[A is for age] 48.5


[B is for booze of choice:]
Guinness

[C is for career:]
Healer, of self and things--(.but I really want to be a professional slash writer;)she said the latter also. Could be combined hopefully


[D is for your dog's name:]
let us say pets'names anyhoo-- Jimmy, Kevin, Jingle, Kelly, Agnes, Beatrice, Minnie, Cassie, Reggie, Darpa, Leopold, Mr. and Mrs. Tuxedo, Hans and Fritz

[E is for essential items to bring to a party:]
food

[F is for favorite song at the moment:]
changes very frequently. Probably Dire Straits.

[G is for favorite game:]
don't much like games

[H is for home town]
hard to answer. Where born? where living atm? where desired?childs home town is here, De Jope.

I is for instruments you play:]
Dulcimer, harmonica, some piano, some percussion

[J is for jam or jelly you like:]
red. chokecherry. raspberry. currant. strawberry. plum. Lingon. You get the idea.

[K is for kids?]
yes. he's plenty.

[L is for last kiss?]
was from a ferret.

[M is for mom's job:]
retired from uni, now artist and networker

[N is for name of your crush:]
Hayden. And anyone he could conceivably be shagging, on any planet.

[O is for overnight hospital stays:]
A few And not since the babby was borned.

[P is for phobias:]
crowds. making phone calls.

[Q is for quotes you like:]
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent by Eleanor Roosevelt
The map is not the territory-- some anthropologist guy that went to my college

[R is for relationship that lasted the longest]:
marriage, 14 yrs so far? or being my parents' child?

[S is for sexual preference:]
Like all kinds, but not strangers.


[T is for time you wake up:]
5:30 AM CST

[U is for underwear:]
Yes. Cotton.

[V is for vegetable you love:]
Cabbage. All brassicas, really, and onions. and mushrooms.


[W is for worst habit:
scratching myself instead of cleaning the house.

[X is for x-rays you've had:]
too old to remember them all.


[Y is for yummy food you make:]
I try. I have worked as a cook, and still turn out the meals.

[Z is for zodiac sign:]
Gemini, Capricorn moon and capricorn rising.

why the fuck did I waste my time on this ? it tries to net mosquitoes with a colander.

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helgaleenas took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Has an imperative need for some bond or fusion wit..." Click here to read the rest of the results.

helgaleenas took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Pursues her objectives with intensity and does not..." Click here to read the rest of the results.

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Healing, you're a Type 4 - The Expressive

Friends, family, and colleagues likely appreciate you for this honest and expressive way of being. They're also apt to know that when they come to you with a problem, you'll offer them gentle, tactful advice, rich with examples from your own experience. As an Expressive, you're likely to be seen as someone who is strong in your own identity and in your perspective on life.

Being a member of this type puts you in good company. Singer/songwriter Sarah McLachlan, with her evocative, personal lyrics, and Bob Dylan, with his distinctive and poetic voice, are also Type 4s.

This means that compared to the eight other Enneagram types, you possess a strong sensitivity as well as a powerful creativity. Although you can often be introspective, that doesn't keep you from forming deep emotional connections with the people and places around you. In fact, your ability to search from within may just enrich your compassion and understanding.

Followed a link to that spamming testsite Tickle. This tickle.com is useful for a few things, but you have to keep opting out of stuff that costs money, which is wearying.

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Okay, so Niala and Oni are going to peel off. Tholme is never coming, like Godot. I have not figured out why they go back to Ryloth yet. Probably just to get Quin off the Bunny.

In other news, Dex rescues a cuddly padawan on a desert planet and shows him his. Er. Then they save Qui and Dex tells him he's bringing up Obi all wrong.

And I have absolutely no idea why I cry constantly while nordic walking. The tears are just ancestral misery over the human condition or something. Because it hurts to live. And yes I took my pain pills.

Husband still is giving me orders, or asking for favors, or whatever is the appropriate term for all the things I resent doing. I must get to the bottom of why I resent, and repair whatever false assumption is causing. this. It's inexcusable.

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My husband isn't taking care of himself because he wants to die, too. Which is selfish because of our son for whom we had agreed to stay alive. And I wrote to tell him so. But I was so busy cheering myself up with smutfic that now I am late for the mail and for fetching our chick with the busted wing from school. Gotta go be mediocre at best at the necessities.

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Because she let the family with the baby who was fledged out, without taking proper ferret security precautions, and Jimmy got him. That's the second baby Reg and Cassie have lost due to my negligence.

