Hello, I am half dead, and I like to masturbate.

I know I owe you all some sex bloggage or blogage (I like the one "g" better). Let me just resolve to blog more about sex in general and save the really gross stuff for when I have the time to join some adult hosting site and upload the terrors into the internet to replicate for all eternity. I don't think Eblogger and Google are going to like the vomit and coprophilia clips that I have collected over the years. In fact, I am certain they won't, so showing you the horrors will take some time and finagling. Time I have naught of right now as I am in a SXSW-induced coma and can barely interact with people in general. I go to bed at 10pm every night and sleep 'til 10am. I am catching up on the sleeps and trying to regrow my liver. I think I am still a little too wobbly for the recap countdown of the final days of SXSW '08. At least I broke my blogging crust with this brief, brief missive.

Oh, and I saw this metal Bee Gees tribute band called Tragedy, and it was awesome. Seriously, from the silver glitter spandex to the beer bellies to the boys dancing around in shorts it was amazing. Oh the prancing and the power chords. You can view all of my SXSW pics here as they have finally all been cleaned up and uploaded.


I am going to do a SXSW post-mortem and recap of the latter half complete with my job wherein I used the Blue Lion to shuttle people between stops at SXSW in betwixt pleasuring myself. It is true that I did break down and buy a travel intimate pleasuring device that came with 5 separate heads, one featuring tentacles. It is true that I pleasured myself in the Blue Lion.

We'll have to discuss all this later though because I am a tired unit. I can barely muster up the sauce to cleanse myself much less my filthy domicile. This is what we call the PostSXSW Syndrome. It is the fatigue of working hard and playing harder and going to war with the masses. I'm thinking about hitting Winter Music Conference though. I'm thinking really hard about it and RSVP'ing to parties in-between naps. Give me another day to recharge. I'll be ok. For X amount of social time I need Y amount of introverted hermit time, or I'll go mad! Mad I say in a very Vivien Leigh, Blanche Dubois way, which I dunno sounds kind of lovely and tragic and Southern Gothic.

I think I need to go to South Beach and clap my hands and say things like, "Boy. Boy, can you bring me a lemon coke with chipped ice?" Then, I'll artfully faint in some Cuban millionaire's lap, and he'll be smitten with me, and buy me a wi-fi hoverthrone made of platinum dildos. A girl can dream; can't she?