Scalito!

Here's a trivia fact for you: Alito is actually composed of several interlocking parts, a la Voltron. He is, in no particular order, the assembled components of Antonin Scalia, Hermann Goering, Bill Frist, a pitbull and Phyllis Schafly.

PS: I know the Photoshop is horrible. But one only has so long on one's lunch break.

Today in Medical Oddities

British woman gives birth to twins from two wombs

Money quote: "Now I have two miracles. I am full of every possible emotion. Life isn't about my two wombs now -- it's about my two babies."

God, if only life could stop being about my two wombs, I feel I'd really be fulfilled at long last. (Also: "My Two Wombs" is an excellent name for a sitcom.)

"Rar, rar, rar! I'ma git you! Rar, rar, rar!"

Here's another good reason to turn on the heat: It block out the sound of the dude who is currently tripping over things, singing and cursing in the empty nightclub patio right under my window. Dude, seriously: It is 8 p.m. on a Sunday night. You should not be this drunk. Seek help.

In other news, I saw "Shopgirl" today. Not as good as the book. It sort of made me feel like I should mail Steve Martin some SSRIs immediately. Perhaps with a small note: "Dear Steve: You need these more than I do. I love your writing. But dang, cheer up, guy. Love, Jen." Do you think that would help?

Also, if Claire Danes is 26, then so am I.

How Do You Know When the Evening Has Gotten Out of Hand?

You're in a karaoke bar full of Japanese people, clutching a Sapporo in one hand and a mic in the other, and belting out your best rendition of "Manic Monday" while a waitress in a geisha headdress mocks you openly in Japanese. The end.

Negatory!

Before she got all skeeny again, and stopped being quite so funny, I really really liked Margaret Cho. I don't dislike her now, but she used to be funnier. That's how it goes, I guess.

Anyway, one of my favorite Margaret Cho lines was her explanation of why she's friends with so many gay people: "I? Am heterophobic."

Me, too! So when it came time to get a new doctor, it's only natural that I would pick the All-Gay-All-the-Time healthcare center around the corner from my office. (Which is in Chelsea, BTW. Otherwise known as The Single Gayest Neighborhood on the East Coast.)

I went to get a checkup, as you do, and while I was there, I decided that I would be a responsible girl and get an HIV test. I hadn't had one in years, but I wasn't particularly worried about the results. That is, until the counselor, who was a very attractive 20-something latino gay man whose moisturizer I would like to use, told me that he would have my results in 20 minutes.

"TWENTY MINUTES?" I said. "How? Why? What do you mean?"

"It only ever took 20 minutes," he explained. "It's just that we used to send them out to the lab, and then you'd have to wait for the courier to bring the blood over, and then we had to wait for Shaniqua at the lab to process the sample, and then we had to wait to hear from the lab, and so on."

He looked at me meaningfully. "You're freaked out, aren't you?"

"No! No, not at all." Pause. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Well, let's have your history," he said.

I gave it to him. Because he is a professional, he did not laugh.

"I'm not really supposed to say this," he said. "But, uh, there's really not a very big chance that you have to worry."

"Oh, I know."

"OK. So you're OK?"

"Yes. Yes! Absolutely." Pause. "No. No, I'm not."

He nodded. "So let's talk about what you would do if the news was bad."

"Honestly? I would be very mature. I would freak the fuck out, and then I would call my Mommy."

He laughed. "That is an excellent plan. Well, listen. Let's wait a minute, until you calm down. And then, if you want, you can sit in my office while we wait."

"Really?"

"Really."

I felt a little teary. "I have to tell you that I really love this office. You're all so nice here."

He smiled. "Can I ask you something? How did you ... ah, find us?"

"Someone at work recommended you."

He nodded encouragingly.

"She's not gay either."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I just feel more comfortable with gay people. It's a whole thing."

Because he was a professional, he registered no surprise at all.