Poor Charlie B's itty bitty skull was crushed in nothing flat, and his neck broken, and his heart's blood was pumping out onto the linoleum in front of me. At least I didn't have to go looking under all the furniture for him when the bird count came up short. That is so messy...

I took him outdoors to die. He was still moving. I felt him stirring in my hands, and couldn't fix him. I couldn't put him in the freezer like that, with his dead sibs. Maybe later, if something hasn't carried him off.

I don't deserve you, pets. I took away half their eggs immediately. Not all; that would just enourage more laying.

Now I know how my husband feels, when he sends me his work and I am sloppy with it. Lord preserve those under my care from my caring poorly!

Note of explanation-- my Grove believes in cremating members who fly, and flushing members who swim, and burying members who walk. Doves in the freezer will be dealt with en masse.

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Talking about negativity with hubby today. He brought up Brooke Shields admitting to postpartum depression. Said it was because she had a domineering mom that let her grow up to resent responsibility. Innate tendency to go insane under baby-stress. When I told him I had been that bad too, he said,"If you did that to our child, I'd have to kill you." My reply? "I'd already be dead." Cleared the air, all right.

He wanted to know why I have become devious. By which he means habitually lying or concealing information from him. Which I have. Reminds me of that song p-god was sharing, and which he found danceable, and I found heartbreaking because it happened to coincide with this particular marital snafu. If I weren't so self-focused, as he put it, I would not be trying to conceal my errors all the time. Errors are not a good reason for shame, he says. Everybody fails,he says. My failing is not what bugs him. It is my hiding it out of fear that bugs him. WTF!?>!must know--fear of what?

He also says that my dad is an asshole. Which I have long suspected. But growing up in close proximity, was not able to perceive that easily. I guess assholeness is a blind spot with me because of this? Certainly, my hiding failure, and any other shortcomings, may be from fear of male parental figure. Not of anything he actually did, but of what he could have done. Totally irrational. He could have dropped me when he tossed me up in the air. He could have scolded me. He could have turned me out., or spanked me, or even touched me, or given me hugs, or all kinds of things instead of nothing. and occasional humiliation. Definitely the distant fixture type of dad, with histrionic thundering in the wings from time to time. He'd yell at mom, where we supposedly couldn't hear. Then be gone a while. That was all.

Point being-- if I would quit fearing failure, and spending all my time hiding and avoiding, I would be able to Just Do the Goddam Job which consists of following his instructions! As usual, he is absolutely right. And I have to admit it. And I resent it, because being wrong is deadly---NOT---see, I'm still doing it....being wrong is not an incurable disease, it's as easy to fix as sweeping the floor. Remember this. All you do is sweep it up and put it in the trash, in an extra sack so it doesn't prick the fingers of the garbage truck guys. So much for failure.

It is better to have fic'ed and failed than never to have fic'ed at all... which means that even a failed fic generally has a couple of words spelled right, upon which to rebuild. The sprout sprouts, and pokes itself above the soil to begin absorbing through chlorophyll. And becomes food.
This is good. Even if it never gets that far, still it is food for something. What the hell is my point? Do we say that the sprout that does not make all of the journey to fruit and seed has failed? No we do not. In between it is salad, and crop, and mulch, and compost, all good.
Quit being so goddam judgmental, helga and father of helga. Wash your filthy brain. Because you are full of it. This is the true meaning of my dream, below. Saa daer.

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Someday, my tits will again stick farther out of my front than my belly does.
(As before the childbearing unpleasantness) and my body will have an acceptable aroma again despite the meds, having found a chemical equilibrium. In short, my husband will not secretly dislike me. I hate it when he just does his duty, in any setting. He should enjoy.

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Haha, This is the anniversary of the day when my husband committed his colossal blunder with the toxic liar. It is the day of the falling of twin towers. It is the day I decided to try walking in a different stretch of neighborhood, past professional buildings instead of residences.

None of them were here ten years ago. Now they're everywhere, like mushrooms. We packed the city council meeting, to protest their coming. But the planners had spoken. Money had spoken. People renting space for their tin cans could yell, but that's all we could do. The place where I had gathered flowers for my wedding bouquet was bulldozed and built upon. It's okay, I guess. If only it didn't stink of all the things I have lost.
What are those things? Breadwinner. Health. Beloved. Ability to earn a living myself. Social status. And why is all this, why? Because they understand money and its ways. Fundamentally, I do not. I am not even good at impersonating those who understand money. Because I hate them. Anakin's face, in the droid shack on the lars farm, as he yells it-- I hate them. Like that pretty boy, tears of it rolling down my face. Unlike him, not pretty. Unlike him, unable to just stride in and slaughter. Have not that skill. And truly, killing is a skill like any other.

