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Don’t forget to enter my giveaway to win a dang iPod. Also, check out today’s Secret Society of List Addicts list of totally insane things I do when you stupidly leave me alone in your room. (Then delete “ask TKOG over for weekend!” from your Google Calendar.)

NTKOG #104: The kind of placid, capable girl about the house who spurns pre-packaged this and processed that, opting to cook in grand old pioneer style.

I am: a typical busy/lazy broke early-20something.

I am not: Laura Ingalls Wilder. Pa would play a low, mournful tune on the fiddle if ever he witnessed my domestic laziness.

The Scene: The refrigerator box that I rather grandly call a kitchen in my Brighton studio. When I’m at home I eat fairly healthily: an almost entirely vegan diet (yogurt is the only moo product I keep in the house); low-fat this and low-sodium that (’cause I enjoy being able to fit into my bathtub). I’m generally okay about cooking two big meals a week and living off of the leftovers, with nutritional cracks filled in by whatever snack I’m currently obsessing over — usually some variation on the life-giving peanut butter.

Where my  basically sound food and financial strategy falls apart (I mean aside from random convenience store jaunts) is the amount of pre-made ingredients and snacks I rely on out of convenience slash “dude, you can make that?!” ignorance. Last week, inspired by your comments on my broke and hungry post, and heedless of the time and expense of the project, I set about to live a more home-made life.

btdubs, this is literally all of my counterspace.

After I was done chopping up the veggies, all the scraps went into homemade vegetable stock. Ma Ingalls is so proud she's probably knitting me mittens AS WE SPEAK.

Black Beans: Full disclosure: not only do I only eat beans made from a can, but I’ve sworn multiple times I couldn’t handle the pressure of the other way. Justice has been on my case about it for months, telling me that home-made beans are cheaper, tastier and no more difficult to cook. I assumed this was just her leftover un-American spirit.

A pound of uncooked black beans set me back $1.69 — same cost as a can of black beans if you’re silly enough to buy them not on sale. Set ’em in cold water in the base of my crockpot while I slept, then while I was at work, let them simmer in vegetable broth and a container of (deli-section) fresh salsa. Came home to some really delicious black beans that were promply mashed into like sixteen black bean and sweet potato burritos. Dude, let me tell you, when I made my next grocery stock-up, didn’t buy a single can of legumes. Home-made is cheaper, tastier and not a huge pain in the ass. Why didn’t someone tell me?!

Vegetable Broth: While peeling the potatoes, it occurred to me: no one composts out here, so is there something more clever to do with my veg scraps? Quick google search told me I should be saving ’em in my freezer, then churning out delicious homemade veggie stock. Once my bag was totally full, I surveyed the ragtag assortment of motley scraps, and filed this one away as a loser: sweet potato peels, onion, bitter eggplant peelings, a few apple cores, and some slightly past-prime tomatoes and bell peppers. Wrapped the refuse up tightly in cheesecloth and simmered it for two hours in a gallon of water — and can you imagine my surprise when the whole thing turned out so delicious that I actually ate a few ladlefuls straight?! Unlike store-bought vegetable broth, the smell of this won’t magically take you back to ninth grade bio.

Granola: Holy shit, people make that?! I’d always assumed granola was one of those things, like batteries, that you either had to buy or live without. Dude, screw you, granola lobby — I am no longer your pawn. I used Alton Brown’s recipe and was blown away by how fucking good it was. It’s a little on the spendy side (due to the price of maple syrup and the fact that I stupidly bought nuts at Whole Foods instead of Trader Joe’s), but everyone I fed this to raved about it. Plus, seeing simple, boring oats transform into golden clumps of lightly sweetened granola? Made me feel like a sorcerer on a terrible Voyage To Health Food ’70s cartoon. My favorite feeling.

Popcorn: Did you know you can make your own popcorn in a brown lunch bag? All you have to do is put in a quarter cup, fold the bag over a bit and staple it or close it with a bit of tape, then put the bag vertically in the microwave and nuke ’til the kernel pops slow down to two seconds apart. That is INSANE. I always imagined there was some kind of miracle air inside the bags or something, to justify the exorbitant taste.

