I’m very tired. Non-stop allergy attacks are keeping me up at night, so I self-medicate with extra strength Benadryl to make my skin stop crawling. Sleep is an added bonus until it’s time to get up in the morning – I still haven’t cleared my brain of the drug fog, and I’m afraid that by the time I feel awake enough to function it’ll be time for sleep again. I’m really just feeling run-down all over, which makes me worry I’m going to catch the death flu that’s going around The Lab. I’m already achy and sore of sinus – but is that just my allergies, or am I catching the avian bird sars? I don’t have time for this; I have a potato/sex farm to visit.

So, I’m tired. When I get tired, I get thinkie and down on myself. Today’s topic of introspective self-doubt: do I write too much?

It seems like I check my RSS feeds every five minutes to see if anyone has made a new post, and rarely am I fulfilled with new texty goodness. None of the other blogs I read update nearly as often as I do – I strive for at least one post a day, five days a week (and admittedly often go over my “goal”). Everyone else seems to post once a week; twice if it’s a particularly eventful week, and call it good. Am I a blog posting over achiever? Does the quality of my posts suffer because I update so often? Do I just write too damn much?

Thing is, I don’t know if I’d be happy if I updated any less.

Dear Army of Seven: would you be sad if I only wrote once or twice a week, or would you be glad that there were fewer words to wade through?

Today I am thinking about panties.

It came to pass that both Miranda and I have man crushes on a local Vancouver photographer who spoke at Northern Voice. So feverous is our ardor that to my lovely chum I stated boldly “if it were socially acceptable to throw panties during NV (and if my panties were delicate lacy twig panties) I would have totally done so” – and by gum, I meant it.

Thinking back to Gillian’s post this week about panties made me realize that panty-throwing is no longer a commonplace event. I for one think it’s high time we brought back this fanciful practice – why, how else are we to show not just mere affection but also a willingness to dispense the wanton pleasures that could be yours with little more than a nod in our direction? I say it’s time that ladies and gents of all walks of life take back the noble cause of panty-throwing and let the objects of your desire know the untold delights that await them by flinging your delicate unmentionables in their general direction whenever the opportunity presents itself. You live but once (or so) – why restrain yourself simply because it is the polite thing to do? Cast off the shackles of social acceptance and give in to your licentious ways today!

Next time La Sense has a sale, I’m buying all the trashy $2 thongs I can lay my hands on.

Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you a humble and broken man. Were it to come to pass that I am not a Pagan/Buddhist/anarchist with atheist leanings but rather a Jesus-humping God-fearing love-preaching hate-practicing holy roller, I would fear no hell – because I have cleaned out my fridge and lived to bring you this tale.

Solid sheets of crud. Slivers of rancid butter. Unopened milk that expired over a month ago. Yolk that exploded from frozen eggs, fossilized into a light yellow crust of unmentionable horror. Crevices that, when sprayed with a household cleanser, ejected chunks of black mystery all over my traumatized self. A jar of shriveled pickles from the dawn of time itself, suspended in frozen ancient mariner brine. Lemons that look perfectly normal but upon further inspection have clearly suffered unspeakable monstrosities and are no longer pockets of citrus delight but rather organic grenades capable of untold destruction. Applesauce so old it may well have been made from the very apples that brought about the downfall of man via Eve’s disobedient mouth. All this – and MORE – came from our refrigerator and truly, I am shaken to my very core.

I will not sleep soundly this, or any, night.

I spent a healthy part of Saturday evening in bed with an umbrella over my head.

For some reason, my friends think this is weird.

To me, it made perfect sense. I was playing DS games and cuddling with a cat or three while Ed was getting ready to go to a party. He turned the overhead light to look for his party underwear, which also turned on the ceiling fan. The fan is my #6 nemesis (we do not get along but not so much that it deserved a spot on my trading card), especially now that I am suffering from some pretty extreme allergies – the artificial wind was driving my eyeballs crazy and it was not happy good fun times for anyone involved. What to do? I could bury my head under the blankets and also suffocate, or .. hey, an umbrella. There was an umbrella on the bed. I opened it, set up camp, and never had been more comfortable.

Umbrellas in bed: not at all weird.

Last night in a fit of boredom I reinstalled Diablo II, promptly obliterating any plans I may have had for productivity this weekend. I was thinking about doing some desperately needed spring cleaning, but how can I be concerned about the sentient dishes in the sink when Andariel is corrupting the Sisters of the Sightless Eye? I’ve made my choice, and I’m sticking by it – saving the world from Baal is much more noble than sorting my underwear into manageable piles marked “sexy times” and “frumpy pants”.

Oscar is all lubed up and ready for spring. Unfortunately, his tune up cost me $250 and now I am very, very poor. Normally I bid my men folk to change my various fluids in exchange for food, but since this was Oscar’s first shop visit since I bought him last June I felt it was a good idea to make sure he was running smoothly for the upcoming riding season. His battery could probably stand replacing – the alarm completely killed it – but other than that, he running just great. Everything feels .. tight. I like it. My lady parts are ready to be tickled.

Speaking of tickled, last night at dinner the topic of happy endings came up. I’m still annoyed that Ed didn’t take up the offer of a birthday rub n’ tug at the establishment of his choice from a couple years ago – I even offered to buy him one myself, with the same stipulation: you can have your anonymous orgasm but only if you write about it on my website. He won’t do it, and that is making me eternally cranky. I can’t experience this for myself, and Ed won’t play along! I even made the same offer to Josh, who turned it down on the grounds that Shan would kill him. What does a girl have to do to pay someone else to jerk off one of her male friends who will then tell the internet about it through my site? JEEZ. Damn you all and your “morals”.