Peace is a lie; there is only passion.

Peace crumbles the minute you subject it the the atmosphere of real life. You have to cook it up painstakingly, in the anaerobic reaches of your heart, and hoard it there, to afford the tiniest, temporary dose of it. Word.

Through passion I gain strength.

Any strength I have had lately has been from the reactivity of misery. I drag it out, and express it, in as much shamed privacy as I can scrounge. I hate them, and stride faster for a time through the fetid heat of muggy dawn, prelude to a debilitating scorcher, more debt to the power company for the air-conditioning. I hate them too, fucking us all with their monopoly. But the extra speed doesn't last.

Through strength I gain power.

Me? strong? Haha. Disagreeable, yes. Not dead, yes. Strong enough to do what needs doing instead of blogging about it? no.

Through power I gain victory
Through victory my chains are broken
The Force shall free me

That portion of the Code is to me still hypothetical. I am not strong yet. Only smelly. And I hate them.

The goal is, to impersonate them, enough to trick them into trusting us with money. Money can be used to grow more money, something like yogurt can breed more yogurt. I have heard this, though never had my hands on enough surplus money to try it. Then, with the sufficiently large pile of money, we can get the good lawyers. The rich peoples' lawyers who are rich themselves and can afford to tell truths. That is the plan. I am supposed to do this by the fifteenth.

I don't think I am strong enough. My anger does not yet give me focus. I hate them, and me for my inability to understand them. What sort of convoluted excuses for existing do their brains contain, that cause them to understand money and its culture, and cause it to flourish around them; where in the melted mess that is me can this be mirrored?

I have only in the past five years learned how to wear a bra. Makeup? I don't think so. Hair can just be bundled up. Shoes, if needed, don't have to fit for long. They say attitude is the most important garment, though. I am not a good dissembler, so I must actually have Empathy for that which I resemble. Jeeze. That means loitering in places I now despise, in order to absorb the correct nonverbal signals. And my husband would burst in here and say, quit with the mind games and hobbling yourself with conditions. Just fucking do it. Well fuck you hubby (don't i wish) why do you think I have failed four fucking times previous, if not for just doing it and falling flat on my ass?

And it's going to be "just do it" in the end, because I have left myself no time for any other course.
But I did walk myself past the buildings. And blog. This is pointing in the general direction, useless in the short run. wishful thinking. And I hate being weak like this. I hate being less than I must and I hate them. I hate them! For going on after running over us and thriving, dammit! right next door!

I could have run. I could be having this blog from another place than here, having thrown my child and my husband away, perhaps with that curious detachment those who understand the money culture must have, somewhere, in order to screw the Mother and not even notice. But I can't do that to Mother. Or my child, or his father. I sit here where I fell, spewing hate, and try to think of how to use it to advantage instead of gagging on it. Gods, how I hate them. I will never be done hating them.

Thou who marks the sparrow's fall, who numbers the hairs of our heads, who lets the algae bloom and the rainforests burn, tell me what to do. Because I am above all, in harmony with You.

Peace peace peace, even if it is a pretty lie.

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Do you know what? I am a surplus human!

This is not news to me personally, but it certainly bobs to the surface of my consciousness frequently when writing. That is because there are so goddam many writers already, and they seem as numerous as the blades of grass in the meadow. Do we really all need to pave the cyberways with our special take on two Jedi making whoopee? or adolescent wizards, a definite minority group among humans?
--Or the characters on media shows with much less mythic resonance than those I personally bother with? Who cares if I doodled two Lepi shagging, whether with print or pencilstrokes? Why the hell am I driven to do this at all? why are they coming out of me, and why am I not flushing them instead of pinning them to cyber-clubhouse walls?

And why do some people pay other people money for them? or for things at all? such as Cheerios and Tide and electricity and that stuff that they make me exchange all this number business about, and I never have enough of? Why can I not take this pile of matter and symbols strung into language glyphs and wave my hand over it, and transform it into money?

I did that once, in Sweden. I walked into a bank and opened an account with nothing in it. I forget where it is, now. But somewhere, someday, I could get zeroes and line them up behind a digit or two, and then transfer it all into that concept in Sweden, and then go to Sweden and turn those zeros and digits into havregryn and filmjolk and a house. But I don't know why I haven't been able to do that.