The only problem with learning how easy and cheap it is to make popcorn: it may or may not lead to you blogging at 8am while finishing a bag of cardamom-sprinkled breakfast popcorn…

The Verdict: Whoa! Completely successful NTKOG! I was obviously expecting to Learn A Lesson, but I wasn’t expecting for every single instance of home cooking to be cheaper and easier than the pre-packaged crap. Plus, my sodium intake was insanely low, which makes my inner 50-year-old man happy (you know, the part of me that smokes cigars and sports a badass fedora).

As a result of this experiment, I want to start taking on another pre-packaged kitchen culprit every week or two and giving it a healthy make-over. Any suggestions for me to get started on, you brilliant foodies, you?

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GUYS! Sarah Von from the UNIMPEACHABLY DELIGHTFUL yes and yes was kind enough to run a little interview with me today! Check it out if you’re interested in my inner workings, such as they are. And apologize for length of today’s post but I’m going to go ahead and file it under: worth it.

NTKOG #96: The kind of bold, forward-moving networker who meets you, takes your contact information and actually calls you to meet up afterwards.

I am: terrified of accidentally imposing my company on unwilling interlocutors.

I am not: crazy enough, therefore, to follow through with any of the disposable friends whose numbers and business cards I accumulate by the dozen on the T.

The Scene: Last month, I met a dude on the T and went absolutely nuts for him — fireworks, fantasy montages, the whole deal — and was heartbroken when he canceled our date. A few days ago, after a month of no contact from him, I forcibly ejected every fiber of “he’s just not that into you” from my mind and texted him, proposing drinks on Thursday. To my utter friggin’ elation, he actually agreed, and suggested 8pm at Harvard Square.

Dressed for the evening in a tizzy; finally settled on: pencil skirt, casual V-neck with push-up bra, granny panties (to protect against first-date sexin’), and condoms in my purse (I’m only human). Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. Dude was, as I remembered, a dreamboat, after all.

As I approached him, he waved and I wondered, huh, were his eyes this beady when I first met him? And was his forehead always so protrudey? But my taste in men is quirky anyway. As we walked to the bar, I launched into a funny story about Kiss-Ducker and I getting drunk in a combination Mexican restaurant slash tranny bar in San Jose.

“When we get together, we’re totally crazy,” I smiled.

“Wanna know a fun fact about me?” he asked. I nodded. “I’m totally crazy too.”

Just then, his cell phone went off; he answered immediately. “Hi Mom. I’m okay, how are you? Yeah, I’m just out right now. With some girl.” I threw up my arms in mock-protest. “No, she’s a real girl, Mom. I swear she’s real.” Um, your red flags getting a workout yet?

After he said goodbye, I joked: “Hey, this is great. I thought I would make this date really awkward, but, dude, you took a call from your mom! Totally surged into the lead! Nothing can be awkward now!”

“Oh, the fun fact about me,” he continued. “I’m crazy. Literally. I was hospitalized for a psychiatric breakdown in late November. I got diagnosed with bipolar and I’m on tons of lithium, so I can’t read people’s minds anymore. Okay, the bar’s around the corner.”

…holy shit. Holy shit. We walked into the bar and were told it had a twenty-minute wait. Was that okay with me, he asked? Uh, no. I needed gin and I needed it about five minutes ago.

We headed down the block to a cute underground bar and I flagged the hostess down and begged for a gin and ginger ale, and keep ’em coming. And for the gentleman?

“I’ll have a pina colada.”

…she broke it to him that they don’t make pina coladas at Irish pubs, so he sighed and ordered a pint of beer. When she brought our drinks, she lay a straw next to my glass. Former Dreamboat unwrapped the straw and stuck it in his beer. HE DRANK BEER WITH A STRAW.

In order to fill the fog of awkward, I babbled through my ice-breakers (what’s the most embarrassing song on your iPod? Miley Cyrus. do you have a rich uncle or a creepy uncle? Uncle Moneybags) while generously lubricating my discomfort with the blessed gin. Former Dreamboat, though, was in no hurry. He sipped his beer drop by drop while staring deep in my eyes. And dudes, I am here to say that he had a case of the Crazy Eye so bad that his irises were practically plaid. If you don’t know what I mean by this, you have never been penetrated by the Crazy Eye.

Every time I dropped my hand to the table, he jerked his arm toward me to try to cover my hand with his own. After a few iterations of hand and mouse, I buried my fists deep in my armpits, shivering with feigned cold in the eighty-degree bar.

