First they came for the LiveJournal users. And I did not speak up, because I was not a LiveJournal user...

That sucks that LJ is deleting/policing blogs they think are of questionable content, but the furor created is a bit ridiculous. When you're using someone else's (generally free) service, they have the right to do what they want with your content. Get yer own domain if you're so hellbent on having whatever you want posted.

I just returned from a road trip to the lovely city of Milwaukee. And all I could think of was:

Record Book: Springfield is now the fattest city in the U.S.
Homer: Woo hoo! In your face, Milwaukee!

Lovely place, though. We celebrated a cousin's graduation with brunch at Mader's, a German restaurant downtown. Good food.

But to the dilemma at hand: what to do about my continued unhappiness with the world. I think I have come up with a solution. I had a few different options, many involving different states and identities and states of identities, but they seemed rather needless and time-consuming.

So I figured the best solution is to join a cult.

But not any cult. One of those cults where you rake weeds all day or something and give all your money to the leader. That way I would no longer have to think for myself. And my only worry would be the happiness of the supreme leader. Or whatever they call themselves.

The main problem is how to find a cult leader who doesn't have a pediliction for Kool Aid and murder (Jim Jones, I'm looking in your general direction). But, I mean, how do you figure that out before it's too late? By the time the little Dixie cups are going around, you're pretty much screwed.

I think the safest way would be to find someone just obsesssed with money. No religion or prophetic visions of doom to muck anything up. But even that's dicey, as they could suddenly go wackier and decide they actually were God or something.

So I figure the safest thing would be to just start my own cult. That way I can decide who to put in charge. No megalomaniacs need apply.

Which totally rules me out. Hell. Maybe it could be some sort of puppet rule.

Literally. Like a sock puppet or something.

I think I'll name it Harry.

In other news: repudiated is such a great word. It just is.

Not one to sit and wallow in self-pity (much) I am currently weighing options for my future plans. I have a handful of ideas that need to be better organized.

In the meantime, a list of ten things you may (or may not) know about me. And in the interest of making this rant interactive, you have the opportunity to tell me something I don't know about you, dear reader.

1. I have only been overseas once (I spent a long Thanksgiving weekend in Oslo, Norway).
   
2. My ears aren't pierced and never have been.
   
3. I have never seen an entire Star Wars movie—only snippets. And I'm just fine with that.
   
4. When I was little I had trouble remembering left and right and even now sometimes I'll unconsciously form an L/backward L with my left and right hands.
   
5. I have typeset approximately 15 Bibles since age 15.
   
6. I like rain a lot and don't mind walking outside in it.
   
7. I have heterochromia.
   
8. Approximately 75% of my warddrobe is solid black (approximately 2% of my clothes are not solid colors).
   
9. I'm just about (sigh) 30, but get mistaken for being in my early 20s on a pretty regular basis.
   
10. Although I try to maintain a laissez-faire attitude about most things in life, deep down I think it's pretty nifty that there are people out there who maybe like what I write on my little planet.

So there you go. Ten things about me. Not all that exciting, but the juicy stuff I'll have to save for my memoirs.

Jerry Falwell's funeral was today. And I'm a little bummed because I had planned on watching it. Mainly to see which (if any) Republican candidates for president might show up but also because WBC were supposed to show up and protest.

Oh well.

My mom has been at me for ages now to go through my apartment and gather up stuff to give away. So I finally acquiesced. I'm sad to say my miniature pool table did not make it. I can only hope it will give someone else—like it gave me—five minutes of joy before it ends up in a closet somewhere. It wasn't easy to part with.

Other than that, good riddance. I keep too much crap around anyway.

But—happy accident—in cleaning out my car I found a box of books in the trunk. Full of all my yearbooks and Bloom County books. All of which I honestly thought I had either thrown or given away years ago. I have yet to crack open the yearbooks, as pictures of me in grade school are more frightening than anything. But I did flip through the Bloom County books. And got a little nostalgic for the good ol' days when scandals were fun. Like the PTL or Mary Kay cosmetics animal testing.

Ever get just exceedingly overwhelmed by all the bad shit out there in the world? That's where I am this week. Just overwhelmed by everything.

And all I want to do is curl up in my bed and hide under the covers with my cat for the remainder of this week. And I can't even do that.

This week is so fired.

It's that time of the television year again: season finales. I can't say I'm sad about that. I need a break.

And some sleep. But I thought I'd say Hi.

I'll talk to y'all soon.

If a helicopter falls in the city
and there's no one there to tell Claire about it,
does it make a noise?

What?

This afternoon two different people came into the shop and mentioned that a helicopter had landed in the Target parking lot nearby. Which I thought odd, but promptly forgot about it.

