As I perused CNN online this morning, I came across an article in which “Pope Benedict XVI came under a hail of criticism from the Islamic world
Friday for comments he made earlier in the week regarding the Prophet
Mohammed and the Muslim faith, in some cities provoking street protests.” This brand of Muslim, which hides behind burning effigies and blind, red hot hatred, cannot see beyond the cancerous cells within its own camp. It is, of course, much easier (and much safer, I’m sure) to criticize an eighty year-old man in a dress than it is to criticize a mobile band of zealots in dresses, each brandishing the polished brass trigger of a surface-to-air missile. When did it stop being cool to cry when people said something that offended you? Oh, I know: fourth grade. If I hung on the every word and ideological support of humanity at large, I’m sure I’d also be reduced to one in a gaggle of angry, red-faced “third-graders”.

It also galls that, as I learned in another article, “Jihad Muslims” celebrated the destruction of the World Trade Center, citing this terror celebration as “…a cry of Jihad against unbelief and
oppression,” the aim of remembering it to “revive the commandment
of Jihad among the youth of the [Muslim] nation…” Let me see if I’m getting this: demanding an apology for a (perceived) verbal slight whilst celebrating the cowardly murder of thousands of innocent victims? Hmmm…

I’m done. Like dinner. If you want the world to care (and you DO, or you wouldn’t be demanding an apology for your spilled milk), I suggest a serious effort be put forth into ceasing the oxymoronic inner workings of a religion currently being torn asunder from the inside by inconsistencies and civil unrest. Oh, and high yield explosives.

Picking your nose above your cup of morning coffee is a dangerous business.

So…the new John Mayer album came out today. And did I get it? Biatch, please. It’s fantastic. Get it. You won’t be disappointed.

Things are looking a bit up. The weather this week will dip down to uncharacteristic lows, and I will be in my element! So all you flip-flop/capri-wearing summer slaves can bow to my vast array of scarves and winter(ish) accessories. Yeah, it’s MY time to shine! Socks all the time. That’s right. Socks and long pants and hoodies.

Mmmmmm, John Mayer. You’ve come a long way since the “40 Watt Club” in Athens, GA, circa 1998. Can I get a “what what” Virginia?

I officially hate Shingles. I’ve never itched this badly. Not since the Jock Rot Incident of 1996. Just kidding. But seriously…my quality of life has taken a dramatic turn for the worse! I bet Job had Shingles. Pfffft.

Anyway, life isn’t all bad. At least I don’t have Herpes. But if I did, I’m taking the right meds.

Drew-Be-Out.

I want an out-of-town guest. Who will it be?

I have shingles. Seriously. I feel scabby and contagious! And here I thought it was only my laugh and general good nature that were contagious.

My prescription cost me $161. I just found out, through the wonders of this thing called the internet, that it’s the same medication prescribed for herpes. Now I know why the Indian pharmacist gave me a knowing, sidelong glance/smirk while he explained that “this medication is for wiral infections only…”

Extreme stress, folks. That’s apparently what can cause shingles. Well, that and a previous case of the smallpox. Isn’t the human body amazing? Even in its breakdown, it is amazing. Aren’t the little buggers that invade our body and cause us great physical discomfort fascinatingly efficient? I think they are. Fearfully and wonderfully made? Maybe just fearfully. Unless you’re a virologist. But clearly I’m not.

So yeah. $161. Thank goodess for full prescription medical coverage.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Trust is a precious thing. Confidence is not given lightly. The walls around me are tightly sealed against any half-hearted intruder. You must win me slowly, patiently and eventually. I am wary and I am confident. I am self-sufficient and complete.

And nothing hurts more than broken trust and a shattered confidence; when the walls around you crumble, because you realize that someone has slowly, patienty and eventually worked to get inside, and has pulled them down.

I don’t feel wary. I don’t feel confident. I don’t feel self-sufficient or complete. I feel emotionally vacant and laid bare. In an hour from now, I will probably be angry, and an hour after that, very sad. And then let it all complete its vicious cycle over and over again.

I appreciate those of you who’ve prayed.

Does anyone else long for those days when things were simple? I sure do.