The conversation moved to meeting people in the T, and I admitted that though I am naturally shy, I meet tons of people during my commute. “It’s hard to meet people on the T, though,” he mused. “If you try to talk to people, they think you’re crazy. My best opener is when I see people playing with their cell phones, I ask if they get reception in the station. You can kind of trick people into talking to you that way.”

I mentioned that I like to flash people live eyes, which sometimes draws them into conversation. He answered: “Oh, I stare at people too. I stare at people in the T all the time. They always look away really fast, though. It’s probably because I’m a guy.” It could be that, dude. It could. Or it could be the fact that you actively try to trick people into talking to you.

For the rest of his slooooow beer (and my two subsequent gin and ginger ales), he discussed the side effects of his lithium, the pall that it casts over his world until it loosens its grip before bedtime. “Did you know that 60% of bipolar patients stop taking their medicine within a year?” he asked me, a glint of hope in his voice. “I miss being manic. I was really great back then. I was a good conversationalist. You would have liked me. I thought I could read minds too, and even though I guess I couldn’t, it was kind of nice, feeling normal like that.”

Finally I paid for our drinks and walked him back to the T station, before catching my bus. There was a moment before we parted ways — that normal awkward first date moment, but captured in a funhouse mirror. He leaned in to kiss me, but I ducked out of it and gave him a hug. We should do this again, he told me. Yeah, I said, maybe. As I walked away, I could hear him taking out his cell phone to call his mother back.

The Verdict: Shit, guys, I thought that was a funny story, but it’s actually kind of sad, isn’t it? I don’t know. Part of me is happy that he apparently had a good time; the other part of me is shrieking I wore a push-up bra for this?! One thing is for certain: I’m not picking up any more guys in public until I somehow install a better pre-screening process for social dysfunction. Also, if a dude ever comes up to me on the T and asks if I get cell reception, I will turn up my music, smile politely, and say nothing.

Now I’m kind of feeling like a jerkface that I didn’t like this guy, but the thing is, you can’t like people just because the world would be a sweeter place if you did. I think all you can do is be nice and try to be an okay person. He ordered a pina colada in an Irish pub. It wasn’t going to work out anyway. It just wasn’t. I don’t know. I’m doing my best.

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This post is actually a little power-tagged because, regret to inform, I actually didn’t end up going out with the guy I met on the T after The Slutcracker. Bummer, right? I was really psyched!

We were supposed to go out on Wednesday, but the snag was that we couldn’t meet until 10pm (which, considering we met on public transportation, raised the sketch to perilous new levels), because I had class ’til 9:30, and Wednesday was the only night I didn’t have jam-packed.

We’d texted a bit on the night that we met — just, like, “nice to meet you!” stuff — and on Wednesday I waited with, I hate to admit, embarrassing earnestness for a follow-up text. Nothing. Finally, around 6pm, I texted him: “We still on?” and twenty minutes later he texted to say he had an early meeting the next day and going out starting at 10pm was just way too late, but “wanna go out tomorrow?” But my Thursday was already overloaded, so I texted him: “Totally booked tomorrow.”

No response.

My female friends did the right thing and tried to convince me that it was impossible he would have lost interest a few days after seeing me, and that he made an earnest attempt to reschedule, etc, etc, etc, but I mean, dudes, he’s just not that into me. It’s cool. Really, there’s nothing lost here: I picked him up in a T station, like a crazy person, and we didn’t even know anything about each other, so, y’know, no big deal.

Man, though, I had been really psyched! I’m usually cool-to-lukewarm on people when I first meet them, and can’t abide touching, so it was pretty thrilling to meet someone whom I immediately wanted to, like, rub my face on. Whatever, though. There will be other guys, not on other trains, whom I’m sure I can rub my face on in future.

Leaving for Vegas in a few hours, to spend Christmas with the fam! So, dude, if you’re a Vegas person I know irl and want to go out and have an adventure, let me know! Otherwise, see you cats on Monday with some uncharacteristic Vegas craziness.

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Happy Thanksgiving, guys! Or, at least, all you American dudes, and happy much-belated to all fantastic Canadians out there!