I got home hours later and had an email from a client who lives nearby wondering if I knew anything about a helicopter which appeared to be making an emergency landing either in the middle of the street or in the aforementioned parking lot.

And now I want to know what the hell that was about. It's not everyday a helicopter lands nearby.

Unless, of course, you live near a helicopter landing pad.

I'm awake, sadly, at 2:45 this morning. Funny story, actually.

If by funny I mean really annoying and kind of gross.

I have this habit of picking at things. (Ew!) Like scabs. (Ew!). So tonight around 11:30 I managed to pick off a scab on my forehead. Which started to bleed.

And bleed. And bleed.

We're talking a little pin-sized wound. And blood everywhere.

I tried everything to make it stop without success. After an hour or so, I finally laid down and tried to clumsily sleep with a paper towel pressed up against my forehead, thinking time and pressure would do the trick.

About an hour later I got up and checked the blood flow. It was no longer dribbling down my nose. It was now spurting out of my forehead.

Spurting!

Since laying down did nothing, I grabbed a new paper towel, slammed it against my forehead, and went to do some searching online. I figured if tilting my head back didn't work, tilting it forward might.

Now keep in mind this is maybe two fucking hours since the blood started. Not just two hours. Two fucking hours.

So I found some site that basically said if your blood isn't clotting, just keep putting more and more bandages on it—removing blood-soaked ones can take away any blood clot that may be starting to form. So I figured I'd grab an entire roll of paper towels and just keep sticking more and more to my forehead all night. It wasn't a good plan, it wasn't a glamorous plan, but I was running out of ideas.

So before I went about all this, I grabbed a paper towel, stuck it on top of the one already there, and decided to gingerly check on the spurting blood. I peeled away the bandages.

Nothing.

No blood, no spurting, no nothing.

Ten minutes after tilting my head forward it stopped. Ten minutes and two hours after the bleeding started.

Now I have to go clean up the bathroom. Which looks like a scene out of a crime drama. There's blood spatter everywhere.

Spurting spatter.

Ew.

I'm on my own tonight. Ramona has abandoned me for (of all things) a dryer sheet.

She's a strange cat.

I went and bought Aveda Foot Relief tonight since I've been out for some time. Great stuff. Lovely stuff. Addictive stuff. Except they seem to have changed the formula since last I bought some. I don't like change.

In other news: my first website for a restaurant went semi-live tonight. It needs some changes, but I wanted to get it posted so it's at least up there.

It's Mother's Day today. Hug your moms, guilt-trip your kids.

I'm going to an outdoor celebration hosted by one of my clients. With mom in tow, of course. Hopefully the weather will play nice.

In honor of Mother's Day, a little history lesson on its roots. It's a little long, but still as relevant today as it was in 1872. It's a call for peace.

So next time you think Mother's Day is some sort of Hallmark-generated consumer-fest, think again.

I survived the doctor visit. Barely.

Actually it's been weird. A lot of the different treatments and shots and things that I was told I would be getting I haven't gotten.

I'm not complaining or anything. I'm the last person to jump up and down and shout, "What about that shot I'm supposed to get in my ass every month?!?!". Although I do wonder what changed.

I just don't wonder that hard.

Sounds like Tammy Faye is not long for this world. Poor dear. She seems like a lovely person.

And yes, I base that on Surreal Life. I base many decisions on television viewing.

I have a doctors appointment tomorrow. Just to remind you, dear reader, one of the reasons I took so long to get medical attention during my latest brush with death is because doctors freak me the hell out.

Anyway, every fiber in my body is urging me not to go. I'm also a little paranoid that I'll wind up back in the hospital. I feel okay, but I think I still look a little rough around the edges. And I still get people wondering how in the world I lost so much weight so quickly.

For awhile I would go into some detail and explain that I had been ill.

I quickly got bored with that and changed my answer to "yeah... tapeworm."

Now I just kind of brush it off.

It's midnight and I'm finishing up work for the evening. Sadly, this is early for me these days. I find it weird that I wound up in the hospital for (among other things) over-work and am now busier than I was before.

That's okay though. I need the money. My hope that the hospital would decide, "You know, Claire was such a nice girl. Let's just call this visit a freebie." was a fleeting hope. About eight bills arrived last week.

So my American Idol thought for the week: tonight Blake did You Give Love a Bad Name as a sort of... I don't know... techno beatbox mishmash. And although it's being praised as original and daring, I couldn't help but be reminded of Orbital's mix of that song with Heaven is a Place on Earth. And that's saying something. I haven't heard that song since the late 90s.

Oh well.

My allergies are currently driving me insane. Which tends to put me in just a horrid mood. I wander around with a permanent scowl and think evil thoughts.

I'd rub my hands together maniacally but that would probably be more to warm up than anything.

It's cold in here.