In the end, I wound up waiting in the outer office, in part so that I could be closer to the elevator in case I couldn't take it and had to run away. I'm glad I did. There were some very interesting people in the waiting room, of all apparent orientations and gender identities, and I had an excellent time playing "Guess That Persuasion" and "X or Y?" -- two games I thought I'd given up forever when I stopped hanging out with drag queens in college.

The counselor came out of his office in 20 minutes, as promised, all smiles. "Negative," he said, winking. "Told you."

My Dad is the Cutest Man in North America

My heater is giving off a funny smell in my apartment. It's a wall-heater, only 400 years old, and I'd sort of like it to work, so that I don't either asphixiate or freeze this winter.

I've contacted the management company, but, in the meantime, I thought I'd write to my Dad and see what he had to say about the matter. He's pretty handy, and also works for an architecture firm. Anyway, he's smart.

He wrote back:

Try to put the heat up for a day with the window open and bathroom fan going ... There is a carbon monoxide detector on the way to your office address. Should be there by Friday AM.

Underpants from Mom; carbon monoxide detector from Dad. It occurs to me that not much has changed since college.

Amazon.com Is Stalking Me

The creepiest thing just happened: I Googled Vendela Vida, because I was trying to figure out if she and Dave Eggers had indeed had a baby, and named the unfortunate creature "October", blerg, and then, not two minutes later, I received an email from Amazon.com, asking me if I was interested in buying anything by Vendela Vida.

This is extremely creepy and wrong, and probably a coincidence. Although, maybe not. I used to cover customer relationship management technologies (just as exciting as you've heard, FYI), and this kind of shit happens all the time, apparently. Soon, I won't even have to get out of bed. I'll just think my lazy thoughts and a giant block of cheddar cheese and 14 DVDs of stupid comic book movies that I should be way too smart to like will appear at my door. Maybe they'll be cheese slices and DVDs. That way, the delivery person can just slide them right under the door.

Ahhh! This is such a bad idea:

Machines show signs of human intelligence

We Also Have Pay-What-You-Weigh Falafel, But Only When Chickpea Delivers

I spent most of this afternoon trying to get my apartment into some sort of presentable shape. I've been living like a Joad for these past few months, with boxes and piles of clothing around, and stacks of mail peeking out from various points in the piles. I've managed to pay my bills and do my dishes, but that's about it. For one thing, my apartment is super small. No, smaller than than that. Smaller. For another, well, I'm lazy, and when I'm feeling energetic, I'd rather go out than build shelves.

But no more! I finally assembled the top of my desk today. It's this shelving unit that I got from Ikea, which is where all of my furniture comes from, unless my Dad built it. (This means that my furniture is either made of paper, and ready to disintegrate if sneezed upon, or made of ancient redwoods, and built to withstand the Rapture.) Anyway, I finished building my paper desk, and then I hung a few things on the walls, including this little paratrooper dude I bought in Normandy, who is now dangling from the corner of the little bump-out that separates my kitchen from the rest of the apartment. I also put out my cows, which are purple and orange, and also relics of the trip to France. (These cows got me held up in Customs for half an hour while various officials tried to figure out what the hell they were, and then for twenty minutes beyond that, while they laughed at me in French.)

I also put out my maracas, and a couple vases, and tin picture of Jeebus (not to be confused with Jesus, who is very dignified, and never ever appears on tin), and a couple of ladybug candles and my cuckoo clock. All this, together with vacuuming and dusting and rearranging books and CDs, took about four hours, and when I was done, I was pretty satisfied with myself. I am so not lazy! I am productive! Even on a Sunday! Also, my home is lovely, and well-appointed.

Then I realized: What with all the crap hanging from the walls and such, I've basically decorated my apartment as the Ground Round, by way of Hot Topic.

I need my sister to come visit me and put her Art degree to good use, before I get out of control.

