Bush

The J.G. would just like to say that she fully endorses all of this politicians opinions.

Ben, this better work. . .

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Paging Mr. Baldi, Paging Mr. Baldi. . .All Liberals To The Front Desk, Please

Maaax! Where've you been, you darned liberal? Without you the country will deteriorate into - gasp - conservativism and - more gasps - a state of terrible, terrible food. You're not emailing, not commenting, not answering Mac's calls. . .are you okay? The Phantom of the Junior High is worried. And you know how I worry. I'm as bad as my mother isn't.

Are you depressed over (censored for those who haven't read HP 6 yet)'s death? Don't be depressed, dear. I don't think that (censored) really wanted to kill him! It was just a plot. Yeah, a plot. To do. . .I don't know what. And be happy about (censored) and Lupin getting together! I love that couple almost as much as E/N. And Harry and (censored) breaking up was way too Spiderman.

Mac says moshi moshi. Er, I think that means hello in Japanese.

COMMENT!

EMAIL!

CALL!

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Gak! Auditions! I HATE Auditions

Guys, I need a bit of help. Who can tell me which of these monolouges I should do for an audition for the teen rep company at Theatricum? I'm having a complete seizure over the whole damned thing. The play the company is doing is Macbeth. My, isn't that cheerful. The first monolouge is Lady Macbeth, the second is Julia from Two Gentlemen of Verona, and the third is Mercutio. My mom wants me to do the first. Dad doesn't know. However, this girl named Ember, who is really, really good, is auditioning with the Lady Macbeth monolouge. Should that affect my choice?

As you can tell, I am having a regular fit over this. Please, guys, help meee! I'm an innocent young Shakespearian actress who just wants to do rep work! If ever I have needed my loyal blog readers, I need you now. . .(Dramatic soap opera music.) Because. . .I. . .think that Nadir has been at the Pop Tarts again! (Shocked gasps.)

Anywho.

The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, your murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry, "Hold, hold!"

FIN

(During this next one, Julia has just gotten a letter from Proteus, who she is secretly in love with. She does not, however, want anyone to know this. Yes, that is what secretly means. Just your day for intelligence, isn't it, Kat.)

This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
Here is a coil with protestation! (She rips the letter, her maid tries to pick it up.)
Go get you gone, and let the papers lie:
You would be fingering them, to anger me.
O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey
And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!
I'll kiss each several paper for amends.
Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia!
As in revenge of thy ingratitude,
I throw thy name against the bruising stones,
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.
And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.'
Poor wounded name! my bosom as a bed
Shall lodge thee till thy wound be thoroughly heal'd;
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.
But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down.
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away
Till I have found each letter in the letter,
Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear
Unto a ragged fearful-hanging rock
And throw it thence into the raging sea!
Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ,
'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,
To the sweet Julia:' that I'll tear away.
And yet I will not, sith so prettily
He couples it to his complaining names.
Thus will I fold them one on another:
Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.

FIN

(In this one, as I do hope you know, Mercutio is teasing Romeo about being in love. Mercutio is Romeo's best friend. And a minor God. I love this guy. He's almost as truly wonderful as Erik. Almost.)

MERCUTIO: O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate stone
On the forefinger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Over men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs,
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
Her traces, of the smallest spider web;
Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on curtsies straight;
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled much misfortune bodes.
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage.
This is she!

FIN

(Yeah, well that's not complex at all.)

And while I'm on not the subject. . .

Kat's Short List of Fictional Wonderful People

In no real order, with quotes.

1. Erik - "You see, killing is like riding, no one ever really loses the knack."
2. Nadir Khan - "I am NOT short!"
3. Dallas Williams - "You can't be soft."
4. Algernon Moncrieff - "The world was made to argue with."
5. Severus Snape - "Turn to page three hundred and ninety four. Three hundred and ninety four."
6. Jack Sparrow - "So there is a curse. That's interesting. That's very interesting."
7. Willy Wonka - "Even I am eatable, but that is called cannabilism my dear children, and is frowned upon in most societies."
8. Ford Prefect - "I went mad for a while. Did me no end of good."
8. Arthur Dent - "Ford, you're turning into a penguin. Stop it."
9. The Cheschire Cat - "I just want to get somewhere!" "Oh, you're sure to do that, if you only walk long enough."
10. Mercutio - "When next you come to see me, you will find me a grave man. . ."

