I am so godforsakenly hot

and I do not mean that in the positive way. What I mean is that I am melting. I am wearing black from head to toe and it is 85 degrees (which means that it is really 120, not because of the humidity, it is all mental). People here have no heat tolerance - repatriated Hungarians adopt this stance quickly, resulting in a distressing inability to cope with heat. So there.

I am leaving to go to Siofok (the Fort Lauderdale of Hungary, it is really cheesy and what not) for three weeks of spine treatment, so I will not be around at all, most likely, so read through my archives and leave comments dripping in sad metaphors.

On an unrelated note, I have consumed dreadful Chinese food for lunch. In a strange effort at appealing to the Hungarian palate, the local Chinese places have embraced the concept of Paprika with a vengeance, resulting in strange, esoteric fusion dishes that have no resemblance to actual Chinese food.

PET scan stuff

Had my PET scan - it is a surreal place and surreal events occur therein. So. Where should I start? The bathroom nearly entirely filled with biohazard barrels? The incredibly busty 21 year old pharmacist escorting her brain tumor recovery patient dad? My decision to just chill tonight instead of attending a party of this flock of chicks because I work with them and if I get drunk I will become sadly - sadly - vulnerable and I will flirt on autopilot and inevitably I will sleep with one of them (well, at least one of them) and that would be shameless and an utter disaster to boot, so I will just not do it.

New pseudo girlfriend (this is a special status - we are seeing each other and we are theoretically free to date other people but we are careful not to) is cooking for me tomorrow - this is a direct result of me cooking for her the other day, which was a big hit and now I am a favorite of her friends whom I have not yet met. My theory on this is that she is not introducing me because she is concerned I might like her friends better (some of whom are exactly my type, supposedly) and because she does not want to push.

Well, I will not push.

Oh yeah. So the other night...

Cutest way to confess you are a slut:

SDW: When I die, when I die, my punishment will be to be reincarnated as a swan, forced to be faithful to my man.
TWP: You will be starring on one of those Discovery Channel specials – the voiceover will be gushing about the legendary fidelity of the swan, focusing in on your eyes and beak – and then suddenly you will raise your butt in the air as a flock of male swans fly by – they immediately abandon their wives and zoom in on your tempting, upraised butt. Voiceover halts with a sudden screech, replaced by stunned silence.
SDW: Hahahaha, I will be the first slut swan. I just want to fuck around a little bit. Is that so bad?
TWP: Uhm, NO. I don’t mind at all.

(No, NOTHING happened – puzzling yet true)

H2C, TWP, BCW - sprawled on the lawn in front of The Four Seasons in Budapest. I am going to erase this after a week or so so adore it while you can. No, I do not always wear slick black Armani suits. 

New Literary Projects

1. New novel. Sort of like American Psycho meets Leprechaun.
2. Cartoon script. Sort of like a pile of paprika meets the Family Guy.
3. New poems. Sort of like whatever I feel like at the time.

I considered writing sci-fi to make the Sarcastrix want to sleep with me but then I reconsidered. 'Beer' is more effective and less time consuming.

How about it, Sarc? Want to go out for some 'beer'?

Anthony Burgess became a full time writer at the age of 40 after he had been told he had one year to live due to a brain tumor - he went on to live another 53 years (something like that - I might have the numbers mixed up - sue me or something - I am good looking and I know delightful historical data intermixed into pseudointellectual drivel that makes me appear interesting - I know this, because I FEEL it, and feeling is believing, you delinquent, you, succulent tasty morsel).

In an unrelated development I cooked for my latest ...woman? Could it be? This is dangerous because I can cook. Ex girlfriends pant for my cooking.

Favorite superhero of my own invention: The Heather. Appearance: 5'1, large breasts, huge blue eyes, red hair, thin yet firm everywhere, velvet voice, tight little ass. Uniform: Pleather maid outfit and spiked heels Power: Stiffens things (but not brittle!)

Mr. Fox and Rabbit in Victorian Times

"Aaah, Dr. Bear."
"Yes, Mr. Fox?"
"Splendid, splendid..."
"Lovely weather we are having, chaps, aye?"
"Lovely."
"I want to fuck a donkey in the missionary position. A basted donkey."
"Lovely."
"Lovely!"