Here in this country there are banks who won't touch my money, won't let me have an account, take my account away. Take my husband away and then pay other people lots of zeroes for doing it. I don't understand these things, very fundamentally. I am just another blade of grass in the meadow, and the lagomorphs ate me and not the neighbors. I have to re-grow from the root, while they go to seed and have just as much nutrition as I did.

My husband says it's all will-force. In that case I resolve to turn my words into money, and my zeroes into pluses rather than minuses. How it is done still remains obscure.

That brings me to my husband's latest project, with the patent and the small business loan. I have fumbled three times now. Try number four deadline approaches, and I cower here in cyberspace, with dread in my gut like appendicitis. Dread, I rip you out with my claws, like the Wolverine. I slash you loose and flush you down the loo. With a jar of liquid bandage and boiled safety pins and duct tape I close you, and with the living Ki of the universe I speed my recovery. I administer it with hands that glow as hot as space heater coils. And then with psyche clear and fearless I execute my appointed tasks with verve. No mumbling and cowering. I am the imperious emissary of genius, whose path is strewn with admirers who find the product worth many Zeroes indeed. My enthusiasm is bright as sunlight, enriching their dull product lines. Jesus Christ on a crutch, what am I saying?

I don't see any Middle Path here. I also have to conjure up the ears ready to hear, the eyes ready to see. They are like a fairy tale to me. I must believe in fairies.

Maybe in the morning. Maybe something will be slashed loose.

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Yeah, the bodies are floating and stinking down in New orleans, and i'm missing out. Got duties and responsibilities and other bullshit.

How's that for self-pity? World-class, I would say, as I sit here with my running water and electricity and my cage of mortality. Life tricked me into perpetuating it. Beauty tricked me into worshiping it. So here I sit and rant, stuck, stuck stuck in the middle of being alive.

Spouse, too. He persuades me to make babies, which I was never going to attempt without help, and then gets himself shanghaied into living death with me. Does not off himself, so that youngling gets his per capita. And I am expected to raise the little chunk. Who is just as beautiful as his dad. Alone, except for all the long distance ultimata.

Lucky lucky dead relatives on my husband's side. Left me here to attend Labor Day pow-wow with a developmantally disabled teen, and the people who know me, or know of me, and don't like me. I'm sure they have a grand view, and lots of long-distance advice, from that chummy after-life they believe in, with frequent rebirth as tribal members of course. That's why they're so fond of re-using first names of other relations-- it's them again, popping back to Earth for another taste of it.

Trouble is, they're matrilocal. The white spouse dances proudly by his wife in the inter-tribal, doesn't have to put on any sort of monkey suit, while I have the silly need to be decked in all my wedding jewelry, made by deceased mom-in-law, shawl fringed by her, like the pinky fat wannabe I look like, and hope like hell my son can be cajoled into shuffling round beside me. This year he didn't feel like wearing any regalia, not even his snake-skin belt. The bustle's way too small, anyway.

And who should be sitting in the stands next to us but the ribbon-shirt making instructor from sonny's course last year! With a little daughter in the play-pen. She had been insanely jealous every time I was anywhere near her spouse, the regalia teacher. Of course; he was gorgeous; they all are, and I must be a man-stealer, right? got myself in trouble with one of their boys and living off the casinos, no real job...
Now we stared at one another, neither truly able to bring ourselves to say hello. Me the insanely jealous one, now. Envying the dead who left me in this place, reduced to wearing the fucking equivalent of the old school tie. Only losers are reduced to wearing the old school tie, right?

And they are all so beautiful, too. The handsomest nation on the planet, I swear, with no attempt at dispassion. From the babies, and the nation's major export seems to be lovely babies atm, of which there were plenty in evidence, to the old folks with the noses like potatoes and cheeks of a thousand wrinkles and bellies out to there, sending grandchildren on errands from their lawn chairs. Nowadays there are dancers with curly hair and red hair and blond hair, too, and all the hybrids are just as pleasing to the eye. They have decked themselves in hundreds of strands of beauty. Beads, shells, feathers, leather, horsehair, bearskin and otterskin and beaver, lace and satin and lame, in all the colors and textures imaginable, and all splendid against that skin. That skin I never get to feel anymore, and which my son has inherited,only all bleached out.