Why are they all men?

Oh, and don't read the previous post. It's depressing.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

And How. . .

"Of love...daroga...I am dying...of love...That is how it is.... loved her so!...And I love her still...daroga...and I am dying of love for her!"

- Erik, to Nadir

Am setting record for shortest blog posting. Why? No reason. Love the quote above. Makes me cry.

Actually, not the shortest blog posting any more. I fooled you, didn't I. I'm so dreadfully bored and absolutely dying of it. What's the French word for it Erik?

Erik: Ennui.

Kat: Exactly. Anyway. Couldn't be more ennui, or however you say it, and I am decidedly not asked Ben, who can speak a bit of French.

So. In other words. Nothing to do. Oh yes!

I wrote something.

New story from SimplyElymas,

Category: Phantom of the Opera
Title: Come Now, You Can't Be Serious
Genre: Humor/Fantasy
Rating: Fiction Rated: K+
Summary: In which Erik reveals his long relationship with Ford Prefect, Nadir tragically loses his eyebrows, Zaphod attempts to find them, and Christine wants rights. Rated K for use of the word Belgium.

URL: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2500301/1/

Fear my greatness.

Is it me, or do I sound like the love child of Marvin and Eeyore? (Blink. Blink.) I really must stop writing down whatever pops into my head.

But oh well. Life is, as always, at least marginally interesting, and that reminds me! My performance of Merry Wives of Windsor is next Sunday. At some point next Sunday. I just saw Isabel's performance of Shakespeare's Magic, and she was quite good. She had a very famous monolouge - the "all the world's a stage" one. I enjoyed the show.

I invite anyone who might enjoy it to crash our cast party. Whether or not there will be one is a pending question.

We bore witness to my Uncle Brad's birthday party, where everyone had a squirt gun and I led multiple ambushes, before getting fed up and going off to read Terry Pratchett books in the living room. Unfortunately it wasn't as cheerful as it could have been, because my Aunt, his wife - ex wife? - just died this year of cancer in her liver.

Sorry, but I kind of have to say this, as it's been on my mind a lot of late.

Death sucks. Yes, it does. Death, juvenile and foolish as I sound, sucks. It sucks when a member of your family dies, because they say you get over it. You don't. And it sucks. And will continue to suck for the rest of your life and time immorial, because you never know if it's safe to bring up that person that died.

Death also sucks because of all the drugs people are on before they die. These drugs tend to make them angry. And obnoxious. So you can't remember the person you'd want to. And that, in short, sucks.

People say you get over it. You don't. People say time heals all wounds. It doesn't. People say all kinds of things, but there's no way of getting around it. Death just sucks.

And all sorts of wonderful people die, don't they? In case it escaped you, at the end of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, everyone dies. Except Zaphod. This is a raw deal, I think. Mercutio dies. Tybalt dies. Romeo and Juliet (sob) die. Erik dies. Nadir will die at some point. Let us all hope that someday Raoul will die.

Even Micheal Crawford, Johnny Depp, Tim Burton, and Gerard Butler are someday going to die. I especially resent the death of Burton, especially if it's before he makes a PotO movie. I want to see Burton's PotO.

And we're going to die. Aren't we?

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

The Misfit Anthology.

The Misfit Anthology is an anthology of what it means to be a misfit, how it feels, and what it's like. It's also to some extent a celebration of that strangeness. Give me your stories, your art, your prose, your eccentric essays yearning to breathe free! Please. As I have said before, all things are accepted, and it's purely personal choice. We do ask for an avoidance of graphic violence, if at all possible. But that's merely a joke, so break my rules. That's sort of one of the points of the anthology. The anthology will be uncensored as far as language goes, so I am prepared to make a certain person as uncomfortable as is possible. Here are what entries we have so far.

