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…under the right circumstances, my eyes will lock on legs of female Homo Sapiens as well. Hot damn!

Perhaps it’s due to the rare stint of happiness I’m currently experiencing but these past days I’ve been appreciating (much more than usual) the enticing curves bounding female lower extremities. Boo-yah do they ever make me feel alive. If you’re so inclined, happy hour at Chapel is one of several curve-aficionado venues that I’ve discovered; just sit close to (but not at) the bar and you’ll soon discover what I’m talking about.

Since it’s mid-June, female Seattleites can comfortably wear knee-length (or higher) dresses–much to the delight of Seattleite heterosexual males like me. Capitol Hill is the best neighborhood in the city for male women-lovers such as I to spend our summer months. Residing here are beautiful women aplenty, while most resident CH males tend to lie on the more homesexual end of the sexuality spectrum [or, if you’ll forgive the Midnight Cowboy reference, tend “to be them tootie-fruity types”]. Males in California may get exposure to beautiful skin throughout the year but they can’t appreciate freshly-exposed girl-skin the way us northerners do…being that we’ve been deprived of it for nine months or more.

Perhaps I feel free to engage in such extravagances right now. That grant on which I worked my butt off three months ago will not be funded this go ’round, but the score I received is certainly nothing to be ashamed of, especially after eight years of the Bush-mandated-“scientists-go-fuck-yourselves”-climate of research funding. [Bushboy’ll get his just desserts in “his afterlife” so I won’t waste characters bashing him here].

Anyway, I know this post has the capacity to offend. I certainly don’t mean it to do so. I’m just recording my present experience for my future reflection.

No longer do I dread returning to a butt-nasty apartment. I spent most of yesterday cleaning. Now, it’s just bad (but not nasty).

…so I’m adopting a new one.  It’s a work in progress–please bear with me 

For the first time in two years, I actually went clothes-shopping yesterday. One of my finds, a vintage red-shirt, I sported out dancing last night. A couple songs into my usual routine I noticed the shirt wasn’t quite hanging right. I looked in the mirror and noticed a deep dark wet spot growing between my shoulder blades. Two more songs and my entire back was sopping wet—we’re talkin’ sweat on the order of having-just-run-five-miles kind of sweat. At this point, the shirt had effectively cemented onto my back and set up an osmotic gradient from which no moisture could escape. Embarrassed I was.

Now, I’m a profuse sweater, this I’ve accepted about myself; I usually have the good sense to wear something that masks it. In this case though, the dark wet spots contrasted against the shirt’s dry-brightness advertising my repulsiveness to all. Snickering surrounded me, so I retreated to a new spot on the floor where my back would be to the wall. At this point I went over my options. I could: 1) let my self-consciousness defeat me and leave 2) trust in evaporation and rest in some dark (soon to be dank) corner 3) keep dancing as I had been and: a. experience how sweat-drenched my shirt could become and b. observe how people react to my wretched condition. Anyone familiar with my inquisitive nature could tell you which option I chose; I danced on. Surprisingly, nobody confronted me about it. A few brave souls even got within a five-foot radius of me. That’s more than I would have done had our places been switched. Perhaps my doctrine of tolerance for things unusual in goth/industrial clubs was being reciprocated.

Driving home, dehydrated, I stopped at QFC for some Gatorade. “Whoa man, what have you been up to? Your shirt is soaked!” exclaimed the 2am checker. I said I hadn’t noticed.

I will pay a minimum of $100.00 US to any individual and/or party who rids my neighborhood of this tacky piece of shit:

Why the hell do I live in Lake City if car dealerships bother me so much? Lake City is the only part of Seattle that will have my broke ass.

As of yesterday, the two old PCs I’ve been storing can do more than stop doors. I finally installed Linux on them…successfully; a feat I’ve been attempting (off and on) for, well, years. All previous attempts were halted by some retarded complication (i.e. the BIOS wouldn’t allow booting from a CD, old video cards were not supported, incorrect hard drive partitioning, incompatible motherboard architectures, etc.). Until yesterday, I’d run into a complication, throw up my fists, swear up and down, decide I had been defeated and pack the shits back up in my closet. Now that I’ve got some more computing power at my disposal there are a few chaotic systems I’ll have them simulate…for days, weeks, even months if need be. What are they going to do? Complain? We’ll see if Linux really is as stable as its developers claim.

Kim Carnes’ Bette Davis Eyes

“…and she knows just what it takes to make a _____ ____sh.”

I was certain I had it wrong by filling the blanks: pro blush. According to lyrics from two separate sources, these are the correct words. Her use of “pro” is likely 20th century slang for prostitute. No wonder this song wasn’t a big hit among her typically country-oriented fans.

Pure hatred courses through my veins all of the time.