So I took pictures. Of the four generations of dancing men, in color-coordinated traditional outfits. Of the one in day-glow NAC finery, tuft of macaw feathers at his brow, who won the Andrew Blackhawk Memorial dance-off. Of the present ceremonial chief, and his grandson, the chief-in-training, leading the colorguard in the flag-honoring at grand entry. It was ninety in the shade, and ladies scurried around offering the senior dancers styrofoam cups of water. My husband doesn't trust me anymore without photographic evidence. And if there's a flaw in the photo, sometimes he'll invent things I'm not telling him about, too. That's how it is.

So son finally had enough, had spent enough of his allowance at the frybread stands, and complaining about how loud that "ethnic music" was and it's hurting his ears, can we go now? Thirty bucks worth of gas to get from here to there and back, but we have done what we said we would, and got the photos. Overdraft perpetuated, amen. And the enjoyment had by the boy? Twirling the fringe of my shawl, getting full of moth-holes now, and paying a dollar per can of Mountain Dew.

So it's a school day, and I wake up in the dawn, in the usual pain, jog myself around the block with my two sticks, trying to get it to unclench and wash out, so I can act my age instead of older, water the plants and pets and chivvy youngling into his shorts and his shower. By the trash house, someone had set out an entire case of Ensure.

I think I'm reading it right. It's an indication that the neighbor with cancer, the one whose pain meds got stolen that time, the one whose car and "for sale by owner" sign are gone, has finally passed. I was mad and jealous and tearful enough to speed up for the last two laps. And I went back, and snagged eight or nine cans.

So now I'm having coffee with Ensure in it. Because I'm still alive, dammit.

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Dear justine,

I don't always say what I ought to. it scares me how much it means, or doesn't, that I have made the acquaintance of a writer of your calibre. You have flattered me in the past. I let it mean too much. Now you are constantly on the dveb list, with your fellow Vader lovers. I see the little icon that means live, online. It frightens me; the protective web between us grows too thin for comfort, the zone where things could start to hurt. That is why I never chat. I am afraid.

I forgot to tell you how thrilled I was by your ruthlessness. With a flourish of the keyboard, you changed the fates of every character in your story, just because I asked a question... and to be fair I was not the only one with that question, but still I felt special. Then you answered me off list and I felt specialer still. Then I went too far, and begged. I lost your respect immediately, I could tell.

Iwant to be more like you, is the main thing. It might be possible. I might sprout ruthlessness, I might learn that it is okay to dangle my characters in suspense for the sake of impact. That they are truly my minions, and that I may sacrifice them. I am still too squeamish with my fics, by far.

And death is no big deal in a fic. I can kill them all, and nobody is going to haul me away to the padded room. i can have someone kill me, and nobody goes to jail. I am already using the fics to communicate with the dead in dreams. Same difference really, that is the message of your ruthlessness.

Something really terrible is going to happen to Quinlan and Aayla and their acquaintances. I am going to have to look directly into the sleazy hypocritical visage of corporate evil. It frightens me, because my husband wants me to smile and pretend I wish to be one of them. I don't. I just want them to give me a lot of money for my defense lawyers. They are the fucking reason my fucking husband is fucking behind bars, even if he won't tar them all with rage, the way I do.

So I will fill Ryloth full of corrupt clans full of corrupt sleazes like Pol Secura, who victimize their women to keep them 'safe'. And I will wonder if the healing power of slash is up to the challenge... Emma Grant and her QAJ left the question unanswered. "Of course I'm all right. I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi." WTF kind of solution is that? Quin and Aayla get volumes of Dark Horse to re-establish themselves. What will Jaxxon get? ==he doesn't know he's a Lepi anymore. He no longer craves the doe of his own. He has no particular reason to live, no cause to serve. Just somebody who wants him to be hers, and has very little more past than him.

Right now my H/c fics are more comfort than hurt. The hurt does not take place on my watch. I'm squeamish. But I am going to have to let my guys get hurt, before the end I wrote can happen. It's coming out sideways, and it smarts.

But you see how this is, Justine? I'm using you, the same way the fangirls are all using Hayden. We pretend he gives a shit about us, and congratulate ourselves on having the same kink. In truth I am doing the same to you, now. I am pretending you give a shit, which is so much safer than finding out whether you actually do or not. Odds are, you don't. I am used to folks running the other way from my vortex of neediness. Victim is still legible on my forehead, I'm afraid, not outshone by the light of wisdom within or other such poetic wish-fulfillment. So you will never get this letter, either, like many many others. You are my private, justine ear fantasy. Ironic that I am going deaf. And I don't think I get to be Beethoven either.

