Only in my house...

*Please keep in mind that I live in a white, Southern Baptist household in Georgia.

Tonight Heather and I were having dinner with my parents. The other two girls were off at various events. We'd just about finished eating our pork stew when Dad looked over at Mom and said, "Should we tell them about CHINESE-CHINESE-CHINESE?" "Oh," replied my mother. "You mean the CHINESE-CHINESE?" "Yes," Dad answered. "I think CHINESE-CHINESE-CHINESE."

Allow me to point out that CHINESE-CHINESE is, in fact, real Chinese. My parents were speaking Mandarin over our heads.

I'm almost 25, but at that moment I felt like a little kid whose parents opt to spell out choice words in dinner conversation. "Don't mention that we have C-A-K-E or she won't finish her P-E-A-S." My focus switched from Dad to Mom and back again but, not speaking a word of Chinese myself, I had no clue what they were talking about. Something about that strikes me as unfair--I am an adult now, after all. But as Mom loves to tell anyone who'll listen: "Whoever said life was fair?"

Such is life in the Phillips family. Surreal.

The 5 Phillips femmes

"You're seeing a rare event," my dad always informs people. "All of the girls together at once." Inevitably, he announces this a few times before the evening is over, a note of pride in his voice. And often, a hint of a tear in his voice as well. He adores having all girls. As a word of warning, if you are ever over for dinner with the entire family, the "rare-ness" of the evening will be impressed upon you, too. Even if you don't care. Even if you don't comment on it. It doesn't matter.

As a group, we are insane. Giggles ring through the house, though we're often not sure what's so funny. Or at least, we won't be able to explain it. We are just sisters; we share funny bones as well as parents. "I'm going CWISMAS CWAZY!!!" Kate yells, flailing about and tossing her hair like a rock star before collapsing on the floor. The rest of us can barely breathe for laughter, and we watch the video of her performance over and over (thanks to the advances in digital cameras, Cwismas Cwazy will live on in infamy!). Countless times throughout our week together, you can find us in a lump, piled on top of each other on a couch. Somtimes chatting, but mainly just enjoying being close.

Right now, Heather and I are sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch in the den, laptops open. She's reading columns on Townhall.com and chatting on IM. I'm writing this entry. We are the geeks of the group--she's a computer science major at Georgia Tech, so I adamantly proclaim that she's the premier geek, though I can't deny that I make my living with my computer. Heather takes no crap. She's a tough cookie who might very well intimidate me if we weren't related. But she's become a true friend over the past year, especially since we share an intense love for swing dancing, and I miss her fiercely when I'm away.

Kate has "popular cooties," as my dad likes to say. She can do anything, no matter how dorky, and somehow remain cool. Just the other day, she ordered bagles at Panera with a lisp, on a dare from a coworker. "Thix bagelth with a thmear, pleath...Yeth, that'th good." Smile. I wouldn't be surprised if the cashier wanted to ask for her phone number anyway. Who can explain popularity? You either have it or you don't. And Kate does.

Madeleine is truly an angel. She'll give you the shirt off her back then crochet you a scarf if you're still cold. Every request at dinner--"Could someone get me the hot sauce?"--has an implied "Madeleine" following it. And she always complies without complaint. She takes out the trash, washes the dishes, is number one in her high school class, and dances like a dream. Like I said, she's an angel.

And then there's my momma. What a perfect match she is for my father. Even though she and my dad married long before they became Christians, watching them together reminds me of how God works everything for good. She is fiesty, yelling at the guests on Fox News shows, sighing in disgust over columns in the AJC. She is mild, holding her tongue when one of us snaps at her, and completely diffusing the situation in the process. She is wise, my little momma, and I would gladly accept her offer of a "core dump," a concept she has dreamed up where she could simply funnel all her life experiences and the knowledge of 55 years into my thirsty brain. I'd be unstoppable!

So there we are, all 5 of us. I'm assuming you know me, so I'll spare you the details. I have been blessed with a dear family. Dad's another entry all together (not in a bad way). This one's devoted to the ladies in my life. Take a good long look--after all, it's a rare event.

Crushed

It appears there's no away around it. I've tried everything. You simply can't fall in love God without spending significant amounts of time alone with Him. I've tried praying over every morsel that's about to go in my mouth. Nope. I've tried closing my eyes and singing my heart out at church. Nuh-uh. I've tried going to church twice on Sundays. No.