Although a few Thanksgiving NTKOGs crossed my mind (The Kind of Girl Who … shocks and offends everyone at the table with a grim and unforgivable Thanksgiving confession?!), I hope you’ll forgive me for adding to the caloric monstrosity of the day with a little Thanksgiving Cheese. A few things I’m thankful for, not just on this day, but every day:

  • Obviously, my incredible fam and friends. (Especially my brilliant and ridiculously cool mom, who recently guest-blogged about why Thanksgiving will always remind her of my conception. Amazing.) These dudes all hopefully know how much and why I love them, so instead of gushing, a conversation snippet with my bff Justice that reminded me why she’s been my best friend for the past five years, and why she’ll continue to be so for the next fifty, if she’ll have me:

TKOG: Not to brag, but on days I’m writing, I have basically the best job in the universe. I make words do stuff.
Justice [affronted]:
Lawyers do that too, you know. Not only that. We make words BIND PEOPLE!

Truly, I am blessed.

  • Being single and unemployed. Right now, for the first time in my life, I live absolutely on my own, and I couldn’t love it more. Don’t have to deal with anyone’s dishes in the sink, don’t have to come home to feign politeness or deal with passive-aggressive emails. I can wear or not wear whatever I want when I’m in the house, listen to the crappiest of music with impunity, and I spend all day every day with the person I love the most. Ditto to not having a job: although there are obviously some scary financial repercussions to this, at least I can enjoy spending every day that I’m not temping working toward my fledgling writing career, taking time to focus on myself and my own goals. Although I wouldn’t want to be single and unemployed forever, I realize that I only have, at most, a few more of these years in my life, and am enjoying every day of this special, unique time as it comes.
  • My yellow latex dish-washing gloves. Once, with the hubris of youth, I thought they didn’t make a difference. Then, Muscles showed me the light, and I realized I couldn’t have been more wrong. You guys! You can turn up the water as hot as you want and get those dishes crazy-clean! All without scalding off yo’ dang skin! A dishwasher-free-living miracle.
  • PG Wodehouse (okay, and a lot of other writers too). There is nothing — nothing! — more beautiful and deeply satisfying than spending a day in the company of your favorite wordsmith. For me, the idea of bliss is nothing more and nothing less than spending a morning in bed, rereading the Jeeves and Wooster stories for the fifty-somethingth time. PG Wodehouse is an endless fount of utter delight. (TWSS.)
  • Your amazing comments on this blog! You guys! You guys! Nothing fills me with more joy or sense of purpose than the comments I get on this blog, from total strangers, making my life and crazy experiences seem a little more meaningful than they might otherwise. Every time I get a comment from someone telling me that something I’ve written here has reminded you to be brave or try something new, it — well, in the emotional over-confession of the holiday, might I admit that it, on occasion, makes my nose tingle and my eyes well up? I love reading your blogs, hearing about your lives. Although technology is in some ways making the world a worse place (um, sexting, anyone?), I am grateful for the sense of community it has to offer.
  • Sweet potato pie. Siiiiiigh. See you guys in a few days and about fifteen thousand calories!

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NTKOG #64: The kind of girl who gets all sweaty and obsessive over the pale undead and wakes up ungodly early to swoon over Edward with the rest of the acne-ridden masses.

I am: into books. Real books. With tiny little elements like plots and pacing and character development. Maybe the occasional bout of internal story logic too, while we’re at it?

I am not: a Twilight fan, in short. Sorry, dudes.

The Scene: A cinema in Fenway, ungodly early, with the rest of the Twitards Twihards and their sleepy, grimacing boyfriends. Sister, for all her other graces, is among the afflicted, and has promised me a movie-size box of Sugar Babies if I’ll sit through the movie with her without scoffing too loudly. Sugarlust and sisterly obligation prevail.

For context, I read the first book with an open mind (then became — in words that Twihards will understand — quite mellifluous with my chagrin after about fifty pages); the first movie I watched with only mocking in mind. To express my response to “New Moon,” I present you with a poem inspired by another, better teen trash flick:

Ten Things I Hate About New Moon

I hate its hackneyed premise
and its screaming preteen fans,
I hate the cinematography,
those dizzying circular pans.

I hate the cliched dialogue,
I hate Lautner’s hyped-up brawn,
I hate the logical contradictions
and I fucking hate Bella Swan.

I hate how Meyer just can’t write
and how slow the story’s paced,
the lazy trope of perfect love —
I hate that they’re so damn chaste.

I hate how Kristen Stewart mumbles
and how she gasps at Edward’s touch.
But mostly I hate how I didn’t hate it,
Not even close, not even a little — well, okay, not much.