So, pretend-justine, what is your advice? And pretend -justine says, just because somebody promised, it doesn't mean they're going to do it. If you really want certain someones dead, go ahead, kill them. So I think I will.

Here, on paper, I am taking the gutless victim in me and dragging it out of the chair. Thou, sniveling coward who is so sure of the nefariousness of the species to which you were born, how do you plead? I do not plead, answers the craven part of me. I know without doubt that I am guilty. And so that portion of me is set out upon the ice floe, like an extra relative in time of famine. First it shivers, then its limbs burn as they stiffen, then sleep overtakes it. it had just enough energy to pile snow over itself, so that it would not be discovered too quickly by the buzzards. By the time it is frozen meat, all body consciousness will have ebbed.

Those bold enough to treat it so have a mouthful of blubber for dinner. And they begin to dream, as the stomach protests. In that dream all the humans are one human, and all the whales are one whale, and all the buzzards are one buzzard. The dream lasts until it is time to wake and piss, and melt some snow, and eat one more mouthful of blubber. And if
the planet is merciful, there will be calm in which to hunt.

We'll see how this affects Rina and Lila and Lenara and Meena. Kiyara I already know about. That is five. Aayla at sweet sixteen, too, will be a conundrum to me. Meanwhile, Quin and Qui-gon have to have breakfast. And my beautiful hayden!! how can i feast upon the sight of him without dreaming of him in some sort of scenario? the trouble is, i am shy to write it. Maybe I should write it and not publish, or change the names after the fact. That is a writerly dodge... Yes, I will make the fellow into Ewan, later. Ewan would be amused.

Thanks for the imaginary ear, private Justine.


Oh and a post-script-- your latest Mary Sue is marrying Vader after one date. But that is not as far-fetched as people believe. I don't call her by the name you chose. I call her Olympia. In every way she is larger than life, fit consort for a hero. We all wish to be like the one you describe.

wtf-- I will be courageous and send this. Just not right away.


Dear justine, I chickened out and so the subject matter is too stale to send to the real you. Anyhow, ever since Kella, or is it Olympia, went off the list with you, you have not been there. You proved to yourself whatever it was you wanted to, and got spooked somehow when i thought you were following me around, discovering things in my web-steps. I have been so busy slashing that Lepi that the pervy producer bunny got abashed and sat down again. And that's the news.

I am vaguely worried that my husband has not tried to call today, when we didn't show up for the visit. I willbe sure to write the news to him if the silence persists. Maybe the last nerve snapped, before the DSL could salve it. Hope not. He is my real life scowling Vos.


And dear justine again,

as usual it was all my fault for not paying the phone company promptly. Every day in every way, the mess I squat in was made by me. Bless this mess.

The Twi'lek count stands at six, with Kyara and sprout fed to the spiders, not even a burp out of them in the fic-scene. Lil' Han got to say "hands off, perv," but the rest of Nar Shaddaa remains a blur.
Problem is, what was Aayla busy with while her master had his hands in the straw?

Next question-- what can propel them to Kiffex? Is frosty Tholme there or not? Can you attach a tracking device to an insect egg? Can Jaxxon unload memory jewels for a profit here, to Billina? how can I avoid being ashamed that I am alive?

I can see the business of the beautiful six, striding through the alleys of Nar Shaddaa's bazaars with Lenara on point, Jaxxon a few paces behind and slouched into his cloak... Heads would turn as they enter the restaurant, the casino, the club... do they know Shug? The main thing is, they are not ashamed. They are deigning to grace the place with their presence.

And the time has come to kill off more undesirables from the life-boat. There are those who resent anything whatsoever that must be done at my husband's behest, be it taking a photo or ordering gym shorts. Each one is shot mercifully just below the right ear, with splatter contained, then hung to drain, then ground fine. The blood is collected and mixed back in as needed for consistency. The resulting paste is spread in long sheets on conveyorbelts that pass through industrial tunnel ovens, much like those used to manufacture saltines. Resultant crumbly baked product is used as fish food or as fur-farm kibble. Resulting filets and luxuriant pelts are dried for the voyageurs to take accross the stars or the oceans. In trade I receive shiny things and amazing small appliances. I have always wanted a Vegemax. It makes sorbet or soup, smoothies or flour. Some of the shiny things eliminate my credit card debt, so I can order comic books and headphones and pajamas. And we all lived happily ever after, in ever increasing efficiency. Amen.

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