All these things have caused me to develop a serious crush on God. I suppose that's better than hating or ignoring Him. But the thing about crushes is that they're more about you than about the person you're crushing on. A crush is based on scraps of fact, yes, but supplemented by heaping portions of idealism, concocted by your own brain.

Crushes crackle with emotional electricity--volts and volts and VOLTS of it. You see him drive by--SURGE. He doesn't call--DRAIN. But wait...is that an email from him?--SURGE! Is that him at the movies with HER???--DRAIN (well, this one's accompanied by a surge of its own: rage, jealousy, sorrow...take your pick). It is inevitable that, continued at this pace, something will blow.

Crushes fluctuate. You may have multiple crushes at once; they wax and wane depending on your mood, the weather, who you're hanging out with that day, who you decide you'd like to be that day. How many times have you remembered a past crush and thought, "What was I thinking?" Constant they are not.

Love it most certainly is not.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

Earlier I mentioned that having a crush on God was perhaps better than hating or ignoring Him, but allow me to correct myself. Because what is a crush if not a lukewarm sentiment? It runs hot and it runs cold. Take random samples, combine, and stir, and there you have it: lukewarm. He will spit me from His mouth, He tells me. No thank you. I've seen the world on the other side of heaven...not a place I desire to travel on my own.

I want my love for God to burn so hot, it purifies everything I think, everything I do, everything I touch. I want my love for my Abba to be so transparent that people look at me and wonder at how like my Father I am. I want my love for my Lord to make Him smile always and to compel me daily to discover ways to make that smile even broader. I want this love to be so transforming that I barely remember the me from my past; it merely flickers around in the shadows of my head, like an old film of someone else I knew once. I'm sick of fickle. I'm sick of empty passion, spurred on by a moving word or a powerful chord. I'm ready for love: deep, constant, holy, true love. My God, my shepherd, will You lead me there?

yes, my love. grab on.

Exodus 20:3

With special thanks to the women at the retreat this weekend...

Released

I bow and bend and seek to please
my god without a face.
I say I'm Yours but with my life I lie;
You are replaced.

My God, my God, though I forsake
Your offer to direct my days,
You love me still--in spite of me--
and You alone deserve my praise.

My lips I part and words flow out--
in speech, You I proclaim.
But do they echo in my soul
or am I yours in only name?

The master that instead I serve
desires not to set me free.
With fear and lies in whispered tones,
it binds me in captivity.

But in Your boundless, ceaseless grace
You show me holy light,
and, blinking, I accept Your hand
and step out of my self-made night...

I LOVE MY JOB!!!

The front of the very first postcard I designed at my new job!

Guess I AM a graphic designer!

Tell me I rock and I'm yours forever.

This is a summary of my day:

Boss Mike: Phillips, there's a lot of good work coming out of this corner.
My heart: JUMP FOR JOY!!!

Positive feedback...there's nothing like it.

Here an eyeball, there an eyeball...

Tonight I saw Minority Report for the first time. Ew. Ick. Weird.

Thought-provoking.

Without giving away too much of the plot, murder in DC is eliminated, thanks to three goopy, pale kids who spend their lives floating around in a tank of who-knows-what and seeing visions of future murders (what a life!). The pre-crime division just waltzes in, nabs the future felon, dusts off its hands and goes back for another donut. Well, a few twists, a couple turns, and some eyeballs later (just see the movie), we the audience learn that just because an action is predicted doesn’t mean you don’t have a choice. You can fulfill the prediction or you can choose to behave otherwise.

WHAT? YOU MEAN, I HAVE A RESPONSIBLE ROLE IN MY OWN ACTIONS???

The introduction of the concepts of moral free will and human error leads to the dismantling of the entire pre-crime program just when it’s on the brink of implementation on a federal level.

Pretty interesting, Spielberg, but I’m holding out hope for a sequel, one that asks WHY we have the ability to make moral choices and WHY we as humans will never be free of error. Holding out hope, not holding my breath. I’m not stupid; this is Hollywood after all.

But I think a sequel would work—if we threw in a few more eyeballs, we might actually see some of the truth struggling to come to light in this movie.

Coming to grips

He emptied me of sin
And in this emptying I became whole.
A paradox, I know, but true all the same.

Some things are true whether we understand them or not.

New pics!