The Verdict: Yeah, you guys heard me. I actually didn’t hate this. Okay, it was sappy and overly long, and I wasn’t totally comfortable with all the soccer mommies sitting behind us cackling with lascivious glee at 17-year-old Taylor Lautner, but the movie itself? Not terrible. Unlike the first one, there was actually some nice character development with Jacob Black, the occasional snappy line, and some pretty okay art direction (when the camera guy wasn’t trying to get too cute.) Unlike the first movie — of which 98% was comprised of Bella and Edward congratulating one another for being so hot — this one sort of had a plot. A pretty watchable one.

Don’t get me wrong, I gave myself an eye-rolling cramp from scorning the pox upon humanity that is Kristen Stewart and her mumbly scream-sobbing. And there were big plot holes. But it was better than 2012, and in this day and age, isn’t that really about the best we could hope for? So yeah. Doing stuff I think I’ll hate: sometimes a pretty okay idea. Thumbs up from this un-undead dude.

[Also, as I’ve once again wowed you with my pentameter, this might be an appropriate time to beamingly update you that I’ve now heard back from all of the poetry journals that I submitted to a few weeks ago, and announce that I was blessed with two rejections, and three acceptances! Yes! I just found out tonight that I have a sonnet forthcoming in Word Riot‘s May issue, and two more in the next issue of some journal nobody has ever heard of, but which I applied to because it had an awesome name. Eeeeeeee! TKOG: published poet.]

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OMFG! GUYS! One of the poems I sent out last night is going to be published! PUBLISHED! In a real honest to god paper and ink LITERARY JOURNAL! OMFG!

The poem is called “On a Body Which is Aesthetically Displeasing and Yet I Right Now Wish Were Closer To My Own” and is coming out in the next issue of nibble.

It’s a short little nothing sonnet that I scribbed out last week but I thought it was kind of pretty good and I guess somebody out there agreed with me! Somebody who PUBLISHES A LITERARY JOURNAL! I am having thirty heart attacks a second over here.

Hey, you know that thing you are scared as balls to do? Have always wanted to try but are terrified to death of? Fuck your fear and fuck thinking you’re not good enough. Go out and do it. Right now. Right now.

The world is good to us in our moments of bravery.

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NTKOG #54: The kind of blogger who receives (awwww, thanks, guys!) and actually propagates one of those ubiquitous little blog awards.

I am: thrilled, of course!

I am not,: however, usually particularly meme-y. Which is perhaps a moment of linguistic irony, as this blog is all about me me (me). FUN WITH PUNCTUATION!

The Award: The really quite fun Honest Scrap award, bestowed upon me by both mysterg and the illustrious sandyb! You guys are fantastic!

blog bling! (oh god, do you hate me for calling it that?)

The Rules:

1. Disclose 10 incredibly personal things that I wouldn’t tell anyone in the world, but will, of course, tell absolutely anybody on the internet, because while technology has, in so many ways made the world a worse place, it’s like pretty okay for emotionally exhibitionistic dudes is I guess the lesson we can choose to draw from this experience. Also, I loved sandyb’s twist on this, and am totally switching the prompt up to 10 things I have learned about my self in the past 10 days, what with the whole self-helpy slant of my little blog.

2. Pass on this award to 10 other bloggers whom I adore and with whose words it is my intention to totally HIJACK YOUR BRAIN.

3. Then bounce y’all over to mysterg and sandyb, because blogging awards are basically like that video in The Ring. (Except they have not given me a seven-year-and-counting inability to walk up dark staircases or close my eyes in the shower.)

The Ten Things I Have Learned About Myself in the Past Ten Days:

1: Awwwwww, you guys don’t just read my blog for the blowjobs! When I scanned the history of search terms leading to this blog over the past few days, there were only a small handful of blowjob-related searches! Apparently vastly more people are interested in reading about “petticoated pirate” — and two people are interested, it seems, in “fuck my godmother.” Sorry, dudes, but I cannot help you there! But if I do find any searches for “fuck my godson” then you will be the first people I inform because I AM HERE TO MAKE DREAMS COME TRUE.

