that’s not how this works

You all know what this is about, so I won’t waste any energy rehashing the backstory.

  1. Consent can be revoked at any time. It is not an open pass that allows you to do as you like for the rest of your life.
  2. It’s highly unlikely the three or four women he dated worked together to get him fired – but it doesn’t matter. The other accusation, that he sexually harassed a fellow employee in the office, IS a fireable offense. CBC is not dictating what happens in the bedroom, but they can, should, and are saying that they do not tolerate sexual harassment in the workplace, and they hold their employees to a higher standard than to be accused of beating women.
  3. “Why didn’t the women go to the police?” Other than the fact that many people have no trouble believing someone who posted a self-pitying novel to Facebook over multiple women who had their stories checked out by an award-winning, responsible news organization, I have a very good idea why they didn’t file reports: There are rumours that emails and texts from the women “prove” they were into his BDSM fantasies – but even if there are, so what? My sending you a saucy message that says I want to play does NOT give ANYONE the right to punch and attack me outside that specific sexual encounter. If those messages are released into the public though, what will the majority of people – those who don’t understand point #1 up there – believe? “Clearly they must have wanted it, they even said so!” Bullshit. Consent can be revoked. A good relationship is built on trust. I trust that my partner won’t hurt me outside of the bedroom – hell, I trust that he won’t hurt me inside it, either. Safe words exist for a reason.
  4. Breath play during sex can be exciting. Breath play outside of sex is called assault. Choking someone the instant you’re behind a closed door, when they’re not expecting it, and don’t know you’ve just initiated foreplay? NO.
  5. Abuse is not kink. Kink is not abuse.

The internet makes me fucking tired.

am i doing this right guys?

Ethics

they’re so misunderstood.

i was overwhelmed (if that’s a word)

To be honest, I’ve been silent for more reasons than my sudden fascination with what will happen to all my crap when I die. Things have been really fucking crappy and expensive around these parts, and it’s been hard to see outside our own collective clouds of perpetual doom. In the last month:

  • Lemon got sick with a stomach bug, and I had to give him a round of nightly injections because he wouldn’t take pills. He’s never been the cheeriest of cats, and having him sick and hating us was just awful. It was also expensive: his vet bills totalled around $1200. We have cat insurance, but it remains to be seen whether any of the costs will be covered (because it’s not particularly GOOD cat insurance).
  • We took our car in for a routine tune up, and it needed a LOT of work. Many car things were done, and while the repairs will extend the life of the car by a long time and be much safer on the road and blah blah responsible motorist cakes, the final bill was just shy of $1400. We weren’t really expecting that. Gaskets are really expensive.
  • Lemon is more or less fine now, but Hobbes isn’t. He has some seriously bad teeth that need to be pulled; 3-5 of them + one canine that was rotten and gross. We took him in for surgery this past Wednesday, but during the pre-exam they found a significant heart murmur – no surgery. He has to go in for an ultrasound next Tuesday to determine if it’s heart disease or something else. The good news is the vet did opt to pull the tooth that was giving him the most trouble, and he’s already so much happier (and much less smelly). Also, his initial bloodwork came back perfect: he’s in great health, if you ignore his mouth and whatever may be going on with his heart. We don’t know how much this is going to cost, but the surgery quote was $1800 – and that’s before the heart murmur was found.
  • Ed isn’t coping with the Hobbes news well. Hobbes is his Sasha, so he’s basically a wreck. He’s dealing with that while I’m dealing with some stuff of my own, and both of us need the other to be the rock. It’s failing miserably.
  • Piccadilly is going in to be spayed tomorrow, and I feel awful about it. I know it’s a necessity and I know she’ll be better off for it, but I’m terrified for her. She’s so small and trusting and I’m taking her to a place where she’ll be scared and hurt and I can’t explain why to make it all better and if I think about it I cry because I am a giant wuss who can’t handle shit.
  • I need a haircut really badly.