(Before I forget. . .I'd love some graphic art from Spencer. I checked out your devART gallery and quite liked it.)

I decided that the theatre I wrote about before (you know, the depressing one, with the theatre that talks and Ben doing stage magic.) Is more interesting that I thought. So here's another story from it. This one has a lot of me. Ha. Just me. Well, Max is in it too, and Ben gets one line because he had so much of the story last time around. (Sorry about you rather depressing fate, Ben.) This is also my entry for the Misfit Anthology, which as yet has no other title. And it's a story-poem. It contains a few lines that were very embarrasing to write but needed to be in there to get across the character, and one reference to a current movie that I would not see even at gunpoint and scorn with all my heart. Preeesenting. . ."Something Eldritch." (Why is it titled thusly? You tell me.)

There is something living in the dark backstage
And no one knows about it.
Fewer care.
Satisfied with an illusion, actors
Do not believe in fearfulness.
Strange, simple Min, the only one who cares
Says nothing, but knows more
Than she has said.
The ears of those who choose to hear are sharper.
And Min hears everything.
Yellow fear shrieks of nervousness, stage fright
Sobs from diva tantrums
(A memory? Carlotta? Who?)
The perpetual beat of the rain on the
Peaked wood roof.
Min hears heat too
From the dressing room adjacent.
(Groans, shrieks, screams, pleadings -
"Not for me, thank you, move along, Mr. Bigalow.")
But prefers solitude
With only Anton and his trained dogs for company
She never was on speaking terms withthe world
Perfering the world inside her head.

God only knows
Why they hired Min
With her denim slacks and long skirts
Her mannish ways.
She is not pretty, really
And her eyes aren't the right colors
("Mismatched, better get contacts, dear
You'll never get a job."
Nor is she a genius dancer
Though she keeps her place in line
Min who sees ghosts
Who laughs too loud
Who dances, sometimes, out of step
Who only speaks to Anton
(Well, Ben the Magician, once.)

Min knows something is living in the dark backstage.

His name is Addison.
He knows her well.

FIN

Okay, that's my entry. Now, to make Ben as uncomfortable as possible, I present, my fellow actress, Gola, currently playing Phebe in "As You Like It," and her poem, which has two curse words, one of which I've censored because I just don't feel right saying it, and which I think she wrote while very very angry at. . .someone. (Love you too, Gola.)

Make it stop,
This is a dream,
Make them stop,
What I see isn't what it seems.

And how do I feel?
F--K DAMNIT I WANNA SCREAM!
The that has become real,
Is my nightmare, not my dream.

My heart's not broken, it's gone,
But he's not gone, he's just taken,
But she's not gone,
And my life has been shaken.

FIN

And now for Gola's other poem. This one has no cursing, and I like this one the best of the two.

You see her,
And you can swear she's fine,
You're sure,
She's fine!

Right?

Than she breaks down right in front of your eyes,
She thinks no one's watching, she's wrong,
You want to make her stop, you need to try,
You turn back to see her and she's gone.

FIN

I'd appreciate any submissions. You're certainly not limited to only one.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Quoth the Phantom. . .

Once upon a midnight dreary, while we argued loud but weary,
Over many a diet and cancerous soda of addictive lore,
While Max nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a yelping,
As of some one loudly yelping, yelping at our rec room door.
`'Tis an IRS agent,' Ben muttered, `tapping at our rec room door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly we remember it was in the bleak September,
And the remembered dying summer wrought its ghost upon the teens.
Eagerly we wished the morrow; - vainly we had sought to borrow
From Erik's bookcase of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Christine -
For the invertebrate maiden whom the angels named Christine -
Spineless here for evermore.

