If You Belonged Here

Begging the Question, 1

Well, it's not really then yet.

You know: then. 

The time when we make the great shift. But I'm done with being all or nothing. I'm bored with having my ducks in a row. This is me waddling my way into the busy road of not yet with a jaunty little saunter.

I am, ready or not, people, declaring today the day that we officially kiss kokology goodbye and give a great big wet hello to how far would you go (aka, another book of questions loosely disguised as a game, but not a game at all).

There are no right or wrong answers except not answering at all. Not answering at all, definitely qualifies as a wrong answer. You will be marked off. This is not the SATs, prudence is no way to preserve points. Answer or die. That's the game.

But before you break into a cold sweat, we should be clear: I do not have any expectation of honesty, sincerity, or virtue.

Please don't bother with any of those dusty old things on my account. I won't hold it against you. I won't lord it over you or feel all superior because I'm giving more authentic answers. On any one of these things, you can rest assured that I'm as likely to lie when the truth would serve as well as not. Because it's not about the answers. Or the questions.

It's especially not about the questions and the answers. It's about entertaining ourselves outside of the confines of facebook and our real identity and people we forgot are on our friend list who might hold us accountable at some later unimagined and unfathomable time when that dead-baby joke just won't seem nearly as funny because it's out of context and, well, you had to be there.

This is all about friends behaving badly, in the privacy of their own blog, with the smug satisfaction that we are only annoying the people we want to annoy and avoiding any unseemly real life consequences (like awkward moments and, you know, public confrontation by disapproving relatives--that kind of thing).

Heh.

I'm laughing at my own snark here, people. Usually I have to be drunk to do that.

Heh!

(I just did a little chair dance--completely immature and totally satisfying).

Anyway, enough preamble. Let's get on with the question, so I can commence horrifying, you know, unspecific, unnamed people.

"What do you want most right now?"

I guess for me it always comes back to hookers and blow. And, you know, the demon alcohol. Because there's no such thing as enough of that. Sometimes, I find myself pouring another shot of tequila before I even finish the first one. Which is kind of messy, as I am not particularly coordinated and so I just skip the glass and chug it straight from the bottle. But mostly, hookers and blow.

Phoning It In

We had a pretty lively conference call last week. This is what we decided:

We are a collective. We are loosely held and open to shifts in membership but mostly we are Polly, Dol, Bookgirl, Diosa, Model, Alice, Pandora, with a little aesthetic help from Ramblin' Jack. We like pictures of ourselves and bios and so we each want to have one. We like themes. Sort of. And since we already have names that lend themselves to themes, sort of, we each want to carry that theme into the next life of the blog.

I'll continue to be practically perfect, the Dol will care about politics, Bookgirl will be a literary minded single girl in the big city, Diosa will be a goddess, Model will be the fashionista who trancends time and space, Alice will be all over the place, and Pandora will be busy letting chaos out of the box. Ramblin' Jack will format our photos and make sure we look our prettiest.

I like that.

We're going to post on Mondays and Thursdays, as a group, a rotating collective of seven contributors who all plan on being slapdash and last minute in our approach to deadlines. On Wednesdays we will play a game--not kokology--where we will answer a question however we darn well feel like it. You know: truth, lie, wildly outlandish exaggeration, with another question, irrelevant comment, whatever strikes our fancy. Sometimes, if someone gets ambitious, we may wedge additional posts into that space.

I'll be honest, I don't really see us as a particularly ambitious group, at least not so ambitious that we can't sit on a post for a couple of weeks until we surface in the rotation, but we hold out the right to exercise that option. Because we like to think of ourselves as the kind of women who might be ambitious. Even if we are not. And we like to think that we aren't all that predictable.

Heh.

Anyway, this is to let you know that we are thinking, thinking, thinking, and planning, planning, planning. And talking on the phone as a group because Ramblin' Jack has his own designated conference call number and I just can't help myself people. I just had to have an eight way. Because I could. Except that Bookgirl couldn't make it, which is another story entirely, but not unrelated. So it was only a seven way.

Whatever.

In any case, I think we can all tell that the drugs are effecting my ability to make sense. I am on the drugs, people. But only because of the surgery, which is a perfectly legitimate reason to be on the drugs, given that the doctor gave me a prescription and instructions to take them and all that. Not just because I scored the drugs in a back alley or because I love the drugs more than my own life or anything. Just because, you know, without the drugs there would maybe be searing pain--not that I'm willing to test that hypothesis by, say, not taking the drugs--and with the drugs there is only the vaguely amusing idea that I finally have something in common with Rush Limbaugh.  

Not that I was holding my breath waiting for that to happen.

In any case, stay tuned. I'll let you know if I need rehab, intervention, or a whatever. But don't hold your breath. Because really, I don't have that much in common with Rush Limbaugh.

At least I hope not.

Infiniti

So I haven't forgotten how to spell infinity. Really. I just have this new hair dryer that isn't ridiculously expensive and dries my hair so fast I could cry from gratitude. It's by Conair. It comes with attachments. I tried them. Whatever.

I'm thinking of teaching Ramblin' Jack how to do a blow out.

I haven't told him yet.

I imagine he'll be resistant to the idea. I can't help that. But I don't see any point to quitting before I even get started, so I'm setting an impossible goal:

Ramblin' Jack will give me a weekly, professional caliber blow out. And he'll like it.

Let's see what the universe thinks of that.

But, in all seriousness, the blow dryer rocks. I never get over the never-ending improvements in technology. Real improvements. That make a real difference in my life. Like how popcorn takes half the time it used to take popping in the microwave. That's progress.

Of course cell phones and hulu (and Hank bless Pirate Bay--I love you Pirate Bay!). I can't get over GPS. I mean, through no fault of my own, I'm not perpetually lost or in immediate danger of becoming lost anymore. Now, I will admit that I seldom travel outside of a two-mile radius of my house, but that's never stopped me before, people.

I can get lost anywhere. I am that good.

But hair, my hair, dry in about three minutes. I can't turn that down. Especially given the fact that it's a good old fashioned drugstore brand that's pumping the air. Not Chi or some other fancypants beauty supply store diva fleecer, but Con-freaking-air. With the ceramic and the ion stuff and all that.

Brilliant.

I don't have to get the tired arm or the frizzy head. I can have my dry and glossy, too.

These are the things that keep me up at night. When I'm not contemplating world domination. And how stupid it is to send a man to Mars, because it's not like there's cell reception there or tropical island beaches. They don't even have breathable air. Or bars.

Heh.

You know I put that last reference in there just to be a jerk. What do I care if Mars has bars? No one's sending me there. I'd never pass the physical. Or the urine test. Not to mention the psychological screening.

In any case, my hair is dry and shiny and if Ramblin'  Jack doesn't let me down, pretty soon it will even have a saucy little bounce.

What will they think of next?