In all honesty, I started this diary with only the hopes that I could post a couple funny entries, put something unique on this wondrous thing called the Internet, and try and persuade some fine, young ladies to send me naked pictures.

I guess two out of three ain't bad.

The travails of last Sunday night, the Mom's 60th Birthday, the drinking of the wine, the smoking of a bunch of cigarettes, and the bullshitting well into the wee hours of the morning, apparently taught me and the Girl two very important things:

1) Jack

2) Shit

I think Jack left town.

We did it up again last night, just the two of us, drinking way too much and talking well into the night.

The Girl had a tough week. I don't ever profess to know what's going on in her head, but she's getting better at trying to tell me why certain events trigger hour after hour of the Niagra-Falling from her face and I'm getting better about understanding that sometimes, girls cry.

Sometimes, "What do you want for dinner?" means, "You're getting fat."

Sometimes, "Can you help me with the bedding laundry?" means, "You never do shit around the house."

Shit, sometimes, "Hi honey, how was your day?" means, "You're getting fat."

Sometimes, the customer service gal at work starts crying while her husband is in the 7-11 getting Chocolate Milk, because she heard about the explosions in the school standoff in Russia. He may not know that it's not because he didn't get her "Mocha" or "Double Chocolate," he only knows she's crying and he wants her to stop.

Sometimes, my adopted brother gives his wife a "look," and she'll have tears streaming down her face. She freely admits that she doesn't even have a uterus anymore, so she figures she's out of excuses, but she still cries and he still tries to fix it.

I don't get it, but what do I know?

I'm just a man�

�who bawls every time he sees that scene at Jen-nay's grave in "Forrest Gump."

OR Ray Bourque hoisting the Stanley Cup, dammit.

This morning, I was laying in bed, hating the feeble light that was coming in through the window slats, thinking about how Mother Nature doesn't completely hate me because it was nice and overcast outside.

I started to think that this wouldn't be so bad. I've got the day off, hell, a three-day weekend, not a lot to do, and I can sleep in for awhile. As long as I don't have to piss, I may be able to stay in bed until the Girl calls from her shop and asks me to bring her something big and greasy. Knowing she's probably far more hungover than myself, I know that this means a burger and fries meal, Juddhole-sized (and not anything else, perverts).

I was almost overjoyed that most of the football games on in the morning were going to suckify, so that I could just lay very still and give my head a chance to stop pounding.

Asshead and Dingbat were even being moderately well-behaved. They'd been barking non-stop at the neighbor dogs for about 3 hours, so they were kind of tired. Dingbat frequently enjoys waking me up, on weekends only, by biting my hands, regardless of where they are. She will only do this on a weekend, somehow sensing that she is my only hope for getting me up in time to make breakfast and dump bacon grease on her food. Asshead prefers to lick my face, OCD-like, for up to 15 minutes at a time, but this rarely gets me out of bed as quickly as getting bitten repeatedly.

Dingbat took a new angle on her attack this morning: Subtlety. Instead of sprinting from the backyard and leaving the floor in mid-stride somewhere in the doorway, giving me around a half-second to prepare for her landing on my crotch, she jumped up on the edge of the bed, slowly walked along the side of me, and slid down my body until she was laying across my legs. Pretending to be sweet as can be, she started gently licking my hand.

Then, CHOMP.

She doesn't bite hard, but it still isn't pleasant. I was in no mood to fight though, or even shout at her. Hell, I didn't even grab a spare pillow and swat her. I just moved my arm under the covers and wished for her to go away.

This would've been a good time to remember that one of her favorite things is to chase anything that moves quickly under the covers.

And bite it.

CHOMP.

Okay, I've got it figured out now. I'll throw her some misdirection with one hand, move the other one out of the way, very slowly, and then stick the first hand under my pillow. She'll never know where to strike, will become confused, and go away.

The misdirection worked, she went after the hand that was waving at her from across the bed.

And stepped right on my nuts.

She doesn't weigh a lot and is fairly nimble on her feet so, when I flinched, it turned into more of a glancing blow. It still hurt in that way that only "bag tags" can, but I kept my wits and I'd moved the bitten hand slowly away, so I figured I'd we'd just call this one a "draw."

Don't get me wrong, I still wanted to beat her with a shovel, but I wasn't going to move any more than my left hand and/or eyelid at the moment, so I lay still again nursing my lightly aching fellas. I thought we were done with our skirmish.

Wrong.

She couldn't get that bacon grease out of her mind and, when she turned her attention back to it's original location, the hand under the covers, she saw and went after the lump that was most likely the hand that she was previously biting.

Problem is, it wasn't my hand.

Yeah, you guessed it.

CHOMP.

By the time I stopped swearing and had made my way into the kitchen to make coffee, I figured I seriously needed to consider what kind of day this could be when it started with getting bit on my balls.

In all honesty, it hasn't been bad.

Except for feeling like the kind of ASS that Ass scrapes off it's shoe, that is.

And the sore nuts.

I've actually started getting back into my art lately, inspired mostly by the decided lack of creativity currently in my life, as well as a couple fellow D-landers. One of whom is actually making money on a similar enterprise as well as his writing and the other is a truly amazing and wonderful person, who's almost daily writings I look forward to like a dog does to weekend bacon grease.

Here are my latest endeavors.

The first is Asshead, and I'm only proud of this one because it almost captures the shitheadedness that she seems to exude from every pore.

This is Dingbat, and the same goes for this one. I think I captured the gotardedness that she flounces and bounces through her life with.

I'll start working on something else soon. Maybe a self-portrait.

I'm going to make myself better looking though, and without the sore, bitten balls.