And the cotton oddish rustling of each purple cloth curtain
Thrilled us - filled us with lime green-ish terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the crashing of PCs, Max stood repeating
`'Tis some IRS man entreating entrance at the rec room door -
Our late tax return explains his entrance at our rec room door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently Gabe's soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Dude,' said Gabe, `or agent, truly your forgiveness we implore;
But the truth is Max was napping, and so loudly you came yelping,
And so loudly you came yelping, yelping at our rec room door,
That I was angry when I heard you' - here Ben opened wide the door; -
Spencer there, and Mizamour.

Behind that Spencer peering, long we stood there gushing, fearing,
Kvetching, speaking Yiddish no mortal ever dared to speak or say
But nothing was there to be seen, and the darkness gave no way,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `OAYe!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `OAYe!'
Oddly this and nothing more.

Back into the rec room turning, all Max's Cokes within him burning,
Soon again Max heard a yelping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said Mizamour, `that is something at the window lattice;
Let me check then, what the yelp is, and this yelping then explore -
Let your feet be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the Martians, nothing more!'

Open here Miz flung the shutter, when, with many a slip like butter,
In there stepped the outré Phantom of the Junior High of yore.
Not the peanut butter cookies made she; not a minute hopped or flayed she;
But, with manner unlike a lady, perched above the rec room door -
Perched upon a bust of Zaphod just above the rec room door -
Perched, and yelped, and nothing more.

Then this odd creature beguiling Spencer's fancy into smiling,
By the mouthy ironic message of the T-Shirt that she wore,
`Though thy speech be yelps and ranting, thou,' Ben said, `art surely not random.
Ghastly grinning junior phantom wandering from the Irish shore -
Tell me what thy dreadful name is on the Night's phantomy shore!'
Quoth the phantom, `Wax the floor.'

Much Gabe marvelled this adolescent to hear direct so plainly,
Though its answer didn't sound good - for it sounded like a chore;
For Max and Spencer were agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was cursed with seeing girl above his rec room door -
Ghost or preteen above the Hitch Hiker's bust above his rec room door,
With such name as `Wax the floor.'

But the phantom, sitting comfy on the Beeblebrox, spoke only
That one phrase, as if her blog in that one word she did outpour.
Nothing further then she muttered - not a eyelash then she fluttered -
Till Miz scarcely more than muttered `Opera ghosts I've known before -
On the morrow will she leave me, as Eriks have flown before.'
Then the ghost said, `Wax the floor.'

Startled at the silence broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Oy vey,' said Max, `what she wears are merely white socks from the store,
Nicked from some inattentive cashier whose unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his register a burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Wax the-wax the floor."'

But the Phantom still beguiling all their sad souls into smiling,
Straight Ben wheeled a cushioned sofa in front of girl and bust and door;
Then, upon the polyester sinking, they betook themselves to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this nonconformist girl of yore -
What this wierd, eccentric, odd, and dramatic girl of yore
Meant in yelping, `Wax the floor.'

This Spencer was engaged in guessing, but no ideas expressing
To the phantom whose mismatched eyes now burned into Gabe's terror's core;
This and more Max sat divining, with his head at ease reclining
On the sofas polyester lining that the sun lamp gloated o'er,
But whose polyester lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall make us wax the floor!

Then, we thought, the air grew warmer, warmed by an unseen censer
Swung by the Fantastic Four whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Kat,' Ben cried, `I recognize you - by my common sense I surmise you
Go away - away and stop with all your orders to wax the floor!
Go, oh go, you absurd phangirl and forget this unwaxed floor!'
Quoth the phantom, `Wax the floor.'

`Republican!' said Max, `thing of evil! - GOP still, if ghost or devil! -
Whether Gingrich sent, or whether George Bush tossed thee here ashore,
Tired yet all undaunted, like a Wiccan girl enchanted -
On this room by Phantoms haunted - tell us truly, I implore -
Is there - is it true I am a banshee? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the phantom, `Wax the floor.'