All the Girls from There to Austin

Austin, Texas is not Texas at all. Anyone will tell you this. Austin is a made-up bullshit place that's just too good to be true. A hippie cab driver drove me to the hotel, screaming about Bush and tugging his beard the whole way, and the bouncer at the bar we went to (his name: Tank) hugged me goodbye, and then made his pecs dance, as a friendly gesture. I ate the best BBQ of my whole entire life, drank a ton of beer and bought a cowboy hat.

Austin fuckin' rules.

I was nervous about Austin, because I've never spent much time away from the East Coast, and when I did, it was to visit my sister in San Francisco or Washington State. I had some misconceptions about Texas, I'll freely admit that. These misconceptions cleared up as soon as I met the hippie cab driver at the airport. However, I had a bad moment there with a flight attendant in Houston, before my fears could be allayed.

They have terrifying smiles, some of the flight attendants, don't they? I recognize them from when I was waiting tables. It's the strain of having to be nice to assholes. I imagine it's worse when said assholes might be armed. Howsomever, this woman had a particularly creepy form of the Frozen Smile, plus a ton of makeup, and she scared me.

"Are y'all home?" She asked me, as I made my way off the plane.

"No, I live in New York," I told her. "Just changing planes."

She stretched her grin wider. I thought I saw madness glinting in her eyes, but I might have just been dazzled by all the eye shadow. "Aw, that's too bad," She said brightly. "Go, Astros!"

I was too flabbergasted to tell her that I'm not a Yankees fan.

POM What?

In the interests of recovering from this plague, I ordered a bunch of juice from MaxDelivery. One of the various juices I ordered was this POM Wonderful Pomegranate stuff that I kept seeing in the health store around the corner from my office. (I work in Chelsea, so I'll never have any trouble getting juice, or Ripped Fuel, or men's underpants.)

This POM stuff is supposed to contain about elevendy-million different antioxidants and fix everything from a cold to congestive heart failure. Because of this, it costs about the same as a barrel of oil.

But I spare no expense when it comes to my health, so I bought some, and guzzled it down. It was quite tasty, and I was thinking about how it would make a delicious margarita mixer, when I happened to spy the nutritional information on the back.

Total Fat ....... 0g (So far, so good.)
Cholest. ....... 0 mg (Ditto.)
Sodium ......... 30 mg (Good? Bad? I dunno. I'm Irish, so salt is the only spice I use.)
Potassium ..... 430mg (Oooh! That's gotta be good.)
Total Carb ..... 35g (Um. That seems high.)
Fiber ........... 0g
Sugars ......... 34g (OUCH.)
Protein ......... 1g

Vitamin A ........ 0%
Vitamin C ........ 0%
Calcium .......... 4%
Iron ............. 2%

So basically? There's nothing IN this magical drink. Nothing except sugar, that is. I'm less than confident in plain old sugar's ability to cure my cold, even if it is purple.

Still, I probably will try this in a margarita, when I'm mended.

Achooooo!

I have more stories for all y'all about Austin, but I'm suffering from some kind of horrific cold. It might be a flu. I don't know. All I know is that I haven't wanted to eat anything all day, which probably means that the world is ending. Also, I am sweaty and all I want to do is sleep.

Stay tuned.

Studies Show Average Cat Has 6.87 Lives

Ian Grey Steele:* I realized that my cat is like 12.
JennieSmash: Oh NO.
Ian Grey Steele: Which means he's not long for this world.
JennieSmash: I thought cats lived to be like 25.
Ian Grey Steele: Whoa.
Ian Grey Steele: No.
Ian Grey Steele: 18 is super old.
JennieSmash: I've told you, I don't know these things.
Ian Grey Steele: I mean 20 possibly.
JennieSmash: The hubleys hate all living creatures.
Ian Grey Steele: 25 I guess is theoretically possible but that's probably one in 100.
JennieSmash: These are really the first cats I've had any interaction with.
JennieSmash: It's like I just discovered cats.
Ian Grey Steele: You're how old?
JennieSmash: 29
JennieSmash: But it's cool, cuz I'm a human. So I have some time yet.

