do you believe in planets?

bragging.

So I've had some, uh, "interesting" activity on Flickr lately.  (If you follow those links, you'll get to watch me fight fire with fire.  And by fire I mean CRAZY.)

On the bright(ish) side, while alertly patrolling my Flickr stats, I noticed a link coming to my page from an online publication called the Situationist. It seems they're using one of my photos from Alcatraz for a piece on solitary confinement.  This pleases me.

[click to see a larger version, or just follow the link]

No photo credit, but clicking on the photo links to my account.  I'm pleased.

See?  Bragging.

do you believe in pants?!?!?

I think I'll finally move forward with the blog re-naming.  Any last minute pitches?  Remember, your entry/nominee must keep with the DYBIP in my url.  "Did You Bust it, Prissypants?"  is leading the pack right now.  I dig "Do Your Bitching in Private" for the irony.  I also like "Damn!  Yo' Bitch is Pregnant!" for sheer rudeness.  "Drag Your Business Into Public" is great, but awkwardly crammed into the acronym.

Feelin' Elastic was blogging about the narcissism inherent to blogging.  It's unavoidable. Even if you're not blogging about yourself, there you are, blogging, as yourself.  And while I think I've almost killed off the very last of my urges to purge on the internet through the clusterf@#$ that is Facebook (which in part accounts for the piss-poor activity here at DYBIP), I have no desire to pull down the blog.  None.  Despite how good ol' Mr. Blog is reduced to a herky-jerky procession of tricks and gags, specially designed to shut down interchange and real "reaching out," hammering my dwindling readership with relentless irony, hard-to-swallow-in-comparison earnestness, self-deprecation, shameless bragging, even more shameless exhibitionism in tandem with extreme caginess, etc. That and tennis.  And the occasional "DO WANT!" fashion blog. Despite all that.  Here my blog remains.  Staring out into them internets with unblinking eyes.

No one noticed that I didn't blog the Aussie Open.  I did follow it, though. And then came the tears.  OH, the tears. 

Anyway.

::crickets chirping::

Here's a picture:

Yeah, there's always that.

HOW ARE THINGS ON THE WEST COAST

So I had a glass of wine with lunch. I'm thinkin' that's wrong.

Also wrong: earlier today as I was driving back from the grocery store, an older couple was waiting at the crosswalk, the woman walking (barely) with a cane. I stopped to let them cross without really thinking about it (a Portland-driving hangover--you just DON'T do that in Chicago, it seems). There was a giant moving truck in front of me, blocking the intersection, and as they started crossing I realized a cab was coming the other direction that they couldn't see due to said giant moving truck. I watched their pace, watched the cab's pace, started going "uh oh," which, when I began to panic, involuntarily dissolved into this "aaa aa aaaa aaa" baby noise. Flapping my other arm wildly, I finally laid on my horn--WHICH DIDN'T MAKE A SOUND BECAUSE IT WAS FUCKING FROZEN BECAUSE IT'S JUST THAT COLD. Well the couple kept on shuffling, and the cab kept coming, and they both came out from behind the moving truck at the same instant and--

the cab slammed on its brakes. And honked. The woman got spooked and had her hand up to her chest and shit. That was it.

I... burst into tears.

Stressed much?

In other news:

BOOOOOOOO! Also rolled: "Amelie Mauresmo." DOUBLE BOOOOOOOO.

good news!

But screw those pussy-ass handsprings.

There. That's better.

ugh... please send blood thinners... errrrr...

Mary, this is all your fault.

Anyhoo, I just ate some ice cream. Okay, not just "some" ice cream, but half a bloody pint of ice cream. And not just any old ice cream, but Ben & freaking Jerry's, the worst sunbstance you could possibly put in your body. And not only was it Ben & Jerry's but it was the first ice cream I've eaten since... since... GOOD LORD. I can't even remember when.

Was it good? You-hoo-hoo be-heh-heh-heh-het it wa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-has. Heh-heh-heh.

Do I want to die now? You-hoo-hoo be-heh-heh-het I do-hoo-hoo-hoo. Heh-heh. Heh. Oh god please help me.

After eating my ice cream I layed down on the couch, and I swear to god I could feel my heart straining to pump my thick-as-butter blood through the hardened arteries in my neck.

I can feel. My pulse. In my neck. My NECK. That shit can't be good.

So give it to me straight, sportsfans: can you give yourself a heart attack by eating half a pint of ice cream? I think I may have just killed myself. Good-bye, world!

Okay, that was a little melodramatic. But seriously, fuck ice cream. And look at this list, direct from the FDA:

Do you notice what's missing from that list? DO YOU NOTICE? Ice cream, that's what. Ice cream, bitches. Why? Because there's no fucking substitute. None on earth. DEVIL SUBSTANCE!

I'm gonna lay here and die now. Later, bitches.