And the phantom, never knitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the glowing bust of Zaphod just above our rec room door;
And her eyes have all the seeming of an Erik's that is dreaming,
And the lava lamp o'er her streaming throws his shadow on the door;
And our soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the door
Will pull when we wax the floor.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

The Soundtrack Of My Life

Before we begin. . .you ought to know I'm shocked that there's only two PotO songs and only one Coldplay, not to mention just one Old 97's. There's also a ton of Footloose and Green Day. No idea why, because I don't always love those two things. And I kept the random jazz to a minimum.

Opening song: Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen

Waking up: Dream On - Led Zeppelin

Theme Music: She's A Rebel - Green Day

First date: Look At Me Now - Frank Sinatra

First kiss: As Long As Your Mine - Wicked

Falling in love: All Right, Okay, You Win - Peggy Lee

Seeing an old love: Scarborough Fair - Simon and Garfunkel

Heartbreak: All I Ask Of You: Reprise - Phantom of the Opera

Driving fast: Time Bomb - The Old 97's

Getting ready to go out: Footloose: Reprise - Footloose: The Musical

Partying with friends: La Vie Boheme - Rent

Dancing at a club: Footloose - Footloose

Flirting: Let's Make Believe We're In Love - Footloose (Cheesiest song ever written.)

Walking alone: Somewhere Only We Know - Keen

Missing someone: Whatsername - Green Day

Summer vacation: Kokomo - The Beach Boys

Fighting with someone: Harder To Breathe - Maroon 5

Acting goofy with friends: So Long And Thanks For All The Fish - Hitch Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy

Thinking back: Clocks - Coldplay

Feeling depressed: Are We The Waiting - Green Day

Falling asleep: Wake Me Up When September Ends - Green Day

Closing song: Music of the Night - Phantom of the Opera

Desperate Wives of Windsor

OAYe! Kat is still happy! Although I do now need to write my emails in code, this is overshadowed by the fact that I got a fantastic part in "The Merry Wives of Windsor." I play Mistress Ford, a repressed housewife with some serious intelligence. And a lot of anger, if you ask me. Well, I'm not going to tell you the plot because it is Shakespeare's most convoluted plot, and if you've read Shakespeare, you know that that's saying quite a bit.

So. My parents now read my emails, so they are encoded. Did I mention that? It makes me angry. Almost angry enough to cause a disaster beyond your imagination. But we don't have a chandelier. Ah well, such is life. Such is life. I sound a bit strange at the moment because I'm half writing this, half listening to the Old 97s. What do you mean you've never heard of them? If you've never heard them, you're missing out on the better part of life. I adore them. Speaking of which, the new Coldplay is quite nice. Not my favorite, but "The Speed of Sound," is very lovely. You know, this is going to be amazingly, record breakingly short. Go read my fan fictions. And review them. I have new stuff up.

I've started a story that retells the Outsiders with Phantom characters. Or maybe it's Phantom with the Outsiders characters. I'm not entirely sure. But I simply adore the Outsiders. Dallas Williams. . .sigh. But aside from my strange love of Dally, who I've just drawn, and he looks quite handsome, if you ask me, life. . .is life. As it has been for many years.

Guess who I've met at Theatricum. He's completely stalking me. Scary thing: His name is Ben. Should I be worried?

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

The Importance of Being Kat

Before we begin, you should know that I am on a serious Importance of Being Earnest kick. I apologize.

OAYe! Happy Kat! Very very happy Kat!

Kat: (Bounces.)

Erik: O.o

Max: He's back!

Ben: Wait, what?

Max: Erik hasn't been around here for ages. Come to think of it, nor have we.

Gabe: (Is not here.)

Kat: Gabe's off at the U of Santa Cruz designing things. If when he comes back there's anything flammable. . .well, I don't know what to tell you but hang on, and don't turn the grasshopper. Speaking of which, does Ben know what I'm talking about? I know Max does, because he's read Leroux, but. . .er, right.

Christine: The hiker is absent.

Howl: That he is.