After a long hiatus due to my poor decision to upload HUGE files, I am finally able to announce a plethora of new photos on my Flickr page. Click on the "snappy snaps" link in the righthand column and ENJOY!

As you will soon see, I'm having a blast out here in Colorado Springs!

Mmmm...rock

Rock climbing. Those two little words make my heart smile. In GA, I'd have to do about a 5 hour roundtrip to get anywhere decent to climb. Out here in the Springs, I have multiple destinations within 5-25 mins from my house. Which makes my face smile as well as my heart.

Here are some of the reasons I love climbing:

1) It's very social in a unique way. Nothing beats a day outside trusting your life to your friend's belay skills. You can't BS with a climbing friend--trust is ESSENTIAL.

2) When you're up on a climb, you think of nothing but that climb. Now, I'm not one to recommend drowning your sorrows in anything, not even a sweet, exposed 5.10b. But when your brain is on overdrive on solid ground, there's nothing like thoughts of crimps and jugs and scary cruxes to sweep out those cobwebs of worry. Well, at least the worries you had yesterday. I guess falling 20 feet could be considered a worry...

3) I am a girl. Yes, this is old news. But really, it is so much fun being a girl who climbs because she wants to, not because some boy wants her to (although, I must admit, that's how I got started in all of this). I like being friends with guys and climber guys tend to be pretty awesome friends. You just get a different kind of respect as a girl who climbs well. And I won't lie...I like it when I climb harder than the boys!

A Writer's Prayer

A gift of words You've given to me, yet time and again I choose silence. A gift of a blank page and a blank slate each day You've also given me, but more often than not I choose to leave it blank. Or allow someone else to fill it, or worse, consider it...then ball it up and throw it away.

Father, You made it so clear that a talent not used for You is a talent that will be lost, a talent wasted. But still I allow fear to make these decisions for me. Your love, as evidenced by the cross, has bought me out of fear. And I want that evident in my life. Make writing an act of worship, not something for myself or for others, but an act of praise toward You, the Giver.

Father, as I am perfected through perserverence, replace this fear with love for You and then let this love spill over onto my page, reveling in the gift You've given me, but most of all reveling in the Giver.

Father, for all the people out there who write, I pray that their inspirations will lead them somehow to You. We are by nature an inquisitive breed, writers. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but in this case scrutiny cannot harm because You are Truth. Father, for all those with a spark, an inkling of who You may be, I pray that You ignite it, with words, with people, with situations. Words on a page are just words on a page. They may be beautiful but how beautiful can untruth be? Father, in Your grace, give us all light and lead us to water.

This I pray in Your Son's name.

Amen.

Invent America, here I come!

Watch out, all you little 4th graders--Team Gwen is representing strong this year. I'm expecting a patent...

Invention category: Home improvement/Sleep improvement/Heck, Life improvement
Invention title: Curtains
Materials used: navy blue flannel, pushpins, twine, stick-on plastic hooks.

The judges may as well stop deliberating. The winner here is clear. And if they can't see my genius, they obviously haven't caught the vision yet...curtains are gonna sweep the nation.

And there's always MacGyver Fest 2006.

Stay tuned for pictures of my handiwork. It will be glorious...

Sinners in the hands of a sassy and legalistic God

Road rage...

Highway 316 connects Atlanta/I-85 and Athens, GA, home of the Bulldawgs and my alma mater, the University of Georgia. It is one of the most boring stretches of road I have ever driven. And while I haven't driven across Texas, I have driven through Kansas (and even the vile Missouri) and I think that I hate 316 more. At least on I-70, you don't have to stop at lights every 10 seconds.

Today I went up to Athens to say goodbye to some friends and an old dance professor of mine. And on my way up there I saw one of the infamous "God" signs that some well-meaning person paid to have erected. And by "well-meaning person," I mean FOOL. A series of these huge black billboards dot this stretch of North Georgia monotony, blank except for a little white text "note" from God. I can't tell you how many times I've driven past these but, for some reason, today was the day that I really got pissed.

Here's the text of the offending sign:

What part of "Thou Shalt Not" didn't you understand?
-God


You know, you have to be careful around that billboard because people will just leap from their still-moving cars and throw themselves on their knees begging for forgiveness and asking Jesus to come into their lives. I tell you, lives are transformed on 316.

Oh, wait. That doesn't happen.