* Not his real name. Also? Friends of mine? When I ask you for a pseudonym, I'm not kidding around. So choose wisely.

Very Busy and Important

I had a brief conversation with my friend Megadeth tonight on the phone, about how boring we both are at the moment.

"This week," I told her. "I went to bed at 10:00 every night. Plus? Fatty has started going to the gym again. And so she is sore."

"This week," Megadeth told me. "I worked and worked and worked until my head fell off, and then I worked some more. Also, I will be doing nothing but travel for the next three weeks."

"I'm going to Austin on a business trip tomorrow."

"I'm going to have to give my cat away, because I'm never going to be home again."

"I haven't opened my mail in three days."

"I just ate ice cream for dinner, because it was all I could do to open the carton."

Pause.

"So I'll see you next week, when you're in New York?"

"Yes. You better take me out."

"It's next week, right? Let me check my book."

"I'm not fucking kidding. You better not be busy. It's my birthday."

"OK. Looks like I can squeeze you in after work and before my real plans start."

"I hate you."

Wax On! Wax Off!

It's that time of the month again, and I don't mean that Aunt Flo has come to visit. Please enjoy my latest contribution to Waxing Off on the venerable Black Table.

Bullshit Is My Kiai

So, waaay back in college, when the earth was green, I decided to take a self-defense course. These were very popular at the time. They were a weird mixture of karate and judo and cosmica rama ding-dong female empowerment, and they were typically taught in massive gyms to hordes of terrified nineteen year old girls who had been told for years that every man they met wanted one thing, and one thing only: their tender young pootie. In our minds, these men were pirates, or cartoon hobos. They'd start off offering you candy, we figured, and then: out would come the cutlass.

The most important thing about the class was that it was all-women: attended by women, taught by women, conceived by women, for women. In fact, it was generally billed as a "safe space for women," which was a totally OK thing to say in the mid-90's.

I hated my class. In fact, I hated all exercise classes. They reminded me of high school gym, plus, I had a tendency to fall down a lot. Yoga class? Fell down during tree pose. Step aerobics? Fell off my step. In my Womyn-Friendly Self Defense course, I made it through two weeks before I lunged at an opponent, missed and went right down like a plank of wood. The fugging jammies probably didn't help with the whole traction issue.

But things didn't get really bad until about a month in. That's when I came to class, and found a huge hairy man standing in front of the class, arms crossed like a bouncer. He was all decked out in his white kick-ass suit, and had a gleam in his eye that suggested he wanted nothing more than to school us, in a variety of ways.

I immediately went straight to my instructor, a very nice if painfully earnest grad student named Amy.

"Amy," I said, in a stage whisper, looking at Hairy Jammies Man, "Um, I'm really not comfortable sparring with, er--"

"Greg. He's an old friend of mine. We go way back!"

I looked at Greg again. He cocked an eyebrow and stood up straighter.

"Yeah. OK. See, the thing is, this is supposed to be a Safe Space, and I don't really feel like sparring with him. Is that OK? I mean, I'm still having trouble with the yelling--"

"Kiai."

"Yeah, that. Anyway. I'm a Lutheran? And we don't yell. We also don't hit men. Or women. Or anyone. If that's OK. Mostly, we just fight about the Keys of Confession. But there's absolutely no yelling or hitting of any kind, I can tell you that. I think you need Baptists for that. Anyway, they're better at loud."

Amy held up her hand. "Listen, you don't have to spar with Greg."

"I don't."

"No."

"Oh, thank God."

"You just have to hit him in the stomach."

"Ha ha ha. Wait. I just have to hit him in the stomach? Like, 'hit him in the stomach as hard as I can?'"

If there was a joke there, Amy missed it. "Yes! Exactly!" She grabbed me by the shoulders, and steered me toward the line. "And don't forget your Kiai."

