Lexicon

do-mo-sex-u-al [doh-moh-sek-shoo-ul]

noun
1. someone who gives sexual favors out of obligation or pity rather than personal pleasure or desire.

Usage: I slept with George after his grandma died. I'm such a domosexual.
He bought me a really nice pair of shoes, so I slept with him. Was that domosexual of me?

Timeline of the Cosmos

If gravity really is the basis of time.

To the Poll

Dictionary

I recently acquired a big, thick dictionary full of wonderful words. I know this sounds like I'm trying too hard, but I really do like to read the dictionary. As you look up one word it can lead you to another word, especially if you have one of those nice dictionary-thesaurus hybrids. If I didn't have that dictionary, I would have no idea what a strumpet, jade, coquette, or trollop were! Can you imagine?

As I pondered the nuances between "perhaps" and "maybe" I began to fantasize about writing my very own dictionary, but then I realized my first imagined step was to get my grubby hands on an older dictionary. What a trollop I would be to simply copy the meanings to thousands of beautifully crafted words and slap my own name on the cover. It would be nothing but the work of a purloining charlatan! In order to write a dictionary I would have to take note of every single word I encountered, determine how that might be spelled, and write it down for others to follow. The endeavor of creating a dictionary suddenly became the most daunting task I could imagine.

But people have done this. Noah Webster created his first dictionary in 1806 in which he changed spellings and meanings of words to Americanize them. His efforts created spellers, dictionaries, and readers that standardized American English. One guy gets to establish the nuances between "maybe" and "perhaps". It's the spelling part that gets me. Spelling isn't easy. It comes natural to some folks, but others struggle with it throughout their life. Who can blame them? Phonetically speaking it makes perfect sense that "addition" can be become "addishun". Granted one should maybe pick up on the pattern that the suffix "-ation" denotes an action. Multiplication, subtraction, addition, decapitation. These things are acts, acts that are related mathematically speaking.

I like it when words look alike but don't rhyme. Good and food, mistress and distress, fear and bear. It's fun to make them rhyme, trading off their pronunciations.
That was some good food. That was some good food.
My mistress is in distress. My mistress is in distress.
I fear the bear. I fear the bear.
Don't even get me started on combos like "bare bear" or "mere fear".

Buried for Less

Wal-Mart sells caskets. At first it seems strange, but upon further reflection it's quite fitting. I think my personal favorite is "Lovely In All Ways". Other than the rotting corpse of course. Bury me with my cold, dead fingers clutching that plastic sack. Also available are Executive Privilege, American Patriot, Regal Wide Body, and Dad Remembered. Dad's death isn't all that inconvenient anymore. Rather than deal with the funeral services assholes, I'll just drive on down to the local friendly Wal-Mart and pick up that casket along with the Puritan dress clothes he'll be buried in, the Great Value hair gel for his still-growing hair, and Ol' Roy dog food to feed his left behind dog. In fact, do they come with wheels? I'd rather just put my groceries in there while I shop rather than try to fit that thing in a shopping cart. Maybe even let junior ride up front. Don't worry Mom, when you kick the bucket, we'll get you Mom Remembered.

I've already discussed my burial plans with my mother. Wrap me in a sheet at least, put me in a wooden box at most, and throw me in the ground and plant a tree over me. No embalming. No make-up. I want to rot and be reduced to the simple elements that compose my complex form. If there's a memorial service, play the Jurassic Park theme and sing karaoke songs that remind you of me.

The one thing I regret about dying is not getting to see my own funeral. Who came? How'd they act? Who didn't come? What's your fucking excuse? That's no excuse! I thought we were friends! I'm glad I'm dead, that way I don't have to put up with your shit anymore. Like my former step-pa said to my mother when she reminded him to do his cancer treatment,"If this is what living is like, I'd rather be dead!"

I don't believe in an after life. People try to use that as a scare tactic. I'm comfortable with dying. Get over it. You're just not that important. Sometimes I look forward to it. Like my grandma said at Christmas 1992,"I'm sick of all this shit!"

My brother was born by Caesarian. It was my mother's first pregnancy. When the doctors had administered her anesthetic they pricked her with a needle and asked if it hurt. Having a high threshold for pain, my mother said no. They commenced with the surgery.
In his first picture with his first child my father is beaming ear to ear. In his first picture with his second child my father has a forced, pained grin.
I hate looking at pictures of aborted fetuses. It chills me. Not because of the abortion, but because the sight of the slimy mini human is frightening. Beady eyes. Red skin. Rounded limbs. It's the fetus that horrifies me, not the procedure.
Trapped in a small space with someone with a nervous tick. "Why do you do that?" "I can't help it." I didn't ask if you could help it. I asked why you do it.
I feel asleep after eating week old turkey. I woke up with the most terrible taste in my mouth. It stuck with me for days.

Not to be pretentious, but...

I'm sorry I don't have more pictures of myself that make it look as if I lead an interesting, envy invoking life. You see, I'm too busy doing things to constantly take time and stop to pose as if I were actually doing something.