I bought myself a really neat compact that has a mirror on one side and a spot for a picture on the other. I couldn’t find a picture of loved ones small enough, so I improvised:

Last night on our way to pick up Oscar, Ed and I were pulled over by the police.

Okay, that sounds rather tame. Let me add some words, drama it up a little:

Last night, Ed and I were pulled over by the police at Hastings and Main.

I know what you’re thinking. What could Ed and Kimli, the tamest and least-illegal people on the face of the internet, possibly have done to warrant being stopped by the police in what is quite literally and without exaggeration ground-fucking-zero of Vancouver’s mean streets? An area so bad that Dan Rather himself came up to do an exposé of the city’s notorious drug problem in a little slice of hell affectionately reported as “Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside is the poorest neighborhood in British Columbia – in all of Canada, for that matter. No other slum or ghetto in the country matches the squalor of this 10-block urban wasteland, with its rundown hotels and pawn shops, stained and fractured sidewalks, gutters and alleyways littered with garbage, used condoms and discarded hypodermic needles.” in media around the world? Did we get caught buying heroin or meth? Shoot up in plain view on the sidewalk? Attempt to hock some stolen wares for a few dollars which we would immediately turn into our next fix? Did I sell my wasted body on the streets for drugs, knowing there’s an increasingly real and terrifying risk that I’d disappear into the night and never be seen again? Did we assault people on the sidewalk? Panhandle aggressively, chasing after people who ignore us while swearing and frothing at the mouth? Did Ed piss against a building in plain sight of the shocked tourists who wandered a little too far outside Gastown on their search for the Steam Clock? Did I wander into traffic while muttering to myself, clearly out of my mind with the remnants of last night’s bender still visible on my filthy clothes?

None of these, actually. Last night, Ed and I were pulled over by the police at Hastings and Main because our car has tinted windows.

I am trying very hard to see this from the law enforcement’s point of view and figure out why, in the very epicenter of Vancouver’s crime-infested and shockingly desperate Skid Row, it was necessary to stop US while ignoring everything else going on.

The nearest I can figure: we were the only thing in that area the cop had any control over. Hastings and Main is so hopeless, I imagine it would be easier to tackle something you could have some semblance of power over rather than try, yet again, to stop people from smoking crack on the sidewalk or pleading with them to use the bins for their used needles instead of leaving them where people step on them or worse – pick them up to use again later. From this angle, I suppose it makes sense. Telling us that we were a danger to people around us a mere minute after Ed had to roll up my passenger side window to stop a homeless man from coming over and harassing me for money must have made perfect sense, somewhere.

With North Shore hipsters like us on the loose, I can see why the city is paralyzed with fear.

Last night I dropped Oscar off at the scooter hospital for a check-up. It’s his first official tune-up since I brought him home, and hopefully when all is said and done I won’t be too much poorer and Oscar will be running like a dream. The alarm I had installed effectively killed his battery in November and since then I’d been having weird issues with the starter – I may need a new battery, and I know I’m way overdue for an oil change. I really hope this visit won’t be expensive. I am poor.

So poor, in fact, that after leaving the Yamaha shop we went to Value Village to wander around. I found a few neat things – a book of horrible 70’s recipes complete with nasty pictures; a smutty Nancy Friday study on men’s fantasies, an old Polaroid camera (with a rainbow!), and .. a plush Che Guevara doll.

Yes, you read that right.

What else says “viva la revolution!” like a stuffed socialist dictator guerrilla? Not a hell of a lot, that’s for sure.

I really do think this was the best $3.99 I’ve ever spent in a Value Village. Not only do I have a brand new tiny socialist martyr for my very own, tag is filled with delightful errors!

The only real question, of course, was what could I DO with my Che. The obvious answer: recreate his legendary motorcycle trip as seen in The Motorcycle Diaries.

Viva La Revolution, Che!

Why the hell didn’t any of you tell me that I hate horseradish? Oh GOD that is not good at all. Gross. Horrible. Yuck. DO NOT WANT.

For several unsettling and globe-warming minutes this morning, I was the meat in a Porsche Cayenne/Original Hummer sandwich. My smug hippie self felt very superior (albeit a little apprehensive; I sort of expected the drivers of the ridiculous SUVs to jump out and start beating me with bibles and right-wing rhetoric at the stop light) on my scooter, especially since I had just filled the tank for $4.20 (duuuuude) and I was secure in my knowledge that my emissions, even if I had spent the entire night eating baked beans and cabbage rolls, would never come even remotely close to that of just one of the yuppie death machines boxing me in.

That may just be the most convoluted sentence I’ve ever written. Sweet!

Northern Voice was excellent. I’m very glad I swallowed my fear of people and went; it was really interesting and I met some cool people. My only wish for the event was that there were more opportunities to discuss stuff for non-important blogs – I thought the sessions and discussions were very centered on Blogs With a Purpose (advertising items or services or people, business blogs, specific-topic blogs) as opposed to those that exist for the pleasure of existing. Granted, I think I was in a very small minority (people who blog because if they don’t get words out in some way they will explode in a big sticky mess) as most of the attendees seemed to have themselves a Purpose. Also, the conference needed more video games. Hell, everything needs more video games.

Other than that though, I thought it was great. I’m already looking forward to next year, and I’d recommend it to pretty much anyone who has any sort of content on the internets at all. Good times!

And finally, Regrettable Things Ed Said Over the Weekend: “Ooh, she’s a GMILF!”

I need some cool words.

Specifically, I need one word to describe me – something short and memorable and would look good in a URL.

This is what happens when someone buys your name and parks it forever and ever.

So, please help – if you had to describe me in one word, what would it be?