I am bored. Yes, sure. Smart people shouldn't be bored, they should occupy themselves. Thpft, I'm still bored.

I am so bored that I am about to watch a movie about Arthur Rimbaud. A poet. I've already mentioned today that I do not like poetry. I have probably read something by Rimbaud (hasn't everyone who ever took a literature class?) but I could never say which or what it might have been about if I have. To make matters worse it would appear that Leonardo DiCaprio or however the hell you spell his (stupid, pretentious) name is starring. My only other acceptable option seems to be some crazy western starring Courtney Love (to this day I struggle not to call her Courtney Hole, which I think would be more appropriate anyway) and I cannot possibly stand to watch her act. Although calling it "watching" is a bit off, the movie I'm about to, that is. Since I will likely just have it on while I wait for somebody on my stupid favorites list to update.

The Boy is busy (very) with his computer and appears to have no interest in interacting with me whatsoever.

I have been reading a very cool book. Called Breeders: Real Life Stories from a New Generation of Mothers. It is making me feel much less alone for wanting a baby now, and it is also making me feel like all of these other people did it and in far worse circumstance than I am in -- and did it well -- and that to listen to anybody who says otherwise would be silly.

There was a piece by a 15-year-old mother who I believe was just 16 when she wrote it, and it's recent, so she must still be very young. My god, if I had had a child when I was 15 that would have been one fucked-up kid. And I suppose this girl's child may well be yet. I admit to having a hard time believing in the rightness of that, but I also must say I am impressed by her determination and her love of her child. And that I wish her and her baby well.

Who ever decided that this leo crap would make an okay lead actor? Legions of teenage girls in general do not flock to films about poets, so that can't be it. I mean it's not like this kid can act.

My tummy continues to be strange. I did manage to eat today. Though perhaps 1 artichoke and a piece of bread would not be considered an entire meal. Still it is better than I have been doing. Now, however, it is very loudly complaining, presumably about the food I put it it.

This director should be shot. He would appear to have decided that absinthe is a milky light green color, which it most certainly isn't. I've had the foul stuff, I know. Okay, enough with the bitching about the movie. Independent Film Channel or no, this sucks. I'm heading over to La Cage aux Folles II, which can't possibly be worse. Holy shit! It's DUBBED! Good christ! It IS worse! I'm heading over to Cherry. Whatever that is. It's not porn, I've found out that much. Even if it does have a hot chick in it, which it does.

I think perhaps I should add something to what I wrote in the last entry (a mere six hours ago), which again probably makes me sound all nostalgic for my none-too-long-ago adolescence. Which would be misleading.

There are things that I miss, but even if they were given back to me right now, they wouldn't fit anymore. I can't do that stuff anymore, physically, mentally, emotionally.

On a completely different note, bot has agreed to be my gym-guilt buddy. Meaning that if we miss our agreed-upon scheduled gym visits/workouts, we get to publicly berate each others body parts. I am hoping that this will help me get my (fat) ass to the gym and get at least some of the money's worth of this damned expensive gym membership. I would also very much like to convince my upper arms to quit expanding before they start talking to each other across my back and have tea parties and such.

Ohh, I paint such a pretty picture of myself. You must all be completely in love with me. Tall chick with a big fat ass and flabby arms and herpes. Not to mention my bad knees, collapsing lung, carpal tunnel, and wisdom tooth problems. Reading this one would think I was about the least attractive person ever.

It's not true, I promise. People have actually found me even pretty. You can ask the ladies of the LWD&BC. I'm not horrifically fat, but I *am* horrifically out of shape. And if I don't do something about it now I'm afraid I never will. And I am at least trying to work on the other physical problems. I may still be gathering my courage to get to the dentist, but I will.

This is brilliant. The chick in this movie has a dog named Paxil. Now why is it I never thought of naming my pets after prescription medicines?

Er, in case you're just starting with this, I am not this dull all the time. The last entry was actually pretty good, I think. I'm mostly good when writing something makes me cry, and I'm not crying now. At the moment I'm just occupying my bored self by updating. So before you run off and tell all your friends how ennui-inducing onehanded is (which I just know all of you do), please at least click "prev".

AND. To YOU, you who goes to Pomona, reading whole lots of me? Sign the damn guestbook already! Who are you? Who? Dammit!

AND again. To the several people who inexplicably GO to sign the guestbook and then leave, without signing? What's up with THAT? You are such teases and I hate you. Unless you did sign it at some point, in which case I don't hate you.

Another rambling entry. You'd think this was the first of the day. Well it is, literally, but not for me, the somnolent deviant. Which doesn't make the right kind of sense but I can't think of the proper word right now. Because somnolent would mean "inducing sleep" which would make me a deviant sleep-inducer. Eh. you know what I mean.

night.

onehanded