What kind of message is this sending non-believers? Does it speak of a God whose love knows no bounds? Does it tell of His mercy and grace that led to the sacrifice of His Son, so that we might know Him? Does it indicate that forgiveness is available to any who call on His name and repent? Does it proclaim the beauty and intimacy of having a relationship with the One who created the universe?

NO. According to this billboard, God is a jerk. He is sarcastic like a bad sitcom character. He is uninspired and uninspiring. He is a cranky old man who wants you to stay off His grass, because His top concern is that you follow His rules; if you do that, you and He are copacetic.

The sponsoring party behind this monstrosity hasn't the courage to even put their name on the sign. They give no address, no website, no phone number where people can go with questions. They probably decided on a slogan, patted themselves on the backs in appreciation of their wit, shook hands with the ad agency, and toddled off to lunch at the Golden Corral, fat and happy that they did their part in communicating God's word to the heathen student drivers heading back to Athens (appropriate in the Greek, hedonistic sense).

But instead, they have missed the mark entirely. In trying to be "hip," in trying to be "relevant" by writing in sassy teen-speak, they have painted a picture of a God that no one would want to be around, much less give their lives to. With misguided, self-righteous Christians like these at work, who needs Satan?

Clear some room on your bedside table!

NEW! From the acclaimed ShowerHead Press! A true Tale of Intrigue..."The Devil Drives the Anti-Chrysler"

Shiver your way through chapter after chapter as you peer inside the car of the one and only Lucifer (The Angel formerly known as Light--TAFKAL), Prince of Darkness. Missions of death, hijacking lives, drive-by terror, and the occasional run to the drive-through for some minion rings, "The Devil Drives the Anti-Chrysler" will make you think twice about buying American for a long time to come.

Available only at Gwen's Yard Sale, Saturday, September 17 8-4.

CHECK IT OUT!

DING!

The cake is done! Enjoy! Click on the link in the cake entry earlier until I get to a computer that will let me add a link, as stupid Blogger doesn't have good compatiblilty with Macs...grrrr...

The Machine Stops

Read a reasonable analysis of the Katrina evacuation shambles.

To feed my Father

Less than five minutes after I filled out an online volunteer registration form for Hosea Feed the Hungry and Homeless Katrina Relief Efforts, I got a call from a coordinator in New York. "What's your background?" she asked. As I listed my varied experience, from telemarketing to cashier to writer to waitress, she mmmm'd in approval. "Great," she responded when I was finished, "When can you come in on Monday?" They are undestaffed right now, and are in need of people who can work several days in a row on specific projects. I'll show up there Monday at 10 and work every day through Thursday 10-4. I have never done any volunteering that lasted longer than 2-3 hours on one evening once every couple months. I really needed to work at my mom's office next week, to make a little more money before I head out to my new jobless life in CO Springs. But this is so much more important. If you're in the Atlanta area, come help with me!

Matthew 25: 35-40

Zee cake ees almozt rrready!

Do you like cake? Does your keyboard have a drool protector? Are you amused by anthropomorphic fruit?

If you answered yes to all these questions, then I invite you to peruse the work in progress, the story of a cake.

It should be finished soon but I couldn't wait. It is just too yummy to keep to myself.

Bon appetit.

And now, for something completely different...

At what cost, Now?

At what cost, Now?
My silent sigh shakes me through and through
As I realize the very weight of my choice
As I mouth the name that I will not speak for shame

At what cost, Now?
The price rises with the tide
Each second bears the pain that will be mine tomorrow
Each breath brings me closer to my rusty knees

At what cost, Now?
Consequence waits in the wings
Shrouded in velvet and grease
Shrouded in a grave cloth that should one day be mine

At what cost, Now?
My leaden heart falls through the ceiling
Bringing my face to the sand
Bringing my thoughts to the sky

At what cost, Now?
The answer is clear in my empty
A man with a hand like a ladder
A man with the Answer:

At My cost. Forever.

Put Citronella in the Bathroom

So it seems I'm on a poetry kick. My idle mind likes to rhyme, I guess...

Put Citronella in the Bathroom

Why do mosquitoes bite fingers and toes?
They’re unlikely places for meals.

But then, I am not a mosquito.