"But I don't have one of those yet."

"Just yell."

The girl in front of me in line raised her eyebrows at me.

"I don't have a Kiai," I told her. "I tried yelled 'AIIIIEEEE!', but it just sounded like I'd seen a mouse."

She turned around.

It was a long wait to punch Greg. During that time, I thought long and hard about my problem. I'd joined this class, hoping to overcome a certain amount of physical awkwardness, as well as my paralyzing fear of men. (The latter was less of a problem, since I'd developed a convenient crush on an emotionally unavailable man who lived on the floor above me.) But here I was, a month into the class, still unsure what to do with my hands, still falling up the stairs at least twice a semester, no Kiai in sight, and I was getting frustrated. I would punch him, I decided. I would punch him solidly.

The girl behind me tapped me on the shoulder. She was not someone I wanted to talk to. She'd transferred to UMass last year, after fucking her way out of art school in New York.

She smiled at me coquettishly. "I'm going to punch him like he's never been punched before," she said. I thought about a mutual friend of ours, who said that this girl had hopped into her bed one night, cuddled up with her, and then said in seductive whisper, "I know you want to have sex with me, but I'm really not attracted to you."

I wished she hadn't touched my shoulder.

"Do you mind?" I said. "I'm working on my Kiai."

The line dwindled. Most girls didn't even make a proper fist. They dropped their shoulders, and giggled, and shuffled their feet, did everything but bite him under the chin or bring him a dead bird, to indicate that they were the betas. Seeing this, finally, finally made me mad.

When it was my turn, I stood solidly on my feet, and forgot Kiai for a second. Mostly, I wanted to make sure that I didn't make any statements that sounded like questions. Mostly, I didn't want to flinch.

"Hi, there," Greg said, uncrossing his arms. "Are you ready to hit me as hard as you can?"

"You know, Greg, I was ready to hit you," I said, smiling sweetly. "I really was. But then I realized something."

He gestured for me to continue. It was the same gesture he made to each girl in the line: Hit me with your best shot! He'd slap guys on the back instead of hugging them, I thought.

"I realized, Greg, that you want me to hit you." The grin faded a bit. "I mean, really want me to. And so I'm not going to. Because I think you like it when girls hit you. I think you think it's cute. And more than that..." I dropped my voice to a whisper. "...I think you think it's hot. And Greg? That's disgusting."

I'd love to tell you that Greg broke down weeping at this juncture, but I'm sure he just thought I was a crazy bitch. "Have it your way," he said, and shrugged it off. But I went to the back of the line feeling much, much better.

Hi-yah!

Someone Left a Smash Out in the Rain, Oh NO!

I'm working at home today, for several reasons: 1) I'm feeling a little meh, not sick exactly, just in serious need of vitamins, echinacea, and repose; 2) it's gross out; 3) I have a business trip later this week, and I need to get ready for it; and 4) I can.

However, here's what you should not do, when feeling meh: Walk seven blocks to Starbucks, in the rain, to get your morning coffee -- without an umbrella. Yeah, I'm a genius.

Part of the problem is that I have lost every single one of my umbrellas. When I moved here, I had four, at least. Now I have none. This is because I leave them places. Like bars. The other part of the problem is that I'm a genius, as previously stated, above.

About three blocks into my walk, I realized that I was extremely damp, like hair-running in rivulets, clothes hanging off me like 400-lb. weights, kinda damp. So I sought refuge under an awning. (This after checking two convenience stores to see if they sold umbrellas, but no go. C'mon people. You're missing a big opportunity here! I totally would have spent ten bucks for an umbrella this morning, without even complaining about it.)

While I was standing there, dripping and miserable, a boy sidled up to me, still holding his umbrella, which I should have stolen, and smiling hopefully.

"You sure are wet!" He said, voice cracking. I looked at him from under a snarl of hair. He was about 20 years old, probably a college student, and maybe he was just trying to be nice. Unfortunately, I wasn't feeling especially nice.

