Apparently, I’m biologically related to Eve Harrington. See, my sister was invited to open for Marc Almond at the Alternative Miss World pageant, but then Marc had a little accident, and Tiff suddenly became the headliner. She insists that it was all coincidence, but our mother did grow up here, and I’m wondering if maybe she passed on a bit of inside knowledge about the gris-gris to her daughter…. Not that it matters. I mean, hello? Subbing for Marc Almond? I’d step over my own grandmother for the chance. It’s, like, every faggot’s dream. Or at least, every faggot I know.
In the immortal words of Leo Sayer, last night I had the strangest dream. I was riding on this way-crazy, out-of-control plane thing–kinda like a Jet Ski, but it flew–and Nicole Kidman was riding bitch. We went into a tailspin and plummetted toward the ocean. Then I woke up. And I remembered that elementary school legend, the one that claims if you’re falling in a dream and you actually see yourself hit the ground, you’ll actually die. And I remembered how desperately I wanted to see that as a kid. Every night, I’d psyche myself up before bedtime, in the hopes that I could somehow maintain consciousness while I slept–the idea being that I could make my dreams unfold as I wanted and I could watch myself fall. There wasn’t any suicidal drive behind it, I was just curious.
The boyfriend is dipping his pinky toe back in the non-porno blogosphere. It’s a start.
If you’re very bored and you have a speedy web connection and you have the volume on your speakers turned WAY DOWN, you might enjoy this little flash animation. Yeah, it’s derivative, trying very hard to be the next All Your Base, but it’s a pleasant way to pass the next 30 seconds of your workday.
sturtle [dot] com 