So, yeah. It’s been a pretty shitty month, and it would be great if things could get better soon, okay? I don’t like it when stuff sucks.

morbidity

I disappear for two weeks and come back not with a song in my step, but with deep unsettling questions about the futility of my own existence. Is this the start of my mid-life crisis? How exciting! What do you wear to a mid-life crisis, anyway? I hope it involves tulle.

My determination to be the girl with the most cake toys has seen my collection flourish and grow. My lady cave is covered in awesome things as far as the eye can see – entire shelves dedicated to my favourite pop cultures; a mishmash of genres and universes and lifestyles. I have a lot of cool stuff.

Unfortunately, I am starting to question WHY I have so much cool stuff.

At the end of the day, it’s just .. junk. Brightly coloured pieces of plastic moulded to look like someone else’s money-making dream. Why do I have it? And what will happen to it when I’m dead? There isn’t going to be any sort of museum exhibit filled with artifacts from my pointless life; no one is going to look at my collection of things and think how awesome I must have been to have spent so much time and money amassing all these lovely things. In the end, it’s all just garbage. No matter how much we may dearly love our hobbies or curios or collections while we live, when everything goes dark it’s nothing more than a burden to those who loved you. You may keep an item or two as a memento – I recommend anything from my Optimus Prime collection – but you can’t keep my entire life together. None of my things will mean as much to anyone else as they did to me, and that’s pretty depressing. I keep thinking back to my dad’s record collection – he loved his records. He had thousands of them, and had been collecting them since his radio days. After he died, what happened to them? My mom let a close friend of his go through the collection and take what he wanted, and the rest were donated or thrown away. Everything he poured into his collection – all the time and money, the thrill of a rare find, the delight in an old favourite, the love of a good memory – gone. The collection wasn’t a comfort or joy to my mother, it was a burden. She stressed over what to do with the thousands of records – toss them in the garbage? Leave them on the curb? Donate them to some organization?  The neatly lined shelves that made my dad happy for decades were nothing more than a huge pain in the ass for my mother to deal with.

Will that happen to my things? When I draw my last breath at 114 (I’m nothing if not optimistic/terrified of death), will Ed be left with a house full of dusty plastic reminders of a movie we once saw or a video game I once loved? Will he look over all the faded memories of the ridiculous things that made me happy and curse the need to clean up after me one last time? Or will I have long since caved in to the nagging voice in the back of my head that wonders if I wouldn’t maybe be happier living a minimalist lifestyle that would fit in a duffle bag so that I may come and go as I please?

I love my things, but I am questioning why I have things. If all my cherished items are nothing more than a burden for others to deal with after I’m gone, is it better to not cherish anything at all?

Mid! Life! Crisis!

future landfill

get off my lawn

The Motorcycle Toy Run is happening today, where hundreds of riders kickstart the holiday giving season by collecting toys for children who may go without. It’s a tradition amongst the BC Motorcycle Community, and like every year, this display of selfless giving and generosity has moved me to seething, foaming, incoherent, incontinent rage.

I fucking hate the Toy Run – not because I am the child-hating monster most people assume I am, but because it’s a police-escorted parade of excessive noise pollution at 9am on a Sunday morning. It’s several hours of penis-compensating baffled pipes, non-stop honking, car alarms, yelling, and meowing (Lemon is not a fan of the noise and would like me to do something about it) at my doorstep, and I hate the noise so much I want to scream (which would just create more noise and perhaps make people think I am being murdered).

I would gladly purchase all the new toys I could possibly afford to give to kids at Christmas if the noise would just GO THE FUCK AWAY.

This is the 4th Toy Run we’ve had the misfortune of being in the path of, and I am fucking sick of it. I’ve actually made an effort here – it’s a motorcycle thing. Ed and I both ride. If you can’t beat ‘em, why not join ‘em? I’d be a lot less aware of HOW FUCKING LOUD the damn ride is if I was in the middle of it with a teddy bear strapped to Lola .. but all the money collected by the BC Motorcycle Club doesn’t go into their web presence. I can’t find any clear information on how to join the ride, so every year around this time I sit in my house and just seethe and hate everything ever.