"Erg," I said. And ran back into the rain, where at least I wouldn't have to participate in a Sex Ed class.

Later, back at my apartment, I IMed Sean to tell him that, a) much like a turkey, I am too stupid to come in out of the rain, and b) this dude tried to pick me up, maybe, when I was at my very least attractive and most cranky, and what is the matter with people?

"Twenty years old?" Sean said. "Please. He couldn't pick up a shoe. He's just trying shit out. Actually, now that I know how old he was? I have a lot more respect for him. Good for him!"

An Actual Note from Ma Smash

I just received a package at my place of business. It was a padded manilla mailer, with my name, my title, and my work address on the front. I recognized the handwriting immediately, because so few people write perfect Palmer Method script these days, and my mother is one of them.

I opened the package, to find the following items:

1) Two packages of cotton underpants.

2) A short note.

The note said:

Hi Sweetie,

Here are some lovely underpants just for you!

Love you,

Mom

My coworker Madeleine has posited that my mother was bored of the blog and thought I needed some new material.

A Real Doll

I'm not sure what it says about me, but when I read this article, all I could think was: "Who has $6,500 lying around?" I mean, can you get a loan for this? Or what?

OK, so this creeped me out: "I realized not long after I got [my doll] that I don't really need anybody ... I don't have a lot of human friends and only 2 of them have seen Ginger and Kelly, and none of them or anyone else have or will ever lay a hand on them while I am living."

I have a few ex-boyfriends that should probably make an investment in one of these.

Happy Birthday, Oldie Oldenson...

One of the many excellent questions that have come up in my comments section (unrelated to politics or my general worth as a person) is how I've managed to go so long without writing a totally drunken, incoherent post. Well, I still don't have an answer for you. However, I am rectifying the situation right now. Because if blogging involved heavy equipment, well, this would not be advisable.

Anyway, my point is that it's my friend Will Leitch's birthday on Monday (Saturday night, observed), and that you should all raise a glass in his honor. He is much, much older than I am, and he's a Cardinals fan, but he's a good person, for all of that.

(However, honestly compels to me to admit that he was perhaps a little gleeful about the tragedies that befell the Red Sox this past week. And I think we can all agree that this is not pretty, and beneath him. Also, Midwesterners are supposed to be nice. I gave him a pass because it was his birthday, but I'll get even. Oh, yes. Yes, I will.)

The End-All Be-All of Terror Alerts

A great idea from Ricedream McGee:

"What Bloomberg should do is go on TV and say, 'Look, if you enter this city on any day, you're taking your life in your fucking hands. Pretty much from the time you wake up to the time you go to sleep. We're done with the warnings. Take it easy.'"

We're All Gonna Die!

So, apparently someone might try to blow up the subway today. I am against this, by the way. Very strongly against.

There are rumors flying all over the office about how this alleged bombing might take place. One person heard that they would be hiding bombs in baby carriages. This will make subway terrorist SOP -- shooting "suspicious" persons -- somewhat difficult.

The only upside to all of this is that it gives me something new to worry about, which is a good thing. I mean, I've already got my health, the state of the world, and getting fat to worry about. But my brother-in-law came home from Iraq last week, so that means I'm one worry down. Terrorist attacks on the subway will do nicely as a replacement obsession.

Karl Rove's Blog

You know what they say: Pimpin' ain't easy. But it's necessary!

With that in mind, please enjoy my contribution to the recently launched Cracked.com.

A Very Special Episode of 'Jennie Smash and Fennec Fox'

If I had one of these, I would dress it up in a little coat and parade it around the East Village. We would go on adventures together, and meet people, and discover the true meaning of life. At the end of every episode, I would tell it what I've learned. It would all be very moving. The end.

