A Little Help Could Keep You Warm At Night
So my friend Shadow – she’s the one who tends to the Love Threads – finds herself in dire financial straits after her husband has been laid off. And she needs some financial assistance, but is willing to work for it.
Thankfully, she’s also a wonderful, wonderful knitter. One of the joys of having her on my friends’ list is seeing her projects go up – projects like this:
Or this:
Or even these:
Then I’d suggest hiring her as your knitter, if you can – she works fast, as far as I can tell, and obviously does some beautiful work. You’ll help her out, and get some really gorgeous craftsmanship in return – if I ever went outside, I’d be on this in a heartbeat. Details are here, or just scan her journal to see more samples of her stuff.
The Egotism of Teeth
On Friday, I asked whether it was creepier to kiss someone with dead bone tissue in his mouth (like me) or to have sex with someone who’d used irradiated flesh to improve his cock size. And one of the most common responses was, “Making your cock bigger isn’t necessary. But Ferrett, you needed teeth.”
I don’t know that I did.
Yes, having all eight of my front teeth out was devastating to my self-image and ego – but medically, it wasn’t necessary to have new teeth in. I could chew fine, with the exception of foods like spaghetti, and I’d adjusted to this now and toothless world. The only reason I would need new teeth is that it was humiliating whenever I smiled.
And it was humiliating, believe you me. The soft lisp of my toothless mouth. The noises I made when I ate. The way I had to hold my lips when I smiled so as not to reveal the gaps therein. All a constant, low-grade drain on my self-esteem.
But did I need them? No. It was pure vanity, those teeth, and to this day I feel bad about spending $8,000 to just feel good about myself.
The case could be made that that $8,000 was necessary to a better life – which is fine! But then you have to extend the same courtesy to zombie cock guy, who was paranoid about his dick size… and maybe truthfully so. Some penises are very small. I’ve heard women making fun of ex-boyfriends with small dicks, and thanked God I was not in the “notably teeny” department. And I’m not saying that I’d undergo surgery to embiggen Little Elvis here, but maybe if I’d had a different family or a different set of genetics, I might have.
As men, we’re supposed to either be radically insecure of, or ragingly confident, in the size of our shvanstucker. And any attempt to alter that size is seen as a sign of weakness, regardless of the initial state of the penis or the sexual experiences of that man with his small cock or the constant barrage of “WOMEN LOVE BIG DICKS” messages that, for right or for wrong, men are subjected to. And while I’m not mature enough to suppress my chuckles over a guy buying pills in a vain attempt to swell the worm, I am understanding enough to not actively condemn it.
I had a thing that humiliated me, once. And it was a little more out in the open, but I spent years and a significant chunk of savings trying to correct it. So if I were to sneer at all the guys who struggle for a larger penis, I’d have to do it without these teeth.
Turning The Corner
So I’ve spent the last four hours in the final revisions of the first five chapters of my novel. And there’s a strange finality to this.
I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’ve still got 90,000 words to condense, edit, and rewrite. But the first chapters of the novel are the most important – agents routinely ask for the first three chapters, and if those aren’t good, you might as well toss the rest of the novel away.
And it’s done. I’ve got a little more to do in terms of reading it aloud to check for grievous errors… But that’s a minor thing. I’m not going to change the content. I’m not going to change the prose. If the novel’s going to sell anywhere, effectively this is the part that sells it.
I’m strangely comfortable.
Look, I could make this novel a lot better if I gave another, oh, seven drafts, but I don’t have the energy for that. What I’ve got is what I think of as “That Borders feeling.”
Because back when I worked for Borders, I was in charge of the New Media department, which meant that I was trying to sell CD-ROMs in a book store. It didn’t go well. Unlike books, computer software was high theft and low profit margin and required a lot of hand-holding to sell. I poured my entire life into trying to make New Media a profitable segment of Borders, but after a year it was pretty self-evident that it was folding.
And I was okay. Because I’d done everything I could do. I’d given all there was to give – and wrung dry of anything left to chance, I’d be all right if it collapsed. Not happy, but content.
That’s where I stand tonight. This opening segment’s been rewritten probably seven times now, and if it’s not good enough, well, I don’t know how to make it better. If I can’t get the novel published, well, it’s not for lack of trying.
So here I am, on a Friday night, looking at 9,500 words and feeling – well, “proud” is not the right term. I’m satisfied. And that’s not a bad place to be.