I am a whiner

I am such a whiner. That is all I have to say about myself. I do not even deserve that title. I am DEPUTY SUB WHINER.

I am currently reading American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. I am alternating this literary gem (and it is) with Haruki Murakami novels (The Elephant Vanishes and Dance Dance Dance), twisted into temporal nooks of isolation during which I view Fight Club for the umpteenth time. Reading over this paragraph makes me cognizant of my sheer naked luck in not offing myself already.

Once in a while I read Harry Potter and consider writing more parodies. These are my good days.

Platypus

I no longer care for this tepid bath.
Pills call to me. Sweet white pills.
40 of them make exactly one gram.
8 by 5 treasure, white broomsticks
to sweep me into nirvana.
I prefer it this way. Calm.

I am lost, unguided completely.
Little parts flake off at reentry,
Bits of spinning useless junk.
They leave quickly fading scorch marks.
Landing gear is unnecessary - I
Refuse to land.

I used to call the Platypus my totem animal.
I do not know why. Pride, maybe?
Unusual animal.

Obviously, they must be taken quickly.
No food, probably, since that might
Induce womiting.

They asked what our totem animals were in ESL class.
The Hispanic boys all answered with STUPID macho shit.
I am a lion, a FUCKING LION, or a PANTHER, for god’s sake,
This is what they said.
I said I was a platypus, gloating, they had no clue what a platypus was.

There are 20 of them on a single leaf.
Two leaves are required.
I did not look it up on the internet.
I am tired of the internet.

A platypus has a stinger, lays eggs and excretes milk.
It has fins between the fingers. It has a duckbill.
I know absolutely nothing else about it.
At the time I knew even less.

Positronic Emissions Tomography

I am getting a PET scan next Friday to determine if those lovely, lovely cells are multiplying. Yet more radiactivity oozing through my brain. It is such a lovely device - dark red crystals surrounding my pretty little head, humming, for a half an hour. So beautiful.

Truman Doctrine

Just got a call from Scott.
Scott is a professional poker player and one of my best friends. He may be coming to see me in August - that would be great. Of course, there is a distinct possibility that I will have to bail him out of jail - that is simply how he is. Excitement follows.

Unfortunately, there is no bail in the Hungarian justice system, and suspects are guilty until proven innocent.

Fuck.

For those of you who live vicariously through my love life (and rest assured, that is just SAD): Yes. I had sex. Lots of it. Very good sex. Fabulous sex. Easily the most orgasmic woman I have ever had sex with. This is all I am going to say about that.

I am drinking wine and procrastinating my enormous translation job. I really should just get on it, but I have no desire to get on it. My desire is to push Sarcastrix out of her self imposed censorship exile and see some funny sarcasms. Fear is the mindkiller, Sarc. I am going to see the pre-premier of HHGG tomorrow night (instead of translating). I am looking forward to it. Splendid isolation self imposed procrastination golden childe galore immer sich night donnerstag.

I am tormented by a braying donkey balanced on a hibiscus plant. There is a strong smell of cinnamon. By god! Romulus and Remus never had it THIS good. (dry chuckle)

IMI Desert Eagle

I am painfully aware of the suckiness of the United States of America. I am still tempted to return. Does this make me into a provincial baseball cap wearing NFL watching butt-growing-in-front-of-the-tv ASS? Well, no. Well, maybe a little.

Life could be WORSE. Much worse. I appear to be dating someone. Well, starting to, perhaps. Since she had not gone to discuss the juicy details on her blog, I will do the same.

I am making a thousand dollars without actually remembering a single full day of work. I can make two thousand dollars if I work 2 days a week, I think... I really should look into that.

Still no response from London about my novel. NOW THAT WOULD BE FABULOUS, KNOCK ON WOOD and PLASTIC and GLASS.

