Which of these statements is irrefutably true?

Mike Furir is a pedophile who hunts for children on the internet.

Mike Furir has a nasty sexually transmitted disease, which he leaves untreated.

Mike Furir is the world's biggest asshole, as demonstrated by his spam-bot army, which has delivered more than 120 spam comments and trackbacks today alone on my poor blog, and apparently has been doing this to others for some time in an effort to become famous on Google.

The only one I can prove is the last one. But I hope he enjoys his google hits from my site.

And Mollie Sue goes home. Which of the bitches on ANTM is on crack, other than that UberSkank, Jade. I'm amazed that she doesn't spell it some other way, you know, with extra letters like "y" or a silent "h".

She is beyond annoying, beyond evil, beyond all pointy like a wet Siamese cat.

She is pure ugly on a plate.

I have an idea, or maybe a nightmare. She and Santino should mate. I don't know what they'd produce, but I have no doubt that it would kill them both while they slept. Not that there would be anything wrong with that.

Real quick:

Seen this week. One young woman who had shortened her trousers using paperclips and another who had used staples. While I give them points for knowing that pants hems are not meant to be tread on, any credit gained was more than wiped out by the use of the devices listed above.

Staples? PAPERCLIPS?

What, you think noone will notice the shiny metal objects along the bottom of your pants?

Really.

I just can't ask this enough: What the FUCK is WRONG with you people?

(feeble little hand wave) I'm still here. Barely. Normally at this time of year I have a bad case of spring fever, and can hardly sit still. This year, though, I have a bad case of the flu, and can hardly stir from my sick bed.

Thank the powers that be for wireless web connections.

I've slowly been rebuilding my computer, loading programs, rewriting links and bookmarks and like that. Mostly, I've been sleeping, whining, and drinking gatorade. It is a sign of how lousy I feel that I can drink it and like it. I tried for a glass of wine with the Sopranos last night, and dumped it down the sink, instead.

Now you KNOW I'm sick as a dog.

I've exhausted myself with this entry.

But.

Baseball season is upon us, so all is right with the world.

How many father figures did you have?

Yesterday, I lost another one of mine. My sistergirlfriendgirl's dad passed away. I spent so much of my childhood in her home, that her parents were a second set of parents to me. But, unlike my own, hers were larger than life. They had a pet lion for a while.
Her mother was tall, with an armful of gold bangles half way to her elbow. She had a huge laugh, a talent for flower arranging, and another for needlepoint. She made her own needlepoint patterns. She smoked and wore gold flowered sandals and long Hawaiian mumus. I was in awe of her.

Their home always had a jigsaw puzzle in progress on a table in the living room. There were shelves and shelves of books, and dishes of shells and found objects; there was always something new to discover on a shelf, or a new photo in the collage of family photos in the hallway.

Her father had lily and chysanthemum farms. Acres and acres of purple, yellow, rust flowers under the black shade cloth. In the 60s, if you bought a potted Easter lily, or wore a chrysanthemum corsage, it probably came from their farms. He became a bee keeper by accident when a swarm built a hive in an empty lily bulb crate. He fished and hunted and swore and cooked. Like my own father, he could (and did) build a bbq pit out of an empty oil barrel, some cinder blocks and a piece of wire fence.

Do they even make men like that anymore? I don't think so. Nor women like her mother, although I do my best to emulate her. My home has a lot of elements that I remember or think I remember about hers, too.

Anyway. It's a good thing that I'd put down the better part of a bottle of red when I got the news about her dad, because a couple of hours later the Apple store called to tell me that my laptop was unrecoverable, and they'd had to put in a new hard drive.

It's all gone. All of it. Fuck me blue.

I went to Fairchild yesterday and shot another hundred frames or so. Then I came home and tried to download all the images. But. My laptop wouldn't boot up. Nor could I reinstall the system software. When I took it to the Apple store this morning, the even badder news was that booting off a peripheral harddrive didn't help. Nothing can see my internal drive. It is dead. Fried. Screwed, blewed, tattooed.

Here's hoping that it's only a fried bus cable and the data can be retrieved. Otherwise? I'm looking at suicide.

Well, it's like I always tell other people. Back up your shit, because there are only two kinds of computers in the world. Those which have just crashed, and those which are about to.

Just to be clear: I did not back up my shit. My computer crashed and burned. I am looking at a loss of all my data, my websites, my novel, my Girl's Guide, my 1500 photos, my recipes, my patterns, my e-mail, my music, my freaking life, people. My freaking life. The only bright spot in all of this is that I own all of my software, so I can reinstall it.