Something Had To Be Done

It is 8:25 and I am setting off for work, on foot, because Fatty is once again trying to take over my body. (Fatty is one of my many alternate personalities, the others being Party Jen, Jennie Smash and Wolfgirl. You'll note that they all seem to be Id-based.)

It's two miles, more or less, from my home in the Lower East Side to Chelsea, where my office is. If you don't hear from me by, say 9:15 or so, call someone.

Why do I say that? Because I will be wearing my Red Sox cap on this particular jaunt.

Mind you, last year I wore my Sox cap in New York at this time of year, and had no problems. But there's been a particularly nasty shift since then, and well, let's just say I might be taking my life into my own hands.

A couple days ago, I had a particularly tense discussion with a friend of mine over IM, who wondered why I wasn't wearing my cap, to which I responded, "Well, we don't so much wear hats in New York. It's not like Boston that way." This did not go over well. (Note: If you're from Boston, and speaking to a Bostonian who still lives in Boston, do not say "we" when discussing New Yorkers. You will be flayed alive over the Internets.)

And it's true: People in New York do not wear caps, especially to work. However, after last night? I'm desperate. If looking like a fool will help my boys, well, it seems like the least I can do. And since I firmly believe in magical thinking, you'll have to excuse me while I go adjust my cap.


ETA: I love New York. No one said a word to me -- except for one dude in a Sox cap who yelled, "YAH, Boston!"

Facts You Probably Didn't Know ... Til Now

Everyone's last name is actually McGee, unless they've had a haircut, in which case, their name is O'Reilly, as in "Haircut O'Reilly." This is true no matter what the nationality of the person in question, or ethnicity, or what-have-you.

The first name is optional, but it should have something to do with their personality or habits, or refer to recent events in their life. This morning, for example, I was talking to a friend of mine who is a vegetarian, and I informed him that his name was "Ricedream McGee." Shortly after that, we began discussing the fact that he is a godless communist (like most of my friends), and so we changed his name to "Ricedream 'Che' McGee."

I am alternately:

Freckles "Fist of Fury" McGee
Complainy Complainerson McGee
Keep-On-Makin'-That-Face-It'll-Freeze-That-Way McGee
Get-Out-of-My-Goddamn-Fridge-Right-Now McGee (thanks, Ricedream)
Yawny McNeedsaNap McGee
Fatty McStufferson McGee
Mrs. Maximillian M. "Mac" McGee

...and, after next weekend, hopefully...

Haircut O'Reilly

Feel free to add your own. We're all McGees here.

Friendster Sucks, Long Live Friendster

I cannot believe Friendster sold my ass out. All this time, I've been stalking exboyfriends and former college roommates and unsuspecting coworkers, thinking my secrets were safe. And now, yes now, they have revealed my secrets. I feel so betrayed.

My feelings of betrayal are nothing compared to my pal J, though, who maybe had the smallest nervous breakdown on Friday.

"Huh," One of our coworkers said. "Looks like you can see who has viewed your account on Friendster."

"Wait," J said. "What do you mean?"

"If you go to Friendster? And click on this link? You can see who viewed you."

J spun around in her chair. "For how long?"

"Um, I dunno, it looks like I can see the last fifty people who viewed me, so..."

"No. For how long? HOW FAR BACK DOES IT GO? OH MY GOD. I'm going to need surgery. I'm going to have to change my name. I'm going to have to take off my fingerprints with acid. How could they do this to me? I'm going to delete my profile."

"That might not help," I offered. "I mean, it takes a couple minutes for it to disappear and--"

"SHUT UP! IT WILL HELP. OH MY GOD." She started clicking frantically. "There. I'm gone."

"Except that it might take a couple minutes--"

"WAHHHH!" She put her head down on her keyboard. "I'm going to have to join the Witness Protection Program."

Meanwhile, if you've been looking at Friendster lately, and you've seen my profile under your stalker button, well, I think you're kind of cute. Is that OK? Also, that totally wasn't me waiting behind the garbage can outside your apartment building.