2: I am the worst — the worst — at internet dating. Sample subject lines of messages I’ve sent out to guys in whom I would potentially be interested: “Maybe Scrooge McDuck was onto something,” “What’s the difference between a dead baby and a bathtub?” and “Reasons why I’m guessing your brain doesn’t automatically alphabetize (although you are free and welcome to correct me if I am wrong).”

3: Also: my taste in men makes me — as my economist former roommate put it — a one-woman market correction. Hellooooo, physicists.

4: I am a zealot for personal change. Not just my own, it turns out, but everybody’s. It drives me utterly insane to see people systematically choosing to be unhappy.

5: Apparently I’m so old that Friday is no longer a part of the weekend. Friday is bubble bath and apartment-cleaning time. The weekend proper doesn’t start ’til Saturday morning, when my weary old bones have started to recoup from the work week.

6: The Ex and I are no longer a ‘we.’ Obviously this became true the moment we broke up three months ago. But today for the first time I heard him say “we” when I was not included in his first-person plural. It reminded me that the smallest words are usually the ones we love with the most fervor. (Although, worry not, the other faction of his “we” wasn’t another girl. I still have time to win the break-up! Provided my potential paramours are stirred by my strange online missives.)

7: My mom might be funnier than I am. At least judging by her amazing comments on my posts. Cool with me, mom! Someone has to keep me on my toes.

8: Six months ago, I was living in the most beautiful city in the world, with a man I loved more every single day, was surrounded by so many wonderful friends that I barely had a chance to breathe between social appointments — and yet, I wasn’t happy. Now? It’s bally cold, I wake up alone, and I spend more time talking to strangers than I do talking with my friends. And yet whatever minutes I can spare, I spend spilling out my gratitude to the Awesome Gods for giving me the life of which I’ve always dreamed.

9: I am not a non-fiction writer. Despite the fact that this blog, which is basically my major current project, is non-fiction. Go figure?

10: Every once in a while, I say something that’s useful to someone. It’s not all word vom! (This comes from a particular interaction I had with a fellow writing-class student a few days ago, but the details matter not.)

The Ten Blogs I Strenuously Recommend:

1: reinventing sandyb (often-poignant, often hilarious blog about  a [friggin’ awesome] woman’s quest for self-reinvention)

2: Steam Me Up, Kid (I was literally in tears of laughter reading excerpts of her high school diary)

3: Carissa Jaded (ballsy and sometimes boozey badass Texan chick)

4: Belle & Nel (funny and touching stories about sisterhood that totally remind me of how much I love my own amazing sister)

5: 30 is the new 13 (riotously hilarious project, annotating the short stories and “novels” the blogger wrote in her cringey tween years; sadly, not updated as often as once it was, but the archives are great)

6: Pilgrim Congress (humorous musings and irreverent MS Paint drawings)

7: Fabulously Broke in the City (personal finance! for 20somethings! written in a way that’s funny and not sanctimonious and basically just makes you want to go shopping with the blogger! you guys, it’s an internet miracle)

8: a little lady’s thug life (Boston! boozin’! Friday freebie round-up! another blogger you totes just want to hang out with)

9: The Meanest Mom (yes, a mommy blog — but isn’t it a testament to its devilish wit and extreme charm that I, totally childless, have been following said mommy blog for years now?)

10: Livit, Luvit (it almost feels like cheating to list LiLu here, if only on the grounds that everybody on the dang internet reads this blog — and with good reason!)

The Verdict: You tell me, guys. If I tagged you, then, dude, go forth and meme it up. If you’re a random civilian, then go forth and check out a few of my recommended blogs if you’re so inclined! If you’re a random civilian who hates reading other people’s blogging awards, then, uh, sorry ’bout this. But another blowjob-related post tomorrow! So you can just forget this ever happened and get psyched for that!

Also: since this is already a shameless self-promotion post: are you reading this post on your RSS reader? If so, awesome, grab a cookie. If not, can I recommend that you do so? RSS readers like Google Reader (reader.google.com) are easy to set up and allow you to view all of your favorite blogs on one screen so you can scroll through them and see updates as soon as they appear, instead of struggling to remember web addresses or going through tons of bookmarks every day. It’s basically like putting together your own newspaper, filled with the latest entries from your favorite blogs! And, selfishly, increasing my raw number of RSS followers gives me some solid leverage when trying to do stuff like solicit prizes for giveaways… Plus it’ll help ensure you’re in the loop on any godmother/godson connections that are in my power to help facilitate? I guess?

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