I will write up something funny later.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire a'la The Winged Pig

“Oh come on, Cedric, we are all alone inside this maze… Nobody ever has to know.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Potter? I am not gay!”
“I told you about the dragons, Cedric. Can I at least touch your …wand?”
“NO.”
“Accio pants!”
“Jesus Harry. Now I am naked.”
“It wasn’t me. It was VOLDEMORT.”
“I saw you chant! You waved your wand at me! You are holding my pants and SNIFFING THEM!”
“Wow Cedric. It’s like you have two wands.”
“Please Harry, return my pants.”
“Oh, you like to beg, don’t you…”
“NO, I do not like to beg. I just want to put my pants back on.”
“When I touch this cup, it will all be over and the whole school will be staring at you naked, my little Hufflepuff studmuffin.”
“My pants, please. Accio Pants!”
Harry contemptuously raised his wand and deflected the distressed Hufflepuff seeker’s summoning charm. “Protego!”
“COME ON, Harry. Pants!”
“Accio Shirt!”
“For fuck’s sake! I am so going to kick your ass!”
“You are one of Voldemort’s men, then…” Harry muttered darkly.
“Are you mad? I just don’t want to get raped…”
“Silencio!”
Cedric’s eyes bulged with distress as his voice cut off in mid-sentence. Whatever he began to say was something with the tinge of desperation evident in each syllable.
Harry grinned. “We will touch the cup together, my little Hufflepuff. Don’t you want to touch the cup with me?” crooned the Boy Who Lived. “Oh – I forgot.” Harry waved his wand and restored Cedric’s voice.
Cedric’s voice stumbled free of his throat as the spell lifted. “…and I will tell EVERYONE…” Cedric croaked with obvious relief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“That would be obvious pro-Voldemort propaganda, my little Death Eater.”
“I am not a Death Eater!”
“Prove it… Touch this cup. Come on… Come closer and touch this cup.”
“That would make me the winner! Why do you want me to touch this cup? You are already standing next to it!”
“Oh come on Cedric… I know you want to be the Champion… It will make you feel so good… Just touch this cup.”
“Huh?”
“I owe you for the help you gave me with that egg… I went to your bathroom, you know, and bathed in your bathtub… all alone… for hours… thinking about you… Touching that golden egg…”
“You are making me sick, Harry.”
“Well, I am not touching it alone. I am willing to wait here ALL NIGHT if necessary.”
“What about LeFleur and Krum?”
“Oh… I had Moody stun them so we could have some little privacy.”
“WHAT?”
“Professor Moody knows about LOVE, Cedric.”
“Are you completely INSANE?”
Harry smiled, manic encouragement blazing from his lips. “Touch the cup and this whole scene will just go away…”
“I will touch the cup if you give me my pants and shirt…”
“Sure Cedric. Whatever you want. Wingardium Leviosa!” The shirt and pants floated back to Cedric who hastily put them back on.
Cedric tentatively extended a hand towards the cup. Harry grabbed his hand and pressed it against the cup, grinning like a maniac, his eyeglasses completely fogged up.
The world suddenly began to shrink as the cup sucked them both inward in a howling whirlwind of color and movement.
When Cedric’s eyes cleared, he realized they were no longer in the maze. In front of him was a gigantic four poster bed with pink satin sheets, dimly lit by a series of lava lamps hanging from the ceiling on bronze chains. A bucket of ice with a champagne bottle sticking out of it stood next to a bowl of strawberries. The windowless, doorless chamber’s walls were covered with paintings depicting the headmasters of Hogwarts – naked, wantonly displaying various sundry latex and leather accessories.
“Welcome to the Chamber of Secrets, Cedric.” cooed Harry.
“Harry… Please, Harry, this is not funny anymore.”
“Don’t worry… We will foil this plot of Voldemort’s together.”
“What are you talking about?”
Harry pointed at an inflatable doll keeping company to an inflatable snake in the corner of the chamber. “Let me introduce you to Lord Voldemort!”
Aghast, Cedric backed himself to the opposite corner, keeping his wand before him. “You stay away from me, Harry.”
“Expelliarmus!”
Cedric’s wand flew out of suddenly numbed fingers.
“Don’t worry, my little Hufflepuff, I won’t disarm you from your other wand…”

Taming the Harshness

Since I am about to disclose this blog to someone who will likely read the first 15 entries and assume I am a depressed nut with an incurable disease, I decided to read through it a little bit, thinking I might want to cull some of the incriminating stuff. Then I began to think about this whole idea and decided against it. I am what I am. At the time I have written these entries they all served a purpose.

