal with some discomfort. Remember getting that camera rammed into you last week? Well, now it's their turn. Yes, I am aware that this is unfair to you, especially since I get to be asleep for the whole thing again However, I think you would be making us all a lot less miserable IF YOU WOULD STOP FUCKING TALKING TO ME ABOUT FOOD I SWEAR I WILL STAB YOU IN THE E-

Ahem.

Eat your Goddamn Jell-O. I made the extra-jiggy kind just for you, since it is better at masquerading as a solid food.

Adieu!
The Brain

---

FROM: "Fuck Jell-O" <"stomach@wrensbody.com">
TO: "Evil Overlord" <"brain@wrensbody.com">
SUBJECT: Re: Who fooled you into thinking Jell-O was food?!

Brain:
Love,
Stomach

---

FROM: "Sweet revenge" <"brain@wrensbody.com">
TO: "You have no idea what is in store for you"<"stomach@wrensbody.com">
SUBJECT: RE: How convenient!

Stomach:

It is now 6:30 AM. It is time for me to drink 8OZ of electrolyte fluid every ten minutes until I have choked down a gallon of it. Sources say it will take five hours. Want to feel full, bitch?

WELL GOOD, BECAUSE NOW'S THE TIME.

Fuck off,
The Brain.

---

FROM: "Backpedalling Frantically" <"stomach@wrensbody.com">
TO: "Drives a Hard Bargain" <"brain@wrensbody.com">
SUBJECT: Re: wait, what.

Dear Brain:

Let's not be too hasty. Perhaps we can talk about this!

Sincerely, oh God, so very sincerely,
The Stomach.

---

Yeah. About that gallon of fluid...

People need to start taking me seriously.

It is done. For the past three days I have endeavored to make it, and it is complete! Behold, the Clifford Cowl! (Pay close attention to the clasp--that tag says "Clifford the Big Red Dog.")

The peanut gallery has had much to say on the subject.

1) No Understandy: I just made a cowl out of a Clifford hoodie
Mike: is a cowl really a viable fashion accessory
No Understandy: Yes.
Mike: gonna look a bit gothy with a cowl though :P
No Understandy: It's bright red and has DOG EARS
Mike: ...why
No Understandy: "I just made a cowl out of a Clifford hoodie."
Mike: when you said clifford i wasn't thinking big red dog
Mike: oh god this is AWFUL now
No Understandy: :D
Mike: did the panda hat not get you enough looks? :P
No Understandy: -.-
Mike: weirdo

2)No Understandy: http://www.the-nightwatch.com/pic/Rawr%20004.jpg
Pay careful attention to the tag. It's partially hidden by my collar.
Tim: oh my god it really is a cowl.
No Understandy: I wasn't lying...
Tim: I thought you were just being fancy with your choice of language.
Tim: but you weren't,
Tim: at all.
No Understandy: =/
No Understandy: I don't know what that means
Tim: IT IS AMAZING AND I LOVE YOU FOR IT

*sinister laughter*

(click me)

This is the face of a Washington State resident.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, O PEOPLE OF THE STATE.