Ben: Ford Prefect?

Ford: No, I'm over here. That's Howl, from Howl's Moving Castle, the new Miyazaki movie. And the kid next to him is Markl.

Max: Marco? Markle?

Kat: Markl.

Max: Whatever.

Nadir: That's not the point. Point is, why is Kat so. . .bouncy?

Kat: I prefer the term beamish, thank you.

Nadir: Whatever. But what has you so. . .(Kat starts singing.). . .effusive?

Oscar Wilde: I believe I can answer that.

All: O.O What on earth?!?

Erik: Her sanity is absolutely. . .

Ben: At the gate?

Erik: Out the window. We don't have a gate. In any case, it's gone.

Max: Whatever. Hey, is that Oscar Wilde? Who is Oscar Wilde anyway?

Ford: Who?

Kat: Writes plays and fairy tales and basically anything he can get his hands on. Hi, Oscar.

Oscar: (To Algernon.) Who is she?

Algy: (Appearing inexplicably, as a lot of people seem to be doing.) I remember her. Once she popped up and yelled at Jack. . .I mean Earnest. . .for fifteen minutes straight.

Sane Personage: (Suddenly realizes that Algy should be called Earnest as well.)

Ben: You yelled at Jack for how long?

Kat: I was mad at him at the end of the movie. For lying to Gwendolyn, I mean. He doesn't do that in the play. So I yelled at him a bit.

Jack: A bit? It was for hours straight!

Oscar: Leave my characters alone!

Kat: Like I could be meaner to them than you are?

Mizamour: It's possible, some of her phiction is quite angsty.

Nadir: Tell me about it.

Erik: I'm still mad at her about "All Right."

Nadir: Rather not talk about that.

POP TARTS!

Kat: This is getting long.

BREAKFAST CEREAL!

Fred Weasley: We'd like to close -

Artemis Fowl: - by informing you -

Butler: - that Kat is happy because -

Thomas Jefferson: - her mother was just offered -

Diego: To do some work with an Oscar Wilde play.

TOAST!

And so adieu.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient -

Oh yes, I'd quite forgotten. Happy Fourth, everyone. Have a good one. Don't get caught on fire.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

A Post Which I Am Absolutely Sure No One Will Have The Slightest Idea What To Say To

Have you ever thought about how difficult and awkward it must be to be a gay or bi person coming out? No, I see you haven't. Just imagine it. Bear with me for a moment. Imagine it. You tell people, but who do you tell? Your closest friends? Your parents? Just the people who are okay with that sort of thing? Just the person you've got a thing about? What if you haven't got a thing about anyone? What if any same-sex friend you tell automatically assumes that you've got a thing about them? Now, isn't that awkward.

(Funny thing about the word awkward, even the spelling looks awkward. I'm never sure if I've got it right, and I'm rambling and not getting to the point. Sorry. This is, of course assuming that there is a point.)

I've noticed a pattern lately with blog comments. Max always says, "Funny," and something about his deteriorating physical condition. Ben always says that he doesn't know what to say, dispenses quotes and decodes any codes in the blog. Gabe complains. (No offense, Gabe, it's part of your charm.) Sane Personage has sage advice generally. Spencer. . .is Spencer. Mizamour gushes. And such it is.

Now I shall break everyone's comment pattern. Now you're all going to sound like Ben. And possibly his Mother. You are probably not going to sound like Mizamour.

Please do not freak, as Lucie or Liana would say, upon reading this piece of information - you're probably guessing what it is and you're probably wrong - or think I'm crazy, because you already know I'm crazy, in a sort of good way. I just want you guys to know for no real reason. I mean, you'd probably be displeased if you found out about this the wrong way, no?

I am bisexual. I have known this for some years, but have never told anyone or acted upon it.

That will be all.

Thank you.

Damn it all. I can't make myself hit the publish button. I'm trying. I'm trying. Not working. Damn. Bloody lime green. . .

I'm going to do it this time.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.