Having said that, the recent freakout entries related to my medical condition appear to be vastly overstated. I seem to be doing quite well medically. I am probably going to be completely healthy in a month or two, thanks to treatment on my spine and what not...

So kindly forgive the rantings and ravings and depressed poetry. I needed the outlet, of course, and it really helped.

I am amused

Now that I finally realized that I have a definite TYPE in a woman – short, artsy chicks with big, dreaming eyes, harboring deep-seated psychological traumas and possessing really nice tits – I pick up a chain-smoking accountant, ambitious, completely self-reliant and not particularly short.

I am getting ahead of myself.

I am also a touch apprehensive about writing all this down. She has a blog. She knows I have a blog, because I mentioned if after she had mentioned hers. This was unwise, because she is sharp, and she will find me, even after I took certain basic information out of my profile.

How should I put this… If a woman was a car, I would be normally attracted to a very beautiful, graceful little Mercedes convertible from the 1950-s with terrifying problems under the hood, a wrecked transmission and no brakes. This woman is a brand new BMW sedan, spotless, merciless and… Well, you get the idea.

I never had a fetish for chicks who smoke. I know such fetish exists, but I’ve never had it. Well, I never knew I’ve had it until - until I watched this girl smoke. She told me later she realized I was watching, dumbstruck, and played up the smoking bit… But even so, there is something about this woman sucking on a cigarette with such a relish, it just turns me on. I found myself asking her to smoke. Her 10th cigarette of that hour I think. So she did.
I will write up a Mr. Fox and Rabbit episode today – it has been a while…

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part 15

Dr. Bear gently covered the collapsed stage magician under a blanket of fine Mongolian horsehair. The vague sound of insectoid chewing could be heard, a susurrating, mellow background symphony to the general hustle-bustle of the tree.
Mr. Fox brought everyone large, steaming mugs of cocoa in friendly blue earthenware.
“Succulent!” Rabbit closed his eyes and breathed in the chocolaty vapors. “Dammit, he did not sign. Yet.”
Dr. Bear frowned. “You mean… He did not execute the document.”
“Or set his seal thereupon?” added Mr. Fox helpfully.
“Yes. I suppose so. Why is this important?”
“We could dip his paw in ink…”
“He has hands. He has hands.”
“Of course… We could dip his hands in ink and press it on the will. Then I will possess his vast riches, all to myself!” Rabbit gleefully rubbed his hands together.
A fly on the wall rubbed his front legs together. “Yeeeees, my little furry puppet…” whispered the small insect to himself. “Do it again... The more you mimic me, the more you become my servant…”
Rabbit rubbed his paws together again. “Excellent! Now we are going somewhere.” He pulled on the human’s hand sticking out from underneath the blanket – the appendage conveniently came free of its moorings, the flesh on the arm already stripped bare from the bone. Worker 3211A through 3221Y raised their collective fists and shook them with impotent rage. Rabbit licked them off the bone, pursing his lips like a gourmand with a penchant for fresh meat. “Fabulous! Now all we need is a pail of ink.”
“I have no pail.” Growled Mr. Fox. “I have a bucket.”
Rabbit collapsed into a resentful ball of simpering rage. “You would insult me… insult my family… with a bucket?”
“Think of it as a linzer tart.”
Rabbit eagerly licked his lips. “Raspberry linzer? In that case, fine.” He eyed the bucket in the corner with drooling desire. “I need you…” he whimpered, cornering it. “I must… have you.”
The bucket said nothing.
“Stop playing with your food. Just put ink in it and soak wassisname’s hand in it.” Mr. Fox unfurled the will and held it against the floor. “Just press it down here. The hand. His hand. You know. The stage magician.”
“Benny.”
“Benny, right.”
Rabbit followed Mr. Fox’s instructions and inserted the hand into the bucket of ink. He fondly licked the bucket with his long tongue. “It does not taste like raspberries.” Rabbit’s voice was tinged with resentment.
“It is because it was never baked.” Mr. Fox rolled his eyes with undisguised exasperation. “So obvious, dummy.”