A Question That May Destroy My Sex Life Forever
In a Facebook discussion, a friend of mine said that, surprisingly enough, she didn’t want to have sex with someone who’d increased his penis size via irradiated cadaver tissue implants. She said, and I quote, it would be “creepy to be intimate with the skin of more than one person.” Which, hey, if you don’t want to suck the nuclear zombie cock, that’s your business.
On the other hand, my mouth is full of irradiated dead men’s bones. They flayed my gums open and dumped in bone chips scavenged from corpses (WARNING: post full of pictures) in order to build up my gum tissue enough that they could put in implants. And, as I noted, women are far more likely to kiss me than they are to make intimate contact with Little Elvis, more’s the pity.
So. Because I am stupidly curious about such things, which is creepier? Kissing a guy with dead bones in his mouth, or sexing up a guy with nuclear dead men in his cock? State your opinion, and your justification! I want to know.
No! I Am Not Doctor House, Nor Was Meant To Be;
“How can you not like House?” people ask. “Or Monk?” And it’s a chronic weakness of mine, not being able to endure the plots.
See, I love the characters House and Monk. But to justify their screen-time, every week the writers have to have them solve a mystery of some sort. The mystery is invariably not as interesting to me as the characters, since the mystery is usually overblown and trying too hard to be WEIRD AS YOUR CENTRAL CHARACTER, and so I get bored.
If there was a half-hour sitcom called “HOUSE IS A DICK,” then I’d watch. But you have this so unique character, and you’re strapping him to bog-standard mystery/medical plots, and that bothers me. So I don’t watch.
I am, however, loving Fringe.
Fringe is basically an updated X-Files, with a mad scientist thrown in for good measure. And it’s interesting how little I’ve come to expect from J.J. Abrams. Reading the Wikipedia summaries of each show after I’ve watched it, I see the reviews for the monster-of-the-week shows are pretty universally, “WHO CARES ABOUT THE MONSTER OF THE WEEK? SHOW US MORE OF THE OBSERVER, OF MASSIVE DYNAMIC, OF THE SHOW’S MYTHOLOGY!”
And I’m all like, “I don’t give a shit about the show’s mythology because, just like Lost and X-Files before it, none of it will ultimately make any sense.” I know they don’t have a master plan in place, no matter what they claim, and when Fringe ends that mythology will be revealed to be a mess of incomprehensible plotlines and unsatisfying explanations.
So for me, Fringe is the House of science-fiction shows – I turn up to watch the characters, and mostly ignore the stereotypical weird mystery of the week. And I was wondering, “Why? Why can I do this with Fringe, but not House?”
The reason, I realized yesterday, is Walter Bishop.
Walter is perhaps the best mad scientist in all of science-fiction – an old man who spent seventeen years in an insane asylum, but has an IQ of 196. He can create devices that will read the minds of dead brains, but can’t remember the name of his loyal assistant Asterix or the conversation he had ten minutes ago.
The thing is, unlike most mad scientists, who laugh manically a lot but seem to function well otherwise, Walter is genuinely damaged. He has these absolute moments of brilliance, but can’t live in normal society without the help of his son. There’s a heartbreaking episode where Walter, sick of being coddled, runs out to investigate the mystery of the week by himself – then gets lost after talking to a few shopkeepers, can’t remember his son’s phone number to call, loses his money for the bus, and eventually winds up weeping on a bus stop until some poor Chinese lady takes pity on him.
That’s when it occurred to me: I am Walter Bishop.
I’m not as smart or as damaged as Walter, but I feel every inch of his condition. I am absolutely brilliant at some moments and then hopelessly dysfunctional at the things everyone else takes for granted. I understand on some levels how deeply damaged I am, and get by only thanks to the kindness and love of the people around me – a love I don’t fully deserve, but they recognize the shattered bits inside me and try to help out. And the moments I’m really on my game don’t quite balance out the gigantic pain in the ass I am, but you can at least see why people would stick around.
And like Walter, I’m semi-lovable now, but you probably don’t want to dig too deeply into my past.
So I’m not watching Fringe because of the mystery of the week, or the show mythology – I’m watching it because in some strange and parallel universe, there’s a copy of my soul working through difficulties, and I have to find out how it turns out. For Walter, I’ll endure the nonsense travails of ZOMG OTHER DIMENSIONS to find out how he’s doing.
I hope it’s well. But I know it’s not going to be easy, Walter. It never is for us.
(NOTE: I am halfway through Season 2, and if you spoil me in any way as to what happens I WILL CUT YOU. If you’re unfamiliar with Walter Bishop, well, have some choice quotes.)