But if I were…

I’d go for people with thick rolls of flesh
That bulge over waistbands and belts.
I’d bit and I’d sip and I’d feast and I’d gorge
And leave them all covered with welts

Forget about fingers and elbows and toes
I’d only want places with meat.
I’d scoff at my skeeter friends who, quizzically,
Go crazy for rank, bony feet

I might aim for buttocks—yes, that’s what I’d do
They’re often quite juicy and plump
I’d wait til, trou lowered, their guards were let down
Then I’d zoom in and nibble said rump

The one disadvantage to buttocks, I’d find
The reason all others steer clear
Is, if you’ve poor timing when biting the bum
You’ll find yourself squished by a rear

The grass is only greener until your eyes get used to it

The huge stack of books by my bed is getting smaller: I just finished A Woman Alone: Travel Tales From Around The Globe. I recently completed my own stint of global travel, although certainly not alone. I read much of this book while on my trip to Kenya. The writing inspired me; the tales challenged me; but most of all, the irony of every essay struck me. In every single case, the woman narrator thinks of, longs for, seeks out companionship. It is not aloneness she desires, but newness. It is global Miniver Cheevy-ism: relationships at home grown stale or shattered completely, they assume that those made on the other side of the world must be richer, better, more meaningful. So they leave behind the familiar and set out with a plane ticket and a wish. And for a time, that wish may come true.

But none of these essays continue past the honeymoon stage, past the point where even suffering is enjoyed for “the experience.” The sad truth is that, should they continue on in their solo adventure spot of choice, they would smack hard into cruel reality: Nothing remains new forever, and even exotic locations and companions become the status quo. And then relationships grow stale or shatter completely, and that itch on the soles of your feet returns and you find yourself at midnight surfing the web for the cheapest ticket to the furthest city. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Seekers through and through, these women search for wholeness in their travels. They assume that it must be found in regions abroad, as they cannot seem to find it at home. They conclude that it must come from authentic experiences, from doing the undoable (or at least the uncomfortable). That roughing it in some way smoothes, that suffering heals, and that getting dirty cleans your spirit. They’re right, of course.

Except they’ve misapplied these truths to travel.

Catharsis

Missour-y

Is it safe to keep on driving when your eyeballs are dissolving?
Is it prudent to speed onward while your breath comes in great gasps?
Is it smart to push the pedal on the right while you are wailing?
Is it wiser to pull over when your heart wants to collapse?

***

Missouri, you were boring; now I hate you with a passion
That eclipses even Kansas with it’s neverending plains.
But Missouri, poor Missouri, you were caught in circumstances.
Now forever I’ll remember that Missouri equals pain.

You can call this melodrama, not the trauma I proclaim
But I guarantee you, in Missouri you would feel the same.
When the road just keeps on stretching, and your stomach keeps on retching,
“Where’s St. Louis? Damn Missouri!” with hot fury you’d exclaim.

When the dream job you desired, one day offered, next day fired,
And you’re looking for a scapegoat on which to pin the blame:
“It’s Missouri! Yes, Missouri,” you irrationally claim.
By the time you reach St. Louis, you’re about to go insane.

But then you cross the border, and your temper starts to wane.
While you drive through Illinois and then Kentucky, what you gain
Is perspective and some distance from that state you will not name,
As God picks up the pieces and reminds you of His fame
As Protector and Provider and and the One who will Sustain.

He is bigger than Missouri, He is bigger than the rain
That cascades on all your plans and melts them back to mush again.
He always keeps His promises, so even when the strain
Of uncertainty and joblessness and monetary drain
Seems far to big to handle, just know this much remains:

God makes rainbows out of rain.
(Even in Missouri!)

What to do when your plans go SPLAT...

Square One, my dear old nemesis. It appears we meet again. And here I thought I had finished you off. My bad, for counting my chickens before they got "official" job offers from HR...

Driving alone across the country from Denver to GA is never fun. But it's even less fun when your future employer calls you as you slog it across Never Ending Missouri to tell you that the position meant for you has been cut from the budget for next year. Is it a bad idea to keep driving when your eyeballs dissolve? (more on that later)

Well, I went through all the appropriate stages of grief, and I'm glad to say that I involved God in all of them. Hey, if this is what needs to happen to clear the way for Him to work something jaw-dropping then I'll suck it up and wait. I must say, though, that it is nice to know that it's not my talent that is being rejected, it's my salary. Makes the soul feel better, although my wallet sure smarts...