December will mark 5 years at Sparta, and I think that’s long enough. I’ve been trying to get Ed to at least think about relocating, but that would require him to do things, so he’s not keen on the idea. The longer I stay here, the more I dislike it – all the little things that have bugged me over the years are adding up into one giant temper tantrum that is going to need to be Dealt With in very, very short order.

I’m a reasonable person (shut up, I am) – I don’t expect to live in a harmonious bubble of silence and rainbows. My list of things I require in a home are not outlandish by any means:

  • Not at a major fucking intersection
  • Not at a pedestrian controlled crosswalk
  • Nowhere near a crosswalk that is patrolled by school children
  • Near a source of groceries
  • Not on a major street
  • Not at an onramp to the only highway in the city
  • Has a balcony I can actually use

See? Perfectly reasonable list. In fact, all the things that might bother a less-reasonable person have been quiet pleasant (or at least not any source of angst whatsoever):

  • Living in a McDonald’s parking lot
  • Living near the PNE
  • Being across the street from a temporary housing shelter for the homeless (there’ve actually been fewer questionable going-ons than before the shelter opened – “think of the children”, indeed)
  • Living above an actual rub n’ tug
  • Living above an actual rub n’ tug that doesn’t have semi-truck parking
  • Did I mention that men are paying to have their penises manipulated to ejaculation directly below my bedroom

I need a change. Before the end of 2014, I’ll have been in Vancouver for ten years, in this condo for 5 years, married for 12 years, and in a relationship for 17. I have an entire rainbow of fevers, from scarlet to cabin to jungle to bieber to yellow, purple, blue, and fucking plaid. Angst: I have it. Now, how do I get rid of it?

I am going to spend the rest of my Sunday in the blissful quiet of my own head, and also out in some fucking nature or something. Cheer me the fuck up, trees, or get the fuck off my lawn.

free blackmail

After seeing this article talking about the $89 unlocked Windows Blu, I decided to order one. For science, and because I’m genuinely curious about Windows 8.1 and Cortana. By the time I got to the Microsoft site, only the pink phone was left .. so sometime next week, I will have a bright pink Windows 8.1 phone to play with. I am looking forward to it because YAY GADGETS but also because of this review:

tarable!

tarable!

My life has been really fucking boring lately, so getting some free blackmail with purchase sounds great to me.

iphone + boobs = science

The iPhone 6 and 6+ launched today. While every website on the internet is abuzz with the new phones, Delicious Juice Dot Com is (probably) the only blog to bring you what you really want to know: how will the new devices fit inside your bra?

For Science, and because I neglected to do so when I upgraded from the 4s to a 5, here is how the iPhone 5s fits in my left bra cup (the default holding location when I don’t have pockets):

ed's iphone 5s in my bra. for science.

ed’s iphone 5s in my bra. for science.

It’s not a bad or uncomfortable fit, but it’s blocky with edges and is kinda like stuffing your bra with Lego. Still, this has been my standard for years now, and if you do anything long enough you forget what life was like before.

Behold the iPhone 6:

my phone, my bra.

my phone, my bra.

Oh, YES. THIS is a device I could happy shove into my tits any time of the day – it’s silky smooth, delightfully rounded, and fits like a flat expensive glove. It feels much like the iPhone 3GS did, and that was a lovely device to stuff in your cleavage. I enjoyed this experiment far more than I should have, actually. A++++++, would carry around in my bra again.

On the other hand:

tyson's phone, my bra.

tyson’s phone, my bra.

The 6+ in my bra is fucking ridiculous. I may as well shove my laptop in there. I have larger bras than the average bear on account of the universe having a delightful sense of humour, but even I couldn’t comfortably carry around a 6+ in there. This just looks silly (unlike the other pictures, which are obviously for educational purposes).

So there you have it – if you’re looking to get a new phone based on what will fit comfortably in your bra, I hope my experiments will help you.

SCIENCE!

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