***

What exactly does "Seek first the Kingdom of Heaven" mean to you? I mean the exact words. 5 1/2 more hours in the car to FL and the relentless presence of these words in my echoing head had me working those neurons like a South Asian sweatshop. It is a question that begs to be answered, since that is the key to a life with true direction. And as my brief tale above revealed, my trail has recently dipped valley-ward. The horizon, if it is ever clear, is obscured right now and I'm not sure what foot to step with next. That's why I need to fully understand this command. I know Heaven's orientation remains constant. Now, just how do I properly calibrate my compass...?

But Xanga's trying for a comeback!

In an interesting development, just when I thought Blogger had pummelled Xanga's shrimpy little behind, Xanga crawls from the wreckage and offers me a free Premium subscription. Trial-sized, of course. Now, I don't believe that this will change my mind. Truth of the matter is that, when the trial is over, you're still left with the same bland Xanga Normal (or whatever they call it).

Never fear, Blogger, you're still number one.

***

Today is move-out day and I'm dragging my heels. Somehow I have to figure out the one magical configuration that allows me fit 1/3 of my wordly possessions in the body of my Nissan Altima. I've always disliked puzzles. I mean, I have trouble putting shoes back in a shoebox. Don't laugh...spatial intelligence like that has just never been my thing. I bet when I was a tyke I tried for hours to fit that round peg in the square hole. But, alas, puzzle I must. I will be homeless as of 5 PM. With or without my stuff. And for the moment, I choose with.

So, bye Lilly, you loveable lunk of a 3-legged German shepherd. Bye Voodoo and April, you cute meowly furballs. Bye Tobin, and thanks for sharing your lovely little home with me for two weeks. It's time for me to head home, across Kansas and Missouri, Kentucky and Tennessee, to Hotlanta, where the players play and heat could melt tar. It'll be an adventure, driving across the country by myself. I'll have pretzels and my iPod and possibly a riveting book on tape or two. I will hopefully have many fun stories to regale you with soon--Tales of Intrigue, if you will...and I do hope you will.

And it's Blogger by a nose!

As much as I HATE to admit it, Charlie was right. Blogger is far superior to Xanga. I mean, I get to have a parchment background and fancy quill-esque script! Xanga just offers me a few color choices. Sorry, X. Better luck next time. Maybe it's time for some new user options...

So it's Thursday for about 10 more minutes. My last Thursday in Denver. Sniff, sniff. Man, I love it out here. Can anyone visit Denver and not want to live here? And if so, who are you people? I love the neighborhoods, the green space--swing a cat and you'll hit 10 parks, it seems--and the weather. My skin/hair is not looking forward to stepping back into August Atlanta humidity, even if it is temporary.

But what I realized today as I drove down I-25 to CO Springs was that, despite all the effort put into beautifying the area and its public spaces, it seems that no money goes toward road maintenance. None. Zero. I felt like I was driving on tires made of rocks. There's a trade-off, I thought, as I clumped my way down the highway. I can't tell you how much my soul is pleased by the parks. I love all the public art. But right now I'm a visitor. I don't drive these roads everyday to work. Who is deciding that all this tax money should go to build a 30-foot bear statue peering in the glass walls of the Denver Performing Arts Center? I can picture the council meeting now: "So we've got a stretch of highway that is in dire need of repairs. We've received 24 calls today alone complaining that it's like driving on tires made of rocks." "Hmmm...right. Well, we'll get to that. Perhaps next April? But now we have a pressing issue. I've got a guy who can make a 45-foot tall bear sculpture that we can place in front of the new Arts Center." "What? That's ridiculous! You can't be serious." "What do you...oh, I guess you're right. 30 feet tall is plenty." And there you have it, folks--your tax money hard at work. Just remember--the Flintstones drove on tires made of rocks and look how well it worked for them.

Doot doot. Do do doot doot. Do do doodoodoodoo do do doooooo...."WILMA!!!!!"

Shame and agony

"For the LOVE of all that is HOLY and GOOD and RIGHT in this world..."

And with that, I decided to try out a blogger. com blog instead of my current Xanga. It'll be like the battle of the century. Blogger vs. Xanga. Xanga vs. Blogger. A virtual bloodbath of my own verbiage. Stick around to see who the winner will be. It should be quite obvious based on the dates of my postings and whatnot.

I know I'LL be checking back in. The suspense is killing me...